MY DEAR MRS. PEABODY,—Do you not know why I dread to write to you, and yet why I cannot help it? Since last I spoke to you, such an event has passed, that I tremble to go over the abyss and speak to you again. But you and your children stand, bereft and stricken, on [245] the shore, as it were, of a new and strange world,—for strange must be the world to you where that husband and father is not,—and I would fain express the sympathy which I feel for you, and my family with me. Yet not with many words, but more fitly in silence, should I do it. And this letter is but as if I came and sat by you, and only said, "God help you," or knelt with you and said, "God help us all;" for we are all bereaved in your bereavement.
True, life passes on visibly with us as usual; but every now and then the thought of you and him comes over me, and I exclaim and pray at once, in wonder and sorrow.
But the everlasting succession of things moves on, and we all take our place in it-now, to mourn the lost, and now, ourselves to be mourned—till all is finished. It is an Infinite Will that ordains it, and our part is to bow in humble awe and trust.
I had a letter once, from a most lovely woman, announcing to me the death of her husband, a worthless person; and she spoke of it with no more interest than if a log had rolled from the river-bank and floated down the stream. What do you think of that,—with affections, venerations, loves, sympathies, swelling around you like a tide?
I know that among all these there is an unvisited loneliness which nothing can reach. May God's peace and presence be there!
I could not write before, being from home. I do not write anything now, but to say to you and your dear children, "God comfort you."
From your friend,
ORVILLE DEWEY.
[246] To his Daughter Mary.
BALTIMORE, Nov. 24, 1856.