I had hoped to hear from you before now. Through this heavy winter cloud I think friendly rays should shine, if possible, to warm and cheer it. It is, indeed, an awful winter. I will not say dismal; my heart is too high for that. But public affairs, and my private share in them, together, make a dread picture in my mind, as if I were gazing upon the passing of mighty floods, that may sweep away thousands of dwellings, and mine with them. And though I lift my thoughts to Heaven, there are times when I dare not trust myself to pray aloud; the burden is too great for words. It is singular, but you will understand it,—I think there was never a time when there was less visible devotion in my life than now, when my whole being is resolved into meditations, and strugglings of faith, and communings with the supreme and holy will of God.
I am writing, my friend, very solemnly for a letter; but never mind that, for we are obliged to take into our terrible questioning now what is always most trying in the problem of life,—the results of human imperfection—
[FN: Mrs. George Curtis, of New York, whose son, Joseph Bridgham Curtis, lieutenant-colonel, commanding a Rhode Island regiment, had just fallen at Fredericksburg, Va.]
[263] human incompetence, brought into the most immediate connection with our own interests and affections. See what it is for our friend Mrs. Curtis to reflect that her son was slain in that seemingly reckless assault upon the intrenchments at Fredericksburg, or for me that my son may be sent off in rotten transports that may founder amidst the Southern seas.
But do I therefore spend my time in complainings and reproaches, and almost the arraigning of Providence? No. I know that the governing powers are trying to do the best they can. The fact is, a charge is devolved upon them almost beyond human ability to sustain. Neither Russia nor Austria nor France, I believe, ever had a million of soldiers in the field, to clothe, to equip, to feed, to pay, and to direct. We have them,—we, a peaceful people, suddenly, with no military experience, and there must be mistakes, delays, failures. What then? Shall we give up the cause of justice, of lawful government, of civilization, and of the unborn ages, and do nothing? If we will not,—if we will not yield up lawful sovereignty to mad revolt, then must we put what power, faculty, skill, we have, to the work, and amidst all our sacrifices and sorrows bow to the awful will of God.
Have you seen Mrs. Curtis? In her son there was a singular union of loveliness and manliness, of gentleness and courage, and, high over all, perfect self-abnegation. A mother could not well lose in a son more than she has lost. I hope she does not dwell on the seeming untowardness of the event, or that she can take it into a larger philosophy than that of the New York press. . . .
[264] To the Same.
SHEFFIELD, July 26, 1863.
YOUR sympathy, my friend, for us and Charles, is very comforting to me. Yes, we have heard from him since the surrender of Port Hudson. He wrote to us on the 9th, full of joy, and glorying over the event; but, poor fellow, he had only time to wash in the conquered Mississippi, before his regiment was ordered down to Fort Donaldsonville, and took part in a fight there on the 13th; and we have private advices from Baton Rouge that the brigade (Augur's) is sent down towards Brash-ear City. . . . Now, when we shall hear of C. I do not venture to anticipate, but whenever we do get any news, that is, any good news, you shall have it.
If these horrid New York riots had not lifted up a black and frightful cloud between us and the glorious events in Pennsylvania and the Southwest, we should have burst out into illuminations and cannon-firings all over the North. But the good time is coming FN We shall be ready when Sumter is taken. I hardly know of anything that would stir the Northern heart like that.