Well, I 'm content. I am more, I am thankful. I have had, all my life, the greatest blessing of life,—leave to work on the highest themes and tasks, and I am not turned out, at the end, on to the bare common of the world, to starve. I have a family, priceless to me. I have many dear and good friends, and above all I have learned to draw nigh to a Friendship which embraces the universe in its love and care, if one may speak so of That which is almost too awful for mortal word. . . .
But leaving myself, and turning to you,—what a monstrous person you are! a prodigy of labor, and a prodigy in some other ways that I could point out. I always thought that the elastic spring in your nature was [270] one of the finest I ever knew, but I did not know that it was quite so strong. You, too, know of a faith that can remove mountains.
The Great Fair is one mountain. I hope you will get the "raffles" question amicably settled. There is the same tempest in the Sheffield teapot; for we have a fair on the 22d, and they have determined here that they won't have raffles.
What made you think that I "dread public prayers "? Did I say anything to you about it? If I did, I should not have used exactly the word "dread." The truth is, that state of the mind which is commonly called prayer becomes more and more easy, or at least inevitable to me; but the action has become so stupendous and awful to me, that I more and more desire the privacy in it of my own thoughts. "Prayers,"-"saying one's prayers," grows distasteful to me, and a Liturgy is less and less satisfying. Communion is the word I like better.
But I have touched too large a theme. With our love to E. and your lovely children, let me be,
Always your friend,
ORVILLE DEWEY.
To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.
SHEFFIELD, Feb. 22, 1864.
DEAR FRIEND,—You are not well; I know you are not, or you would have written to me; and indeed they told me so when I was in New York the other day. I wrote you a good (?) long letter about New Year's, which "the human race running upon our errands" (as Carlyle says) has delivered to you, unless in the confusion of these war times it has let said letter drop out of [271]its pocket. That many-membered body, according to this account of it, has a good deal to do with us; and, do you know, I find great help by merging myself in the human race. It has taken a vast deal of worry to wash and brush it into neatness, and to train it to order, virtue, and sanctity; why should I not have my share in the worry and weariness and trouble? Many have been sick and suffering,—all mankind more or less; why should not I be? All the human generations have passed away from the world; Walter Scott died; Prescott died; Charles Dewey, of Indiana, died; E. S. has died; who am I, that I should ask to remain?