E.'s passing away was very grand and noble,—so cheerful, so natural,—so full of intelligence and fuller of trust,—this earthly land to her but a part of the Great Country that lies beyond. She left such an impression upon her family and friends, that they hardly yet mourn her loss as they will; they feel as if she were still of them and with them. . . .
All my people love you, as does
Your friend,
ORVILLE DEWEY.
To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.
SHEFFIELD, May 1, 1864.
THANK your magnificence! Perhaps I ought to say your misericordia, for Charles says you wrote to him that you knew I should n't have those grapes unless you sent them to me. And I am afraid it's true; for I have had such poor success in my poor grape-culture, that I had about given up in despair.
[272] Nonetheless, I have had these set out, according to the best of my judgment, in the best place I could find in the open garden, and I will have a trellis or something for them to run upon; and then they may do as they have a mind to.
I have delayed to acknowledge the receipt of the grape-roots,—Charles is n't to blame, I told him I would write,—because I waited for the cider to come, that wife and I might overwhelm you with a joint letter of thanks, laudation, and praise. But I can wait no longer. That is, the cider does n't come, and I begin to think it is a myth. Poets, you know, deal in such. They imagine, they idealize, nay, it is said they create; and if we were poets, I suppose we should before now have as good as drank some of that Long Island champagne. Speaking of poets reminds me that I did n't tell you how charmed I was with those translations from the Odyssey; the blank verse is so simple, clear, and exquisite, so I think.
To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.