. . . BUT I feel as if it were profane to speak of common things in these blessed days. Did you observe what the papers say about the manner in which they received the Great News yesterday in New York [The surrender of the Rebel army],—not with any loud ebullition of joy, but rather with a kind of religious silence and a gratitude too deep for utterance? And I see that they propose to celebrate, not with fireworks and firing of cannon, but with an illumination,—the silent shining out of joy from every house. Last evening the locomotive of the freight train expressed itself in a singular way. Not shutting its whistle when it left the station, it went singing all down through the valley. For my part, I feel a solemn joy, as if I had escaped some great peril, only that it is multiplied by being that of millions.
To Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D.
SHEFFIELD, April 15, 1865.
MY DEAR FRIEND,—We used to think that life in our country, under our simple republican regime and peaceful order, was tame and uneventful; given over to quiet comfort and prosaic prosperity; never startled by anything more notable than a railroad disaster or a steamer burnt at sea. Events that were typified by the sun turning to darkness and the moon to blood, and stars falling from heaven,—distress of nations with perplexity of men's hearts, failing them for fear,—all this seemed to belong to some far-off country and time.
[280] But it has come to us. God wills that we should know all that any nation has known, of whatever disciplines men to awe and virtue. The bloody mark upon the lintel, for ten thousands of first-born slain,—the anxiety and agony of the struggle for national existence,—the tax-gatherer taking one fourth part of our livelihood, and a deranged currency nearly one half of the remainder,—four years of the most frightful war known in history,—and then, at the very moment when our hearts were tremulous with the joy of victory, and every beating pulse was growing stiller and calmer in the blessed hope of peace, then the shock of the intelligence that Lincoln and Seward, our great names borne up on the swelling tide of the nation's gratulation and hope, have fallen, in the same hour, under the stroke of the assassin,—these are the awful visitations of God!. . . As I slowly awake to the dreadful truth, the question that presses upon me—that presses upon the national heart—is, what is to become of us? If the reins of power were to fall into competent hands, we could take courage. But when, in any view, we were about to be cast upon a troubled sea, requiring the most skilful and trusted pilots, what are we to do without them? Monday morning, 17th. Why should I send you this,—partly founded on mistake, for later telegrams lead us to hope that Mr. Seward will survive,—and reading, too, more like a sermon than a letter? But my thoughts could run upon nothing else but these terrible things; and, sitting at my desk, I let my pen run, not merely dash down things on the paper, as would have been more natural. But for these all-absorbing horrors, I should have [281] written you somewhat about the Convention. It was certainly a grand success. I regretted only one thing, and that was that the young men went away grieved and sad. . . . I think, too, that what they asked was reasonable. That is, if both wings were to fly together, and bear on the body, no language should have been retained in the Preamble which both parties could not agree to. But no more now. Love to your wife and A. Yours ever,
ORVILLE DEWEY.
To Mrs. David Lane.
SHEFFIELD, Ally 19, 1865.
BE it known to you, my objurgatory friend, that I have finished a sermon this very evening,—a sermon of reasonings, in part, upon this very matter on which you speak; that is, the difference of opinion in the Convention. "Prove all things; hold fast that which is good." Radicalism and Conservatism. The Convention took the ground that both, as they exist in our body, could work together; it accepted large contributions in money from both sides, and it is not necessary to decide which side is right, in order to see that a statement of faith should have been adopted in which both could agree. I was glad, for my part, to find that the conservative party was so strong. I distrust the radical more than I do the conservative tendencies in our church; still I hope we are too just, not to say liberal, to hold that mere strength can warrant us in doing any wrong to the weaker party. [282] To be sure, if I thought, as I suppose—and—do, that the radical ground was fatal to Christianity, I should oppose it in the strongest way. But the Convention did not assume that position. On the contrary, it said, "Let us co-operate; let us put our money together, and work together as brethren." Then we should not have forced a measure through to the sore hurt and pain of either party.
As to the main question between them,—how Jesus is to be regarded, whether simply as the loftiest impersonation of wisdom and goodness, or as having a commission and power to save beyond that and different from it,—one may not be sure. But of this I am sure, that he who takes upon his heart the living impression of that divinest life and love is saved in the noblest sense. And I do not see but there is as much of this salvation in those young men as in those who repel and rebuke them.