To Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey.
SHEFFIELD, Nov. 28, 1863.
MY DEAR FRIENDS,--I received your letter, dated 20 September, two days
ago. I am very sorry to see that you are laboring under the mistaken
impression that I [266] have lost my son in the war. Something you
misapprehended in-'s letter. You seem to suppose that it was Charles
who used that striking language, "Is old Massachusetts dead? It is
sweet to die for our country!" No; it was Lieutenant-Colonel O'Brien,
who fell immediately afterwards. Charles was one of the storming
party under O'Brien. He stepped forward at that call, for they had
all hesitated a moment, as the call was unexpected; it came upon them
suddenly. He behaved as well as if he had fallen; but, thank God, he
is preserved to us, and, is among us in health, in these Thanksgiving
days. All were around my table day before yesterday,--three children,
with their mother, and three grandchildren.
To Mrs. David Lane.
SHEFFIELD, Dec. 29, 1863.
DEAR FRIEND,--Our life goes on as usual, though those drop from it that
made a part of it. We strangely accustom ourselves to everything,--to
war and bloodshed, to sickness and pain, to the death of friends; and
that which was a bitter sorrow at first, sinks into a quiet sadness.
And this not constant, but arising as occasions or trains of thought
call it forth. Life is like a procession, in which heavy footsteps
and gay equipages, and heat and dust, and struggle and laughter, and
music and discord, mingle together. We move on with it all, and our
moods partake of it all, and only the breaking asunder of the natural
bonds and habitudes of living together (except it be of some especial
heart-tie) makes affliction very deep and abiding, or sends us away
from the great throng to sit and weep alone. Of friends, I [267] think
I have suffered more from the loss of the living than of the dead.
I do not know but you will think that all this is very little like me.
It certainly less belongs to the sad occasion that has suggested it
than to any similar one that has ever occurred to me. I shall miss E.
S. from my path more than any friend that has ever gone away from it
into the unknown realm.
Oh! the unknown realm! Will the time ever come, when men will look
into it, or have it, at least, as plainly spread before them as to the
telescopic view is the landscape of the moon? I believe that I have
as much faith in the future life as others,--perhaps more than most
men,--but I am one of those who long for actual vision, who would
"See the Canaan that they love, With unbeclouded eyes."
But now what I have been saying reasserts its claim. The great
procession moves on,--past the solemn bier, past holy graves. You
are in it, and in these days your life is crowded with cares and
engagements. . . . I wish I could do something for the Great Fair;{25}
but I am exhausted of all my means.
With my love to all around you, I am, as ever, Yours affectionately,