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?
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. . . .