riotic spirit that impels him, than all the prudence in the
world.

To the Same.

Oct. 16, 1862.

C. is steadily and calmly putting all things into order that he
can. . . . He came in the morning after he had enlisted, and said to me
with a bright, vigorous, and satisfied expression of countenance, "Well,
you see what I have done." I believe some people have been very much
stirred and moved by his decision. It is said to have given an impulse
to the recruiting, and the quota, I am told, is now about full and there
will be no drafting here.

Thinking of these things,--thinking of all possible good or ill to
come, your mother and I go about, from hour to hour, sometimes very much
weighed down, and sometimes more hopeful and cheerful; and poor J., with
the tears ready to come at every turn, is yet going on very bravely and
well. . . . Cassidy is to look after barn-yard, etc., for the winter.

But all this is nothing. Good heaven! do people know, does the world
know, what we are doing, when we freely send our sons from peaceful and
happy homes to meet what camp-life, and reconnoissances, and battles may
bring to them and us? God help and pity us!

[262] To Mrs. David Lane.

SHEFFIELD, Dec. 19, 1862.

DEAR FRIEND,--I wrote to Mrs. Curtis [FN]last Saturday, before I knew
what had befallen her, and in that letter sent a message to you, to know
of your whereabouts, provided you were still in town. I don't expect
an answer from her now, of course, though I have written her since; but
thinking that you are probably in New York, I write.

I had hoped to hear from you before now. Through this heavy winter cloud
I think friendly rays should shine, if possible, to warm and cheer it.
It is, indeed, an awful winter. I will not say dismal; my heart is
too high for that. But public affairs, and my private share in them,
together, make a dread picture in my mind, as if I were gazing upon the
passing of mighty floods, that may sweep away thousands of dwellings,
and mine with them. And though I lift my thoughts to Heaven, there are
times when I dare not trust myself to pray aloud; the burden is too
great for words. It is singular, but you will understand it,--I think
there was never a time when there was less visible devotion in my
life than now, when my whole being is resolved into meditations, and
strugglings of faith, and communings with the supreme and holy will of
God.

I am writing, my friend, very solemnly for a letter;