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. . . .

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 transl