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, ORVILLE DEWEY. {FN 25: The Great Fair, held in New York for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission, and of which Mrs. Lane was the chief manager and inspiring power.} [268] To Rev. Henry Bellows, D.D. SHEFFIELD, Dec. 31, 1863. . . . Ah! heaven,--what is rash or wise, shortsighted or far-seeing, too fast or too slow, upon the profound and terrible question, "What is to be done with slavery?" You have been saying something about it, and I rather think, if I could see it, that I should very much agree with you. Bryant and I had some correspondence about it a year ago, and I said to him; "If you expect this matter to be all settled up in any brief way, if you think that the social status of four millions of people is to be successfully placed on entirely new ground in five years, all historical experience is against you."