What made you think that I "dread public prayers "? Did I say anything to you about it? If I did, I should not have used exactly the word "dread." The truth is, that state of the mind which is commonly called prayer becomes more and more easy, or at least inevitable to me; but the action has become so stupendous and awful to me, that I more and more desire the privacy in it of my own thoughts. "Prayers,"-"saying one's prayers," grows distasteful to me, and a Liturgy is less and less satisfying. Communion is the word I like better. But I have touched too large a theme. With our love to E. and your lovely children, let me be, Always your friend, ORVILLE DEWEY. 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. . . . 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.