MY DEAR FRIEND,--We used to think that life in our country, under our simple republican regime and peaceful order, was tame and uneventful; given over to quiet comfort and prosaic prosperity; never startled by anything more notable than a railroad disaster or a steamer burnt at sea. Events that were typified by the sun turning to darkness and the moon to blood, and stars falling from heaven,--distress of nations with perplexity of men's hearts, failing them for fear,--all this seemed to belong to some far-off country and time. [280] But it has come to us. God wills that we should know all that any nation has known, of whatever disciplines men to awe and virtue. The bloody mark upon the lintel, for ten thousands of first-born slain,--the anxiety and agony of the struggle for national existence,--the tax-gatherer taking one fourth part of our livelihood, and a deranged currency nearly one half of the remainder,--four years of the most frightful war known in history,--and then, at the very moment when our hearts were tremulous with the joy of victory, and every beating pulse was growing stiller and calmer in the blessed hope of peace, then the shock of the intelligence that Lincoln and Seward, our great names borne up on the swelling tide of the nation's gratulation and hope, have fallen, in the same hour, under the stroke of the assassin,--these are the awful visitations of God!. . . As I slowly awake to the dreadful truth, the question that presses upon me--that presses upon the national heart--is, what is to become of us? If the reins of power were to fall into competent hands, we could take courage. But when, in any view, we were about to be cast upon a troubled sea, requiring the most skilful and trusted pilots, what are we to do without them? Monday morning, 17th. Why should I send you this,--partly founded on mistake, for later telegrams lead us to hope that Mr. Seward will survive,--and reading, too, more like a sermon than a letter? But my thoughts could run upon nothing else but these terrible things; and, sitting at my desk, I let my pen run, not merely dash down things on the paper, as would have been more natural. But for these all-absorbing horrors, I should have [281] written you somewhat about the Convention. It was certainly a grand success. I regretted only one thing, and that was that the young men went away grieved and sad. . . . I think, too, that what they asked was reasonable. That is, if both wings were to fly together, and bear on the body, no language should have been retained in the Preamble which both parties could not agree to. But no more now. Love to your wife and A. Yours ever, ORVILLE DEWEY. To Mrs. David Lane. SHEFFIELD, Ally 19, 1865.