star of our domestic life has been extinguished; the cherished first-born torn from us forever. This bereavement, my dear sir, is too replete with painful interest for recital, and I dare not force my heart to a review. And yet Heaven in mercy casts a shadow over its appalling reality, and almost allows us to believe it a wild and fevered dream. If the thought were not impious, would to God it were! But why should we selfish worldlings desire to call her back to this bleak and desolate existence? Her life had been an unbroken current of joy. All to her had been bright and beautiful, and the dark and sorrowful she had never known. Her life was as pure and sinless as her death was calm and peaceful, and she departed with words of faith and peace upon her lips. Mrs. Dickinson has been sustained through this severe dispensation beyond all human expectation. But she feels the bereavement but too painfully, and needs the aid and consolation of one who can feel and appreciate her loss. She joins in affectionate regards for yourself and family. I shall return as soon as justified by the propriety of this mournful occasion, and due regard to the peculiar state of Mrs. Dickinson's health-mental and physical-and that is a matter of too much delicacy and interest to disregard. I have thought some of starting Thursday (day after to-morrow), but unless I have some special message I shall not until Monday next. I expect to pass the night in Albany, and will see you. Your friend, in affliction, D. S. DICKINSON. MR. DIX TO MR. DICKINSON. WASHINGTON, January 29, 1847. MY DEAR SIR-We were greatly distressed by the intelligence which your letter brought us, though the telegraphic despatch, which you left, had in some degree prepared us for it. I feel how vain any words of mine would be to impart any consolation to you. Time and a humble submission to the will of that superintending Providence, which in its inscrutable wisdom has inflicted upon you this irreparable loss, can alone heal the wounds it has caused. But of this I beg to assure you, for my wife and myself, that you and Mrs. Dickinson have our deepest sympathy, and our sincere prayers that you may be endowed with strength to bear your affliction. Remember us both cordially to her, and believe me, Sincerely yours, JOHN A. DIX. MR. DICKINSON TO MRS. DICKINSON. ASTOR NEW MY DEAR LYDIA-This day has been one of deep and painful interest. After leaving Utica, I reached Albany, and on Tuesday evening took tea at Mrs. Wasson's, and staid at the Delavan House. Wednesday morning, left for New York via Housatonic railroad, and reached Bridgeport, Conn., about two o'clock. There was at the time a terrible gale blowing upon the Sound, and the captain of the steamboat Mountaineer, which was to carry us to New York, declared it unsafe to attempt to cross the Sound, and we staid until this morning and left at six o'clock. We had not proceeded far when the gale commenced again with all its fury; a rough sea threw us out of the channel, and we were for two hours aground with the waves dashing and roaring around us. The flood tide finally set us afloat again, and our boat (which was by far too light and frail for such an emergency) proceeded to battle with the fierce elements which surrounded it. The wind blew so severely that we had to cling to some part of the boat to keep from being blown about like a feather; and one heavy sea after another, breaking over some part of the boat or careening her upon one side, kept the passengers in a constant state of alarm. Twice she went so far that I nearly gave her up, but she again righted and went on. Two gentlemen were on board who were on the fated Atlantic when she was wrecked last November. They were evidently much alarmed. One of them told me that it was such a sea as we had that broke the machinery of the Atlantic and capsized her, and if we had had another one follow in quick succession, he thought it would have upset us. While we were thus in the midst of excitement, a dark object was seen in the distance, and much speculation was set on foot as to what it could be. As we approached, it became evident that it was a wrecked vessel, and upon going to the upper deck I was sure I could see persons clinging to it. We saw a sloop attempt to approach it, but the winds were so strong and the seas so rough, that it was unmanageable and was driven off before the gale. We could now plainly see men clinging to that portion of the vessel above water. The steamboat changed her course, and endeavored to come near, but was compelled to pass by within a few rods. The wreck was a sloop which had capsized, and a portion of her hull was yet above water, and her sailors yet clinging to it. The cold was excessive; their hats were gone, and the sea broke over them, wetting them to the skin, every few moments, and then leaving them to the mercy of the winter cold. It was enough to melt the stoutest heart, as we passed them, to hear their cries and prayers for help; and when they found we were going to leave them to their fate, they wrung their hands and gave every painful token of distress. But the steamboat being unable to come alongside of the wreck, which was still floating, a call was made for the lifeboat. This was loosened, and by the aid of the passengers brought to the leeward and lowered. A large, dark man (whom I had seen pacing the deck like a caged lion, and whom I had contemplated with interest for his huge, shaggy appearance and weather-beaten face and his close attention to the boat) and three others leaped into the lifeboat, and he gave his orders in a clear, deep voice to pull away. This frail thing was at first tossed like an egg-shell, but it rose and fell, under the skilful guidance of its master-spirit, in a direct line for the wreck; one moment it was mountain high, and the next covered with spray and buried to all appearance beneath the waves, but anon it would appear again and shoot forward upon its errand of mercy. I have never seen any object watched with such intense interest, as was this little boat and its daring crew. The wreck was rapidly sinking; we saw the boat reach near the sufferers, but the waves dashed so furiously that for a time all was in doubt, but in a few moments the little craft again appeared, shooting like a dark speck from a mountain of foam, and shaped her returning course. The passengers all forgot their own danger, and sent up a mighty shout for the deliverance of the sufferers and the valor of the boat's crew. They came alongside, and were all taken on board. It proved to be the sloop "Confidence" of Connecticut--a captain and four men, five in all. The sloop was upset by the violence of the wind, and the men were nearly frozen. One poor fellow was so nearly gone, that he could only be restored by the greatest care and most skilful applications. The sloop sunk to rise no more, shortly after they were rescued. A meeting of the passengers was called, at which resolutions of approbation of the boat's crew were passed, and a collection raised for the daring seamen who perilled their lives to save their fellows, and also for the benefit of the sufferers. We reached here about four to-day, having been ten hours on the way, when four is the usual time for the journey. It has been a fatiguing and exciting day, but I feel quite well and thankful, and will go on in the morning. Much love to all, especially to the dear children. Affectionately, D. S. DICKINSON. MR. JOHN R. DICKINSON TO MR. DICKINSON. BINGHAMTON, February 10, 1847. DEAR D. S.-We were under much apprehension on your account, calculating that you would be on the Sound about the time of the gale, which was a severe one even here; and the first assurance we had of your safety was accompanied with the information that our fears had been well founded. You must indeed have had a fearful time. We cannot be too thankful for your preservation. : Since you left, sister Lydia has been some of the time quite sick some of the days comfortable, and others, worse. She seems to realize more fully the painful scenes she has passed through; and the excitement that probably sustained her having passed away, the result to have been expected is produced. The rest all well. Yours truly, J. R. DICKINSON. MRS. BIRDSALL TO MR. DICKINSON. BINGHAMTON, February 12, 1847. MY DEAR UNCLE-I received the letter you inclosed, last evening. I thought at first it was from yourself, and was somewhat disappointed upon opening it. I can hardly be thankful enough that you were preserved in safety during that fearful gale. Aunt Lydia read us your letter. I go to see her as often as possible. I rode past the churchyard a short time since. Never before did it seem so desolate, nor yet so sacred. I cannot think of dear Virginia as I last saw her, but with the bloom of health on her cheek; her countenance beaming with joy and animation. She spent a few days with me last summer, when the roses and syringas were in bloom. I can almost see her now, as then, and hear her merry laugh as she gathered them for bouquets, or gaily twined them in her shining hair-herself the loveliest flower. But she has gone where "fadcless flowers immortal bloom"-herself to fade no more. I did not see her from the time she was married till she returned with "the icy hand of death upon her brow, her bridal robes exchanged for the drapery of the tomb." I kissed her cold forehead, but she felt not the embrace, nor knew what tears of anguish were flowing there. But she was lovely even then: so calmly, so purely had her spirit passed away. Death to her had no sting, and the grave over her no victory. Dear uncle, is there not some comfort in thinking you have a child in heaven, where pain and death can never reach her more; perchance, the first to welcome you to that bright abode ? But instead of affording the solace I would gladly impart, I fear I only cause your tears to flow afresh. That God may sanctify to you this bitter cup is the sincere prayer of Your affectionate LOUISE. MR. DICKINSON TO MRS. DICKINSON. WASHINGTON, February 14, 1847. MY DEAREST LYDIA--I am distressed to hear that you are VOL. II.-26 |