To Mrs. Smith, Williamstown, Sept. 25, 1862.

I have been feeling languid, or lazy, ever since I came here, and for a few days past have been miserable; but I am better to-day.  This place is perfectly lovely and grows upon me every day.  But the Professor is entirely absorbed in his loss.  He does not know it, or else thinks he does not show it, for he makes no complaint, but it is in every tone and word and look.  It is plain that Louisa’s ill-health, which might have weaned a selfish man from her, only endeared her to him; she was so entirely his object day and night, that he misses her and the care of her, as a mother does her sick child.  If we ride out he says, “Here I often came with her;” if a bird sings, “That is a note she used to love;” if we see a flower, “That is one of the flowers she loved.”  He has an astonishing amount of journal manuscripts, and I think may in time prepare something from them....  Isn’t it frightful how cotton goods have run up!  I gave twenty cents for a yard of silicia (is that the way to spell it?) and suppose everything else has rushed up too.  I hope you are prepared to tell me exactly what to buy and instruct me in the way I should go.

To her Husband, Williamstown, Sept. 26.

I spent yesterday forenoon looking over Louisa’s papers and found an enormous mass of manuscript; journals, extract books, translations, and work enough planned and begun for many lifetimes.  It was very depressing.  One’s only refuge is faith in God, and in the certainty that her lingering illness was more acceptable to Him than years of active usefulness, and such extraordinary usefulness even as she was so fitted for.  I read over some of my own letters written many, many years ago; and the sense this gave me of lost youth and vivacity and energy, was, for a time, most painful....  I have felt for a long while greatly discouraged and depressed, yes, weary of my life, because it seems to me that broken down and worn out as I am, and full of faults under which I groan, being burdened, I could not make you happy.  But your last letter comforted me a good deal.  I see little for us to do but what you suggest:  to cheer each other up and wear out rather than rust out.  It is more and more clear to me, that patience is our chief duty on earth, and that we can not rest here.

I am anxious to know what you think of the President’s Proclamation. [6] The Professor likes it.  He seems able to think of little but his loss.  Even when speaking in the most cheerful way, tears fill his eyes, and the other day putting a letter into my hands to read, he had to run out of the room.  The letter stated that fifty young persons owed their conversion to Louisa’s books; it was written some years ago.  His mother spent Saturday here.  She is very bright and cheerful and full of sly humor; he did everything to amuse her and she enjoyed her visit amazingly.  I long to see you.  Letters are more and more unsatisfactory, delusive things.  M. is going to have a “party” this afternoon, and is going to one this forenoon.  The others are bright and busy as bees.  Good-bye.