I wish I could feel properly grateful to God, for the glad news in your letter of last Monday, which I have only just now read on my return from Collinsville. I am very much obliged to you for writing again so soon, though it would be strange if you should refrain when you had so much to tell me. How thankful we should be for these crowning mercies.

Oh! I do hope he will prepare us for a state in which [we] can render him more worthy praise. I do feel, Fred, that I am a most ungrateful man. I so much want God’s help to make [me] more thankful for all these mercies and blessings which he is heaping on our heads. I am so much & so continually glad, and so little thankful. I try to thank and bless him and rise from my knees, unsatisfied and perplexed, for I have not begun to thank him with all my heart. Yet I can not command any more of it. I feel that I have tried to do my duty and wonder that I can not do it better. I pray for his assistance and ask forgiveness for my great deficiencies. Yet I have no great [236] longing, though I try to hope for heaven, where I shall have no more such troubles.

Do you have such sort of feelings? I have had daily for a great while. I recollect your feeling about—(can’t think of the word)—death of the soul. I used to feel just so and sympathize with you. I don’t quite so much now. I believe it shows a great want of faith. Discussing it with George Hill once, something he said set me a-thinking. And it seems as if ’twas one’s own fault, and—in short wicked.

I might say, Fred, I am “full of doubts,” but that don’t express it—by a long shot. I believe it’s perfectly impossible for me to express myself with any sort of clearness and with truth on Religious subjects, though I feel a great desire to. I know I cannot. My ideas are so indefinite. I do not know what I think. I can’t begin to satisfy myself. I hardly have an opinion. How can I tell others what I don’t know myself?

But I do know I am glad, very glad, to hear that such good news of my friends. It seems as if I was more glad to hear that Charley is saved, than I was for all the rest. I don’t know why, I’m sure—perhaps because I thought he was in more danger. I do trust I am even more than them, grateful and thankful. And I hope it is because I am better prepared to be. I had thought of Charley a great deal. What a great thing it is! How much happier, how much more useful he will be! Fred, I do most heartily sympathize with you. I regularly love you this afternoon and feel as if I could kiss you.

I’ve been thinking like a—human-being here for an hour or two. I want to tell you what I’m thinking & how, but I can’t. I wish I could express my thoughts—like, as you do—but subjects that I like to hear and read & think about I can’t talk [about]—I can’t even ask questions. And that’s the reason I like such folks—Miss Baldwin—and you, so much—who can & will guess and know what a fellow thinks & feels & wants, and sympathize with him so easily.

Speaking of Miss B.—seems to me—she must be now one of the happiest persons in existence. I think she will do immense good there. Her influence will be so great and so beautifully exerted.

Father ( to avoid Jury duty I presume) has unexpectedly found business called him to New York while I was absent. I hope he did not take John off.

John is a Singular fellow. I feel as if I knew less of him, of the constitution, and method, the way of his mind than any body else’s. He must be approached very delicately and influenced—I think. Danger I fear of avoiding rather than following a direction he is not inclined to receive. I wish I could come down. (By the way, I suppose you know I sent you a letter Saturday. ) I shall start for Albany with letters and introductions—in course of a fortnight, at most, after election. (I fear Toucey will be elected.) Norton of Farmington, where I was last night, is very kind to me in advice and [237]recommendations, etc. John P. Norton expected now daily. D’ye know he was appointed Professor in Union? Has not accepted. Do write again Fred & believe me warmly your friend.