E.F. Delancey

E.F. Delancey, Love Letters, Letter 6

Grass Valley, June 2, 1859

My Dear Miss Esther –

You can very well believe that I felt much disappointed at not receiving a letter from you by the two last steamers from New York.  I know that as at present – situated you cannot command leisure at any moment you please, and therefore would not have you for one moment think that I feel any way displeased towards yourself for I can assure you nothing of that kinds exists yet I do so covet a letter from you that I confess to a disappointment, or rather a feeling of disappointment, when the steamer arrived without the so much coveted boon.  There is one consolation, however, and that is that this state of things cannot last forever – “the streams are tending towards the foot or point of the mountain,” and “ere long must muse and mingle into one,” and without laying myself open to the charge of profanity, I can adopt the words of the old hymn, and add-

“Fly quickly round ye wheels of Time,

And bring the joyful day.”

When a person has the mind forced upon a particular object, anything that intervenes to distract that attention is a subject of vexation, and given birth to a fit of the Blues, as you term it and in this state anything gloomy readily patronizes the mind.  The season has been one of the worst we have had in California for many a year, and as I feel that my time is precious now, the continuation of bad weather puts me back in working my Mining Claims, for I had hoped to have worked them out in time to get home, – or to what I now consider as almost a second home, – that is to Salisbury, New Hampshire, in the season of Sleigh rides.  The state of mind super induced by circumstances, as I said before causes the “gloomy” to fraternize readily with it, and thus you will see that my reading has been of the melancholy cast, and that though there is something of the melancholy in the following extracts from various authors, yet there is likewise something of the beautiful in the poetry, that like oil on troubled water, seems to calm down the tempest of disappointment within:  It has always appeared to me the true reading of poetry is the picturing of the scene as it seemed to pass before the author’s mind – but I need not have suggested this to you, if I may presume to judge, from what I have seen through the medium of pen, ink and paper, of the turn of your mind.

Now let me qu0te a stanza or two in the sweet melancholic strain:  The subject is a young lady fading away with Consumption.  She loved music and requests her friend –

When life’s sad dream is o’er,

Its happiness and woe,

And nature weak and wearied out

Has done with all below

Sit near, and while my breath

Comes feebly, let me hear

Thy voice repeat that plaintive strain,

My dying hour to cheer.

Sing while my fluttering pulse,

Its labor faintly plies:

Sing while my spirit hovers near,

And while to God it flies.

And again the sick room – the patient reclining on a couch the entrance of a stranger – the nurse raising the finger in caution,

Softly!

She is lying

With her lips apart.

Softly!

She is dying

Of a broken heart.

Whisper!

She is going

To her final rest.

Whisper!

Life is growing,

Dim within her breast.

Gently!

She is sleeping,

She has breathed her last.

Gently!

While you’re weeping

She to heaven has passed.

And here are four line of poetry that seem so truthful that, I cannot help transcribing them.  The fair authoress has been walking in one of the large Cemeteries when a particular spot is laid off for the burial of infants, and thinking o’er these “Little Graves”, she says:

There’s many an empty cradle, there’s many a vacant bed,

There’s many a lonely bosom, whose life and joy have fled.

For thick in every graveyard the little hillocks lie,

And every hillock represents an angel in the sky.

But here is a beautiful piece of poetry, so like reality, that the scene is easily pictured as we read—It is the death of “Little Jim”.

(The Place)

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,

(It’s Condition)

Yet everything with that Cot was wondrous, neat and clean.

(The Weather)

The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild.

(The Occasion)

A patient mother watch’d  beside the death bed of her child.

(The Object)

A little worn out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim,

It was a Cottier’s (a rural laborer living in a cottage) wife and child, they called him little Jim.

(The Mother’s Condition)

And oh to see the briny tear fall down that mother’s cheek,

As she offer’d up a prayer in thought – she was afraid to speek.

Lest she might waken one she lov’d much better that her life.

(The True Mother)

For she had all a Mother heart; had that poor Cottier’s Wife.

With hands uplifted see, she kneels beside the suffers bed,

And prays that God would spare her boy, and take herself instead.

She got her answer from the boy – soft fell the word from him.

(Last Words of the Fading Away)

Mother, the angels do so smile and beckon little Jim;

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh I am so dry,

Just moisten poor Jim’s lips again and Mother don’t you cry.

With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his lips,

He smiled to thatnk her, as he took three little tiny sips;

“Tell Father when he comes from work, I bid good night to him.

(He’s Gone)

And Mother now I’ll go to sleep!”  Alas poor little Jim,

She saw that he was dying, that the child she lov’d so dear

Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear.

(The Entrance of the Father)

But, see the Cottage door is open, the Cottier’s step is heard,

The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.

(The Effect Upon Him)

He felt that all was o’er – he knew his child was dead

He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed.

(Resignation and Hopeful Request)

His quivering lip gave token of the grief he’d fair conceal;

And see, his wife has join’d him – the stricken couple kneel.

With hearts bow’d down with sadness, they humbly ask of Him,

That they in Heaven once more, may meet their own dear little Jim.

But it’s evening and –

Say what shall be my song tonight,

And the strain at the bidding shall flow

Shall the Music be sportive and light,

Or it’s murmers be mournful and low?

Shall the days that are gone flit before us,

The freshness of children come o’er us,

Shall the past yield it’s smiles and it’s tears,

Or the future it’s hopes and it’s fears.

Echo not answering, I must begin of my own volition, and therefore will have to tell you in want of something better, of what I have been reading.  I have been somewhat interested in reading a tale entitled – “Milicent”  —  something after the manner of “Shirley”, tho’ for behind it in beauty of language and sentiment.  I will give you some of the points, without troubling you to procure and read it all.

Milicent, a young lady had grown up in the companionship of a young gentleman, who like Louis Moore, had striven to correct some of the know defects in her character by association.  He loved her and she loved him, but they had never communicated the fact to each other orally/there are other means of communicating that fact beside the voice.  I believe it do you?  The young gentleman at length asks her to become his wife, but unluckily made his request at a moment when one of the defects of character was in the ascendancy over the mind and she peremptorily (emphatically) refused the offered hand – and the young gentleman in astonishment replies –

“You cannot mean, Milicent, what you say.  Many a woman has sacrificed her happiness to her pride; take care, if for your own sake only, how you add to the number.”  To this Milicent responds –

“Yes, Sir, I do mean what I say.  I shall not sacrifice my happiness.  We would not be happy together; you are hard and cold, and I am passionate and headstrong as you tell me.  I could not live with a man who was always watching to detect and reprove.  I should learn to hate my husband in the character of censor and judge.  Life would be one fierce quarrel ever growing fiercer. No Sir, it is because I would have neither of us miserable that I am determined to end this engagement.”

“But Milicent, are you not bound to me by ties which the caprice of a woman cannot break, – your own confessions and promises – have you not loved me, or has the events and our associations of the past ten years, been but a lie, a lengthened, continuous lie.”

“If, she replies scornfully, “your words were anything to me now, I should resent such language.  Have I loved you?  Well enough to submit to be pupil , culprit, almost slave!  I have learnt to dread your presence in the midst of what I deem innocent amusement.  No husband shall school me; the wife’s position is an equal one and you would degrade it.  No, I will not marry to such bondage.  Oft have I said, If Mr. Forrester acts thus again, it shall be the last time, and the last time has come!”

“Stop” cried Mr. F. for I can bear no more.  I should be bent indeed upon my own misery, if I urged you further.  Strand that we have thus deceived ourselves – that, instead of loving me, such intense hatred is burning in your heart.  What blind dreamers we are.”

“I too have dreamed” replied Milicent. “You are not alone in your disappointment; but is all over. – Good bye, Mr. Forrester.”  Her attitude  as she held out her hand was firm and stately, but her averted eyes gleamed with emotion, and her flushed cheeks were wet with tears.  He held her hand a moment in his passionate grasp, but knew not the secret agony against which her indomitable spirit upheld her and thus they parted, as firmly attached to each other as at any moment of their lives.

Time rolled on.  Milicient was not of age, and the estate which her father then owned had been left to him with a promise, that if he had a son, that son should inherit the estate; if no son, then, should, at the time of his death, his oldest daughter be of the age of 21, she should inherit; but if not so, then the estate belonged to his surviving brother, who was requested to make provision for the daughter.  Milicent’s father fell from his horse and was killed before she arrived of age, and her uncle’s family not being congenial she started in life to earn her living and that of her younger sister by teaching music.  The young sister falls sick, and having to go around to private houses to teach, she is sadly put to it, and after struggling against her hard fate is about ready to give up in despair.  Oh how often did these warning words rise up before her.  “Many a woman has sacrificed her happiness to her pride, be careful, if only for your own sake, how you add to the number.”  Mr. Forrester had been endeavoring to find Milicent ever since he had heard of the change in her fortunes, but had not succeeded.  Since the day they had parted Milicent’s love seemed on the increase, adoring the master – grief of bitter self reproach and vain regrets for a future lost forever.  She would dwell on the recollection of his worth; it lowered her pride to the dust; it exalted it anew to think he had loved her.  Memories of low words scarcely heard, but never forgotten; kisses dearer with each reiteration; golden plans frustrated; life’s happiness sacrificed to the caprice of a moment; possessed and moved her beyond control.  Even his friendship rejected.  “Offer it again Mr. Forrester and I will take it humbly.  Come and teach me what now I ought to do, and I will be led, come to me and I will confess my faults – come – or rather never come, lest I sob out my love at your feet.”

In the meantime a gentleman who had seen her at her uncle’s and had fallen in love with her, finds her out, and in her greatest distress, asks her to become his wife.  Though bowed down with poverty and grief, and this offer presenting a wealthy home, she refuses the offer, but he persists, till at length, she replies to him from the fullness of an overcharged heart.

“Never, Sir, never.” Anything rather than perjury of soul and body.  I can never love you.  Let this suffice; my will is fixed; yes, any misery even to desolation, before I lie against God and my love.  Do you understand me Mr. Nalford/the gentleman’s name/.  I will speak more plainly.  You have often heard Mr. Forrester’s name in my uncle’s family.  I have loved him from a child.  No other man can become my husband. 

Winter had set in once more, and Milicent had arrived one morning, weary and ill, at the house of one of her pupils.  The young lady was not ready and the teacher sat down at the piano to wait.  While thus sitting her eyes fell upon a letter lying on the table/it had been purposely put there at Mr. F’s request, to observe the effect it would have upon Milicent, she was well acquainted with his handwriting.  The moment she saw it, the blood rushed to her pale cheeks, and her pulse beat with a passionate force long since subdued, she had thought, – She held that letter in her hand, her eyes devouring the cover and burning with an almost uncontrollable desire to read the enclosure, when the lady of the house entered the room, Mr. Forrester remaining at the door unseen, but ready to enter.  Milicent dropped the letter, she looked as pale as death; her glittering eyes seemed to throw a strange light over her passive face – every faculty was concentrated with that of hearing. – “Madam,” she said at length with a great effort, “excuse what must seem so strange to you.  I thought I heard the voice and recognized the foot steps of a friend of my fathers.  This is his untying.  Is Mr. Forrester in the house?”  The lady smiled, looked behind her and said in reply – “My dear Miss Milicent, is this your father’s friend?”  She raised her eyes – “Milicent,” – there was a depth, an intense depth of passion and of pity in the accent, oh, he loves her still, and what could withhold her from throwing herself into his yearning outstretched arms, now that the doubt was solved.  “Milicent, my love – my wife!”  What need of saying more.  Mr. Forrester has sought, until now, unsuccessfully for Milicent, unresolved to agree the heart he could not believe was false to him, and had found her purer, nobler, “refined as with fire.”  And adds the author, “if I yielded to my bent one describes at length the happiness of their after lives, it might excite the sneer of the incredulous and throw the doubt of fiction over all.”

I have thus condensed a work of some length into a small space, connecting the thread so as to make it understood.  That, as in “Shirley,” there is also a moral in this, is evident – Shirley and Milicent, but Shirley “the noblest of the twain.”

I have been reading over a third time you last letter, and noticed the  lecture you read me on the vested rights of woman, that you say “it is well that women are tinder hearted” and I quote this to ask you where you got this important piece of intelligence.  That women are ‘tender hearts’ or rather that a majority of them are.  I am willing to admit, and can only hope that in writing as you did, it was but a slip of the pen that put a ??? over, and turned what otherwise might have been taken for an e into and i. But perhaps you intended it so.  The tinder you know will not produce fir of itself – but take a flint and steel and produce with them sparks to fall of the tinder and thought he tinder may not ignite from the first or second spark, yet it will finally, and from that spark a lamp is lit, and by that lamp a fire may be kindled and by that fire a kettle may be boiled, or a conflagration ensures.  You will see by the picture I enclose from Naper’s Comicalities, how the Poger family carried out the tender idea.  I have marked this A.  Then again I have said “there are other ways of communicating a fact”, and I find one in the page I have marked B-C.  Well I once related a dream and you though it curious – others can dream as well as I, and therefore what think you of the extract marked D.  And again in one of my letters I mentioned what a sensation the appearance of a lady created years ago in California.  What think you of this, marked E. which I take from a paper published two days since.  Trinity is in the mountains of California.  And there again I told of the doings of the fair sex and now the piece marked F, I take from the same paper.

No mail steamer having been telegraphed as yet, I am reluctantly compelled to place this in the Post Office without the pleasure of acknowledging the receipt of a letter from you.  I had hoped this would not have been the case, for I long to be delivered from a state of suspence and my deliverance I anxiously look for in the next letter from you.  I must here make an addition to the last letter I wrote in that fact that relates to myself.  I do not think I told you in that letter to what state I belong and I now rectify or supply omission, by saying that I am from the State of New York, my last place of residence being in the City of Brooklyn, though my business was done in the city of New York.  Whether I shall ever reside in New York again must depend upon the choice of another, as for myself I have no great partiality for over large cities, and therefore can make myself at home almost anywhere.

I send this with scarcely any other intention than to remind you that I have not forgotten to write.  If there be anything in it worth reading, please preserve what is fit to be read, and consign the rest to oblivion and in the meantime allow me,

To remain,

Dear Miss Esther,

Yours ever,

E.F. Delancy,

Miss E. F. Dimond

Salisbury   67-14-11A N.H.

E.F. Delancey, Love Letters, Letter 5

Grass Valley, Sept, 30 1858

Estimable Fair Damsel –

I received you kind letter by last steamer, and hope the letter I promised in my last has safely reached its destination, although on that point I have some reason for doubt.  The Coach on which that steamers Mail left this place was robbed before it reached Sacramento.  The Mail Bags were found cut open, and those letters containing drafts taken off, and numerous others were found under a bridge covered with mud and water, so defaced as to be unrecognizable.  Whether all the letters were so served is not known, and therefore if you have mine I shall feel glad, as it was written in a very comfortable state of mind.  Expecting to lose some money, with a forlorn hope of saving it I left Grass Valley – returning with that money in my pocket, caused a pleasurable reaction in feeling, in which state of mind the letter to you was written.  As matter with me exercises a great influence over mind, so when that mind is in a comfortable state, I can write the better to be understood, than when the reverse is the case.

But enough on this subject, it may not prove as bad as it looks, and I therefore leave it for another and congenial operations.

In the first place, then, Fair Lady, I design to take your patience while I endeavor to make a few observations on a text which you will find recorded on the 15th line of the 2nd page of the last Epistle of Esther, to Edwin, and 4th line from the bottom of the page, in these words: –

“I cannot compose or write myself.”

The first observation I shall make is that, “the proof of the pudding is the eating thereof.”  Let me illustrate:

The 1st 2nd and part of the 3rd pages of your letter, are filled with a string of excuses. A tissue of special pleadings – the putting this against that and that against the other and the other against something else, for instance: –

“I was disappointed, but when I came to think how ludicrous my letters must seem, etc., etc.  I did not think strange” etc., etc.

And again: –

“I was constrained to think that had you read it before writing, I should not have the pleasure of hearing from you again.” Etc., etc.

And yet again: –

“I have eagerly looked for the time to come when I should hear from you” etc., tec. “unless you should think it was not worth while, to waste time in answering it and in that case I shall not blame you, although I shall feel very sorry” etc., etc.

And further:

“I like to have a good letter from you if I cannot answer it properly.  Therefore, I hope you will not cease to write me/indeed I won’t/ if I do lack the gift of good letter writing.” Etc., etc.

Now, if the above extracts from your letter do not carry out my idea of putting this against that and that against the other, and the other against something else, then there is no such thing as (need original) idea. While reading the first part, therefore of your letter, the old deacon forced himself into my mind involuntarily, and the thought suggested itself that you were under conviction at the time that the case of the old deacon, with a scarcely perceptible alteration, might be made to come pretty near your fit.  This thought was converted into a fact, when I read on a little:  “I am afraid if I have any more excuses you will tell me a story of some other deacon, etc.”  Don’t believe a word of that, however, for that same old deacon will answer the purpose exactly, and leave me all the other deacons for future occasion, if such should arise.

But, to sum up and conclude my observations on the text I have chosen for consideration, let me say, that if you continue to improve in the excuse line, with the same rapidity in that respect as you have since I have had the pleasure of having communication (mutually edifying I trust) with you the time is not far distant when you can easily hold your own with the most astute reasoned of the day.  I thought I could keep grave, but “it’s no use”, the old lady who was asked what was good for the toothache would force herself on me.  Said she “I know a positive cure – you take some hog’s lard and mustard – no, I think it is mustard, but you take some hog’s lard – and – something else, I disremember now, but I am sure it is one or the other, and it will cure the toothache right off.”

There, almost enough about excuses, but an idea has just popped in, it is this: – You just go on in the excuse line, as you have done, a letter while longer, and if I ever get hard up or “strapped” as we say here, I’ll take your letters and compile from them a work with something like the following titles: –

Hand Book

Of

Excuses

Containing

Over

One Thousand Varieties

Being an

Admirable Assistant

To

Letter Writers

In General

And

Young Ladies

In Particular

Copyright – Secured, Etc., Etc.

So much for that side of the picture – now let us turn to the other side and see how easy a thing it is to demonstrate the utter failure of all special pleading to make out for yourself a good case.  Read, if you please, I copy verbatim: –

“I reckon you will think I write strange – but it seems to me just as though I was writing my thoughts without realizing who I was writing to, or for what purpose, only to gratify a peculiar sensation that somehow I cannot account for.  Never having had any previous acquaintance with you and never hearing of you either, it hardly seems real to me now – it is more like a dream, or some wild fancy that has fastened itself to me someway or other.  I would not like to have the spell broken, however, for I would hold sweet communion with my own thoughts and with one that seems singularly connected with my something else.”  “You can laugh at this if you have a mind to, etc., etc.”

Well I have laughed and will laugh and laugh again and laugh every time I read over your letter – not at the sentiments enunciated in the above extract of your letter – but at the idea of the head that conceived, the head that wrote, and the something else that so gracefully closed the casket on so many clusters of brilliant gems, trying to make me believe that the possessor of that head, hand and something else “cannot compose or write.”  Why I can easily conjecture and define your sensations while giving life to that delightful page: –

By turns you felt your glowing mind,

Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined.

Talk about “cannot compose or write,” why I would as soon believe now, that the Atlantic Telegraph Cable had not been laid between American and England!

I am glad that Dame Gossip has taken up her residence in Salisbury.  If you see the old lady and are on confidential terms with her please, say to her, in my behalf, that if the business she is engaged in, in Salisbury, is at any time slack, and she can stand the journey to California, I will promise as much business as she can possibly attend to here – a good steady job all the year round – may so much business that the fear is, the rapid concentration of that kind of gas, would be more than the tongue could work off and the consequent liability to collapse a flue.

But turning from all else, let me come to the most pleasurable portion of my scrawlings.

In the first letter I had the honor, for so I esteem it, of addressing you, occurred something like the following passage:

“A person taken from home very young, and kept away until arrived to years of maturity, will, when brought again to the place of birth have a sensation come over the mind impossible to account for, x x x a dim, indescribable sensation something akin to the foregoing came over me when I first saw the initial of a letter from under your hand” etc., etc.

Let me now add as extract from your first letter in answer:

“I think the initials of the name that woke such fresh memories in your mind must be the same letters that stood for some dear and departed friend” etc. etc.

And yet another extract from you last letter: –

“it seem just as though I was writing my thoughts without realizing who I was writing to or for what purpose, only to gratify a peculiar sensation, that somehow I cannot account for.

Again I related to you a singular dream I once had, and asked your opinion of this and other matters, which was given as follows:

“You have related to me a dream, etc. and asked me to tell you what I think of it.  Well, a very nervous person will sometimes get the mind wrought up to a height that the imagination makes things almost real” etc.

Now let me place on record from your letter the following:  After mentioning that peculiar sensation before spoken of, you add:

Xxx it hardly seems real to me now – it is more like a dream or some wild fancy that has fastened itself to me someway or other I cannot account for.”

If you had asked my opinion of this passage, might I not have said “Well, a very nervous person will sometimes get the mind wrought up to a height that the imagination makes things appear almost real.” Or as you said in that same letter:  “I am one of those kind that was never troubled with what people term the Blues, never thoughtfully sad; still, I think I can sympathise some with suffering humanity and with your in particular.”  I say, I might have thus answered, but the answer would not have described my feelings.  I could not have selected terms more choice, more appropriate, more indicative of intense feeling that the following:

“It hardly seems real” xxx ”yet I should not like to have the spell broken, for I would hold sweet communion with one that seems so singularly connected with my something else!”

Fair Lady, it is as much, nay more than I can do to stand all this.  My feelings are all in a state of jumble, and the only opiate is to lay down the pen and change the scene, till the tempest somewhat subsides.

Two hours have now elapsed, and I set down again and take up the pen.  The past two hours, I have spent with myself, reasoning upon the assimilation of natures – attractive forces in nature, magnetic influence of sympathies, and to atomic theory of creation, where all was confusion until one atom came in contact with another and cohered and attracted another and yet another and so on till one perfect world was the result.  how shall I express myself, though I, on this subject and could come to no satisfactory conclusion.  I can only therefore, compromise with myself, by making this request.  There is a romance called “Shirley”, one of the emanations from the gifted mind of the authoress, Jane Eyre, would you please get that work to be had at all book stores, read it carefully, studiously, and let me have your candid opinion, upon the hero and heroine of that work.  I have a copy here; if there is any particular passage or passages that strike your attention more than others, please not the page, tec. And I can refer to them.

I thank you sincerely for the wish that I might some day visit Salisbury – though not exactly a direct invitation – I think I can yet make out to twist it into an invitation by implication.  Now let me put in a little story, (for stories you are fond of reading, I know you are for you say so, but I hope you don’t: tell stories,” nay, I know you don’t, I feel you don’t.

When a boy, a companion one day put a ball in my hand to which a wire was attached, informing me that it was a musical electric ball.  He requested me to squeeze it in my hand as by so doing it would emit most beautiful music.  I endeavored to do as he bid me, but had scarcely begun to squeeze, when my hand became as it were paralysed, and remained so with the ball in it, until he let go the wire he had in his hand and squeezing mine with the ball still on it brought my hand in contact with a needle which was adroitly concealed in the ball, and made me, instead of it, emit some beautiful music for awhile.  Ever since I have been on the look out for needles in things and now let me apply the story.  You say –,

“A number of city people visit Salisbury yearly to enjoy its nice fresh air and its romantic prospects, which are certainly very delightful.  I know you would think so should you visit Salisbury and I do hope you will grace with your presence sometime these hills and valleys.”

Now did you wrap up that needle in that ball carefully and cutely, but for all I think I can see the electricity.  Once get the ball in my hand and in my hand it must stay, until the person who has charge of the wire chooses to stick the needle in the hand and make me jump again.  But I am never afraid; I may and must get used to this kind of thing some time or other.

I have wished for more than a year to leave California, but if my wish could have been gratified as soon as conceived, what would have been the consequence – you can imagine that as well as myself.  Yes lately I have earnestly tried to accomplish, but almost like as a lady once said of her husband. “I’ve tried everything with John and it’s all of no use, he’s no good.”  So with me – I’ve tried every way to wind up my business and its no use – (the remainder of the wife’s saying I will not add, however, for a regard myself I don’t believe a word of it.)  A year at least must elapse before I can accomplish my object and although I feel –

It were better to stand the lightning shock,

Than moulder (to cause to crumble)  piecemeal on the rock,

Yet it can’t be helped, I must, for awhile at least enact the part of

Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief.

I am sorry indeed to hear that your flower seeds did not come to hand.  They were seeds of some of the beautiful wild flowers of California, and whether I can replace them in time for your next season of flowers in doubtful, but I will do my best to do so.

But here is something I had not read understandingly before:

“This letter is not very long, but I think it will compensate for your short note.  I will promise you a longer one next time.”  Now what am I to understand by this:  is it that next time you are going to promise me a longer one; if so I hope you will take that back and give me, not a promise of, but actually a long letter next time.

In trying to make out this letter you will see the relevancy of the excuse that I am about to offer, viz. that like the Dutchman I’ve had my outsides nearly knocked in – and with bad pen and ink, very bad ink, and feeling all over I don’t know how you must do me the kindness to supply all defect and oblige,

Dear Lady,

Yours truly,

E.F. D.

Miss E. F. Dimond

Salisbury, N.H.

E.F. Delancey Love Letters, Letter 2

California, February, 1858

Estimable Fair Damsel,

As onward we journey how pleasant,

To pause and inhabit awhile,

Those few sunny spots like the present,

That ‘mid the dull wilderness smile.

But Time like a pitiless master,

Cries onward, and spurs the gay hours

And never doth Time travel faster

Than when his way lies among Flowers.

It is said that a child if taken away from home very young, and kept away till arrived at the age of maturity, will when returned again to the place of birth after so great a lapse of time, have a sensation come over the mind impossible to account for.  While gazing around a dim, indistinct vision of scenes familiar oppresses the mind while yet it is unable to give shape or form to the vision.  The only tangible explanation sought to be given is – that the scenes of our childhood make an impression upon the mind somewhat akin to that made upon the memory.  You have probably, fair Lady, had experience of something of the kind of at some period of your life.  Something that transpired years gone by and which you had never in the meantime thought of, will in the twinkling of an eye, leap, as it were, into the mind as fresh as at the moment when it occurred.  Where had this been stored during the lapse of time between when it occurred and when it recurred again to the mind?  There must be a mental warehouse where, stored away are all the impressions of memory, which, by some involuntary operation of the mind, unlocking, as it were, the doors, come forth, exhibit themselves for a moment and are then returned again to remain unthought of till that mysterious operation, resulting from the sympathy association or influence of mind with or over matter, shall again unlock the mental warehouse door.  A dim, indescribable sensation somewhat similar to what I have been writing of came over my mind when first I saw the initials ——–“E. F. D.”——-.  All my efforts to give shape and form to it have been unavailing and to me it is yet one of those mysterious operations of the mind or memory which would be attended with pleasure could I so give it form as to enable me to make time and place tangible.  But this I have been, after the most intense struggle, unable to accomplish.  My fancy then took it up and at one time converted these initials into words and made them represent

E ternal F reiendship D esired.

But this did not seem to be the solution, as it satisfied not, but still left a void that at length forced me to abandon all hopes of filling, and, I therefore leave it with you.  It may be that something in your experience may make it clearer to your mind, and enable you to give it a body as a name.

But call it by some better name

For Friendship sounds too cold,

While Love is now a worldly flame

Whose shrine is made of Gold!

And Passion, like the sun at noon

That burns in all he sees

Awhile as warm, will set as soon,

Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far

Move free from stain of clay,

Than Friendship, Love or Passion are

Yes – human still as they.

And if thy lip for like this

No mortal word can frame

Go, ask of Angels what it is

And call it by that Name!

Thus far Had I written before I retired to rest but while upon my bed the vision still haunted one, and led my imagination endeavor to solve the mystery in this wise.

Years ago, there a clerk in my Father’s store, I retired to bed on night, and after falling asleep dreamed I saw in the lot on which the store was erected, an old man, peculiarly dressed – in a fashion I had never before seen, heard or read of.  This man had a pick and shovel with him and commenced digging in the ground and so continued until he reached a large flat stone, which accomplished, I saw him ease the stone and take out a number of articles of silver ware and a quantity of gold coin, carefully examine every article and as carefully put them back again and replace the stone, filling the hole over with the dirt he had taken out.  Thus far I dreamed.  One among the many articles of silver I saw him examine, was a pair of sugar tongs very massive, and made in the form of a pair of scissors – thus   Accompanying the Sugar Tongs was a silver salver and sugar bowl, and I saw the old man place them together as they were want to be used.  Sugar Tongs I had seen before, but never anything like them neither in shape or solidity and I never would have imagined so quaint an article.  However time passed on but that dream would often recur to my mind.  About two months after this dream had occurred, I was invited one Sabbath evening to take tea with a wealthy old German family in the neighborhood, and on taking my seat at the table, judge my when I saw on a silver salver, a silver sugar bowl and lying beside the bowl a pair of silver sugar tongs all precisely of the pattern I saw in my dream.  The appearance of these articles completely astounded me, and so much as that my looks attracted the attention of the good old lady and gentleman who inquired what it was that seemed to attract so intensely my attention.  In answer I could only relate the particulars of my dream.  In describing the features and dress of the old man in my dream, I perceived the old lady and gentleman exchanging glances of surprise, and at length the old gentleman exclaimed “Why that is Sammy Moser, and the very dress he wore the day he died.  Sammy he continued, was worth a good deal of money and had a quantity of family plate, but died without making known where he had placed it.  His children had the house stripped, the plastering taken down, floors taken up and chimney pulled to pieces, but without success and where he concealed it remains unknown to this day – but you have described him exactly and we know that among his plate were articles similar to these (pointing to the salver, sugar bowl and tongs) and pointing out of the window, he added that “old house yonder is the one he lived and died in.”  Now, this old house was on one street, and the store in which I slept was directly in the rear of it on another street, a railing fence separating both lots, and the old dreamed of, I ascertained afterwards, had owned through from street to street, his children after his death having sold the rear lot to my father for the purpose of erecting the store.  Now all the circumstances I have detailed both of the dream itself and the coincidences attending it, are to say the least, curious, but there is yet another incidental circumstance connected with it, more curious still.  A short time after these things happened  my father wished to have the cellar of the store dug two feet deeper and to do this I employed two men and set them digging.  On uncovering the wall in one corner to the depth indicated to my surprise they came to a large flat stone, the very stone in size and shape and under the very spot on which the old man stood when he commenced digging.  So certain was I of this that I could have made affidavit under oath to that effect, and that stone remains there till this day, I never having revealed this circumstance to any but you.

Now, fair lady, if I am not very much mistaken in my fancy, you have an enquiring mind, and what think you of all this?  Could so much exact truth get into a dream by chance – could an antique dress of a fashion brought from Germany 75 years previous to the time I wrote and which I had never seen or heard, as well as so quaint an article of silver ware, appear so plain to my sleeping vision, as to enable me to describe the dress from cap to boots, and both these peculiar in shape and appearance?

It is but a very slight variation in circumstances that would make the dream I have written of, perhaps furnish a clue to the sensation I experienced and as I stated in the opening of this letter, for if the mind can be acted upon while in a somnambulic (a person in the state of sleep performs as awake) state, why not, under some peculiar state of the body, the mind be similarly acted upon while in full vigor, and imagination transport it to Fisherville, place it in the presence of an individual there, and enable it to describe dress and features as exactly as in a dream.  A lady (the story is familiar, you may in your reading perhaps have seen it) sitting one fair summer day sewing, was observed to utter the mouth piercing screams, and finally fall from her seat in a fit.  Returning to consciousness, she stated the cause.  Her husband at the time many hundred of miles distant, she solemnly affirmed was drowned.  She had seen him endeavoring to cross a boisterous stream in a small boat, had seen the waves dash the boat upside down, and leave her husband struggling with his fate, till at length he sunk to rise no more, at which moment she had fallen senseless.  A record of the exact time was kept and at precisely the moment the wife was so strangely affected, the scene transpires as she described it, and she was a widow.

Fair Lady, I am no sceptic, no believer in improbabilities, no Spiritual Rapping believer.  The spirits of the Just, I believe are sent out as Ministering Angels, but only to those who may become (if they will) heirs of Salvation.  It is true the General Laws regulating this world and the Spirit land, have been set aside, by the Great Lawgiver for a time under some peculiar circumstance and with some particular object.  The translation of Enoch, without being dead and buried, of Elijah likewise; the removing of the scales from the eyes of the young prophet – allowing his vision to penetrate into the upper air – and see what he tells of; the raising of Lazarus after three days lying in the grave, the death and resurrection of Christ and the coming forth of many of the Saints, together with the second appearing on the mount of Transfiguration of Moses and Elias, as well as the parting of the waters of the Red Sea, the standing still of the Sun over Gideon, etc. etc. are relaxation of General Laws but I never can believe that in our day so general a relaxation has been allowed as to bring to light what we hear and see respecting Spiritualism and its effects.  But I may, perhaps if agreeable to you say something more on these topics at another time, suffice it now to say, that I do believe in an influence existing on earth that under a particular state of mind can bring live objects though far apart, in communication, though total, as in the case of the lady above, noticed, unconscious of the mode of accomplishment.  It would not, therefore, surprise me should I ever visit Fisherville and meet you in the street, that without any guide, save what fancy had daguerreotyped on my mind instantly to recognize you though surrounded by many a fair maid of the place at the time.  That daguerreotype is not perfected, but I feel it in process of accomplishment.  But what of all this:  is this all I have been so agitated about.  No this will not furnish the solution.  “Tis mystery still.”

And now fair Lady, excuse the writer of this for thus trespassing upon your patience.  All the return he can make is the heartfelt wish that in every position you  may be placed, you may Ever Fair Delicate – Ever Feel Delicious = and should you not be willing always in a state of single blessedness to remain that in the change from an

Exquisite Fisherville Diamond.

You may be

Ever Fortunately Domesticated,

Have, as your crown of rejoicing, a host of

Ever Fair Daughters,

with among all other graces,

Excellent Faithful Dispositions,

And as time passes on may you be more

Exempt From Decay

That usually falls to the lot of mortality, and that instead of

Enduring Friendship Desired,

You may realise in California particularly in the mining districts a man leaving all the comforts of home – friends – relatives and associations, and more especially here in the absence of that “polar star”, which by its gentle influence over his rugged nature so greatly tends to nerve him to exertion as well as soothe him in misfortune for

Disguise the bondage as we will

Tis Woman, Woman rules us still!

I repeat, a man leaving all these behind him is more susceptible of impressions here than elsewhere, perhaps, even at home.

The fact is well authenticated that in 1850 in one of our mining districts, in which a woman had never been seen, a party of miners travelling on a prospecting tour, came upon a Woman’s Bonnet, and as if the same sensation arose on the instant in every breast, they disencumbered themselves of their back loads, formed into a ring and danced joyfully around the dilapidated, though to them sacred emblem, of home and its guardian Angels, whether in the form of mother, sister, and last, though not least, the partners or intended partners of joys in anticipation.

Again in a large mining district in which a woman had not been seen, a district large enough to erect a rude meeting house for the occasional visit of a minister one Sabbath morning when the house was pretty well filled, a woman who had that morning arrived on her way to another mining district entered the meeting house with an infant in her arms.  This unexpected appearance excited the most intense interest.  After sermon had commenced the child began crying, and, unable to soothe it, the mother arose to take it out, but was stopped by the minister, who forgetting his sermon, referred to the association the crying of that child brought to mind – association of home and all its domestic felicities – and while he yet spake the tears began to flow fast from every eye and strong emotion pervade the entire assembly till minister and audience mingling together in feeling gave audible event to the intensity of their emotions and more solid impressions resulted from the crying of that solitary infant in an unwomaned portion of California that from any sermon the speaker could possibly have preached.

And now, fair lady, you may, perhaps from what I have said, be induced to put faith in the assertion that our minds are more susceptible of impression here that elsewhere, and that ever the initials of a name, knowing them to be those of one of the gentle “the last, best gift to man” can awaken emotions and sensations that have lain dormant for years.  I have tried to reconcile this view of the case to my present state of my mind, while being exercised as I have written; but it seemed to me the void, – though not exactly an aching void, – was left – a void that Eternal Friendship Desired was not capable of filling.  No, for however strong the Desire – the void existed to be filled with something sweeter still.

But I am, or rather feel myself transcending the bounds of delicacy to one, who though never known, has been unaccountably interwoven with some mystery of my being which I cannot fathom some sympathetic chord which having been touched has vibrated in a direction indicating either the existence of a magnet, or some remote association of ideas suddenly sprung into vigor through an unknown, though surly felt influence – an influence so strong that in imagination it has carried to Fisherville my sleeping and waking thoughts – placed me where I could see the writer signing herself “E.F.D”. – could recognize an attractive mind and a congenial spirit – could hold converse sweet, associations refreshing and part with regrets and all this arising from the simple incident of being asked by a friend what were the three letters placed at the bottom of a note which not ever I had not the pleasure to peruse.  To me tis all a mystery!

Eternal Felicity Developed

And in taking leave, believe the writer, when he says:  that though –

His griefs may return – not a hope may remain,

Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,

He ne’er can forget the short vision that threw

Its enchantment around him while thinking of you.

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy,

Which come in the night time of sorrow and pain,

And bring the bright features of joy back again.

Long, long be thy heart with such mem’ries filled,

Like the Vase in which Roses have once been distill’d

You may break, you may shatter, the vase if you will,

But the scent of the Roses will hang round it still.

Farwell fair Lady, believe me anything – Except Foul Deceiving while I take the liberty of subscribing myself, —

Respectfully,

Yours,

                          Etc., Etc., Etc.

                                    E.  .   .

To-

    Miss E. F. Dimond,

        Fisherville,

                     New Hampshire