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329 E 15 22 Jan Dear Julia It is and it is not strange that I should suddenly today have the thought of you come into my mind - Stoddard has just given me your note. I have grown to neglect my friends in letters, it is a sore thing now, that I only wrote Bayard once since he left, but I am thankful I did even once. After we heard that he had gone somewhere forever, we found that we had his letters [ covering ?]
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the lapses of thirty years. Those letters are written at the momentous times of his life - by the bed side of his dying wife, from his betrothal to Marie, the birth of Lily etc - all beautiful tender and true. I cannot make him dead. The year ended and began miserably my home neighbors and friends dying - and now I hear the only woman relative I have and care for has Bright's disease! Stoddard has lost his place - we are in a worse fix than ever, being ab
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solutely penniless - Yet if you came here you would not perceive the difference bric-a-brac is lord of all! The death of young Scribner is very miserable he was so [fortunate anyway ?] I did not like him, but his friends did. The article in the Atlantic was dreadfully mutilated and divided - I am disappointed in it. I hope he will, (S.) take time and write a memoir which will be worthy [both ?] - and beyond what to say he should write Dick's life! You will be glad to hear that I am much better & the old com-
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plaints - I only have a sort of rheumatism in all the muscles, but I am now able to write and have my stories refused. How are you - give my love to Seneca, I do not forget him. I could write you a hundred pages, but not now - I am in a hurry, I write you because I have the impulse to recall myself to you. Do not forget me - pray with your heart for me. I have deep trouble. Yours affectionately, Elizabeth S.
