Trieste, January 17, 1842.

DEAR BRETHREN AND SISTERS AT NAUVOO,

I have just written a lengthy letter to the Twelve, and sent it by way of Elder Pratt, in England. In that, and in a former one written to him from Alexandria in Egypt, is contained an account of my mission to Jerusalem. I feel, however, as though I wished to write a few lines more on this the last day of my confinement on ship board, where I have spent the last fifty-six days: six days in the harbour of Alexandria—twenty-two days on our passage—and twenty-eight here in quarantine. To-morrow, if the Lord will, the the jubilant song, with its thrice welcome melody, will greet the ears of a poor captive exile, the prison doors give way, and he be permitted once more to breathe the air of freedom in a land where he is not annoyed by the sight of the star and crescent, the turban and the covered face—all of which are an abomination in my sight.

The thoughts which I record will, no doubt, be scattering, and like "the gleaning of grapes when the vintage is done;" or like a few indolent belated stragglers going to the place of worship on a Sabbath morning after the more conscientious and faithful have broken the silence which hovered around the place of their devotion, and greeted the morning with their prayers and joyful acclamations of praise to the Lord their God.

It is now rapidly advancing to the close of two long years since I had the pleasure of mingling my voice with yours in ascribing honour and thanksgiving to that Being whose arm alone has been my support, and whose kind angel has swept the misty vapours far away which dispondency would feign cast over the star of hope, and nearly one year since I have heard ought direct from you. While in Bavaria, I saw a statement in a German paper that Brother Joseph had been apprehended and confined in prison. I knew not but that it might be so; yet I was inclined to set it down among the numerous deaths which he has suffered, the imprisonments which he has endured, and the various runaways of which he has been guilty, according to the flood of newspaper slang which has been poured forth upon a deceived public: but as time allows nothing to remain stationary, you may judge of my anxiety to hear from you, particularly when the happiness or misery of my own dear wife and little children is identified with your own.

I sometimes fancy myself in your midst, in my hours of silent meditation, gazing upon a large concourse of saints. I see many, very many strange faces that I never saw before; while others with whom I was familiarly acquainted, I do not see. Being anxious to know where they are, I inquire after them; but am told, with a sigh that contains no fiction, that time—that cruel and unfeeling destroyer of the human race, has borne them on his untiring wing to a long and sleepy mansion, to await the hour when the voice of the Archangel and the trumpet of God shall bid their sleeping dust arise, and come forth to receive the reward of their labours. O, ye precious souls! your debt is paid, and I cannot but embalm your memory with a tear as these lines slip from my pen.

There, for instance, sits a brother looking steadily upon his little daughter. His melancholy mien bespeaks a heart wadeing deep in sorrow: he puts his handkerchief to his face and bursts into tears. I ask the cause of that; and am told, that that brother has lately lost his wife; and as he looked upon the young and tender flower, and recognised in her the kind and affectionate features of the companion of his youth who now sleeps in the arms of death, he immediately contrasted all her virtues with every unkind word that he might have given her, and every ungenerous action; and the thought that his children are bereft of a mother, and his own bosom of its dearest friend, swells his heart to a burst of grief; and every unkind word which he might have given her in the warmth of the moment, now rushes upon his memory, pierces his soul, and adds an additional pang to the flood of grief which overwhelms him. "Husbands," whoever you are, "love your wives, and be not bitter against them." The delicacy of their sex, the vivid perceptibility of their mind, and the soft and engaging virtues of their heart, which weave themselves into the rugged recesses of man's masculine temperament and constitute him a fit member of society, render them entitled to the warmest affections of your heart, and to the generous protection of your arm.

In another part sits a sister clad in deep mourning, with a number of little children about her. The solemnity which sits upon the countenance, and the sad melancholy which lingers in her eyes, declare that her mourning is not all on the outside. She looks upon the little ones and beholds in them the generous and manly features of their sire, but his place his vacant: And pray, where is he? Oh! as the sturdy oak of the forest is laid low by the shaft from heaven, so has their dear father fallen by an arrow from the bow of a strong archer, and these young and tender branches which have sprung forth from his roots, only are left to perpetuate his name. None but God knows the anguish of that sister's heart, as she hides her face, and pours forth her grief in flowing streams of tearful eloquence. But stay, my hand, open not those wounds afresh when thou hast no balm to bind them up: but may the Lord, whose province it is to comfort all that mourn, and to bind up the broken-hearted, soothe the sorrows of those afflicted ones, and pour the oil of consolation into their grieved and wounded spirit.

When, oh! when shall human grief and woe come to a final end? Thank kind heaven, there is a time when these must cease. In the times of the restitution of all things, when the son of the virgin shall have disarmed death of his power and triumphed over every foe of man; then shall the tree of life spread wide its branches, bloom in eternal spring, and exhale his rich and life-giving odours to the breeze, carrying life, health, and joy upon its balmy wing to every department of God's creation. "Behold we bring you glad tidings of great joy which shall be unto all people."

I have not performed this long journey without encountering some few hardships, but I will not mention them; suffice it to say, that I am well at present. The past is over and gone, and I leave the future with my master. You certainly have an interest in my prayers day and night, and I hope you will send up a good wish occasionally for me; yes, even for me. I need it. My heart is full, and I can write no more upon these matters.

Let me now tell you something about a thunderstorm at sea. I have crossed the Atlantic three times—once the German and Black seas, and all about the Levante, besides sailing much on the American waters; but never, no, never before did I witness nature in such a rage on the deep, as once on this last voyage off the island of Candia, about the 7th of December. The sun sat behind the rising bulwarks of a dark and gloomy cloud as though he would not look upon the scene that awaited us: this said to the experienced tar, "there is danger on the deep." About six o'clock in the evening, the breath of the monster reached us: all hands aloft furling sails. The sky became suddenly black—the sea began to roll in upon our weather-beam and lash the hull of our ship, tossing her from surge to surge with as much ease as a giant would sport with an infant. The scene became grand. Our vessel stood on her course—wind on her larboard quarter, and under fore and close-reefed maintopsail only; while thunders loud and long uttered their voices from on high, and rolled through the vaulted canopy as if clothed with the official mandate from Jehovah for the sea to give up its dead. The lightnings issued from the womb of darkness in fiery streams of blazing vengeance to light up the terror of the storm. A feeling of solemnity and awe rolled across my bosom as I gazed upon the troubled deep, raging in the wildness and fury of a tempest. The spray of the clipped surge was frequently whirled on the wing of the eddying currents like mighty cascades upon our deck, while the rain descended like torrents from the mountains. Abroad on the deep, the crested billows rolled high their fleecy heads, and threw up thin sheets of foam in great majesty, coruscating in the lightning's glare; and for a few minutes it really appeared to me that the elements had engaged in a pitched battle—the crown of sovereignty to be awarded to the victor. The winds howled through our almost naked shrouds like a thousand winged spirits waiting to chaunt our requiem; but under the providential care of HIM who governs the winds and the waves, and who formed the ocean from his palm, our gallant barque bore us safely out the gale. Then said I—

"God speed thee, good ship, on thy pathway of foam,
The sea is thy country, the billow thy home."

When the light of the next morning had dawned upon us, I arose and went out upon deck, and found our lady of the deep attired in full dress, bearing us over the bosom of the gently rolling billow, apparently as careless and unconcerned as though nothing had happened; and, safely has she brought us into port, so I will sing—

Now on Europe's shores we're landed,
Far away from ocean's roar;
Where howling winds and rolling surges,
Disturb our anxious hearts no more.

Still is every note of tempest,
Calmly sleeps the peerless wave;
An emblem of our friends departed,
Whose dust reposes in the grave.

Thanks to Him who holds the billow,
And rides aloft on fleecy clouds;
Let heaven, earth, and seas adore him,
With all the vast unnumber'd crowds.

Worthy! worthy is the Saviour!
Who, for sinners, once was slain;
Swell! oh, swell! the joyful anthem,
All ye wretched sons of men.

Come unto this bleeding fountain,
Meek and lowly you must be;
Bear the cross and wash in Jordan,
Then from guilt he'll set you free.

My poetic organ is not largely developed, so for the correctness of the measure and rhyme of these few lines I will not be responsible.

When in Bavaria I wrote brother Joseph a long letter; it was sometime in August last. I hope he received it, for I think it would do him good—at least it was written with that intention; and I sent one to my wife at about the same time: the answers I hope to receive when I get to Bavaria again.

Fare you well; I love you all, I pray for you all, and by the grace of God, I always shall. I am your brother, far away, and yet near,

ORSON HYDE.

Regenshurgh, January 30, 1842.

TO BROTHER PRATT ALONE,

Sir,—I have thought proper to send this letter to you also, for the same reasons as are assigned in the other. You will therefore publish them both together, if you shall think proper to do any thing with them. The whole was written in Trieste, except these last lines. Not having a convenient opportunity to send them from that place, I brought them with me here to Regensburgh. I now have the pleasure of acknowledging the receipt of your two letters, and one from my wife and brother Joseph, dated 14th November last. I was thrice glad to hear from you all: I laughed and cried altogether. I have no room here to reply, but you may hear from me again by and by.

Dear Brother,—I have not forgotten looking at you through the crevices of a prison, neither have I forgotten what my thoughts were at that time; but if I had had the strength of a Sampson, then was the time that I would have used it for your deliverance. I need not be particular to explain my own situation at that time; "but God be thanked that I am where I am." If enemies are strong and many, nail your flag to the spanker gaff, keep close to the wind, and if your metal is not heavy enough, the artillery of heaven will play upon them.

ORSON HYDE.