ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.

Aug. 7, 1876.

DEAR FRIEND,--I can't be quite still, though I have nothing to say but how good you must be, to see so much good in others! That is what always strikes me [336] in your oraisons funebres, and equally, the fine discrimination you always show. And both appear in your loving notice of my volume.' Well, I take it to heart, and accept, though I cannot altogether understand it. Such words, from such a person as you, are a great thing to me. It is to me a great comfort to retire from the scene with such a testimony, instead of a bare civil dismissal, which is all I was looking for from anybody.

Mr. Dewey was urged to the publication of this last volume of sermons by several of his most valued friends; and its warm acceptance by the public justified their opinion, and gave him the peculiar gratification of feeling that in his old age and retirement his words could yet have power and receive approbation.

Rev. J. W. Chadwick wrote a delightful review of the book in the "Christian Register;" and, supposing that the notice was editorial, my father wrote to Mr. Mumford, then editor, as follows:

SHEFFIELD, Nov. 22, 1876.

MY DEAR SIR,--It is taking things too much au serieux, perhaps, to write a letter of special thanks for your notice of my volume in last week's "Register." If I ought to have pa.s.sed it over as the ordinary editorial courtesy, I can only say that it did not seem to me as such merely, but something heartier,--and finer, by itself considered. I was glad to have praise from such a pen. You will better understand the pleasure [337]

that it gave me, when I tell you that I set about the publication of that volume with serious misgiving, feeling as if the world had had enough of me, and it would be fortunate for me to be let off without criticism. And now, you and Bellows and Martineau (in a private letter) come with your kind words, and turn the tables altogether in my favor.

I once wrote a review of Channing, and, on speaking with him about it, I found that he had n't read the praise part at all. His wife told me that he never read anything of that sort about himself. Well, he was half drowned with it; but for me, I think it is right to express my obligation to you, and the good regard with which I am,

Very truly your

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.

ST. DAVID'S, Jan. 16, 1877.

DEAR FRIEND,--A New Year's word from you should have had an answer before now, but I have had little to tell you. Unless I tell you of our remarkable snow season, snow upon snow, till it is one or two feet deep; or of the woodp.e.c.k.e.rs that come and hammer upon our trees as if they were driving a trade; or of our sunsets, which flood the south mountain with splendor, and flush the sky above with purple and vermilion, as if they said, "We are coming, we are coming to bring light and warmth and beauty with us." You can hardly understand, in your city confines, how lovely are these harbingers of spring. And see! it is only two months off. And withal we are ploughing through the winter in great [338]

comfort and health. No parties here, to be sure; no clubs, no oysters and champagne, but pleasant sitting around the evening fire, with loud reading,--Warner's "Mummies and Moslems" just now, very pleasantly written. . . . Have you seen Huidekoper's "Judaism in Rome"? It has interested me very much. The Jews, as a people, present the greatest of historic problems. A narrow strip of land, that "scowl upon the face of the world,"--a small people, no learning, no art, no military power; yet, by the very ideas proceeding from it,-Christianity included,-has influenced the world more than Greece or Rome. Huidekoper's book is very learned. I am glad to see such a book from our ranks. We have done too little elaborate work in learning or theology. Your Ministers' Inst.i.tute promises well for that.

To his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.

ST. DAVID'S, March 26, 1877.

YOUR letter has come this afternoon, astonishing us with its date, and leading us to wonder where your whereabouts are now. Such an 4,-nis fatuus you have proved for the month past! With plans of goings and comings, with engagements and disengagements, you have slipped by us entirely, so that the kind of a.s.surance I have had that you would come and pa.s.s two or three weeks with us before going eastward has come utterly to nought. You should have come; our chances of seeing one another are narrowing every year. But we will not dwell gloomily upon it. We may live three or four years longer,--people do; and I think I am more afraid of a longer than of a shorter term. [339] The "pain at heart," of which you speak at putting a wider s.p.a.ce between us, is what I, too, have felt; and your thoughts, taken literally, are pleasant, while spiritualized, they are our only resource. Yes, the heavenly s.p.a.ces unite us, while the earthly separate. Oh! could we know that we shall meet again when the earthly scene closes! But what we do not know, we hope for, and I think the supports of that hope increase with me.

Development for every living creature, up to the highest it can reach, is the law of its nature; and why, according to that law, should not the poorest human creatures--the very troglodytes, the cave-dwellers--rise, till all that is infolded in their being should be brought forth?

Where and how, is in the counsels and resources of infinite power and goodness. Where and how creatures should begin to exist would be as much mysterious to us as where and how they should go on.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.

ST. DAVID'S, April 22, 1877.

DEAR HOSPITALITY,--I minded much what you said about my coming down in May, but I have been so discouraged about myself for six weeks past, that I have not wanted to write to you;--besieged by rheumatism from top to toe; in my ankle, so that I could not walk, only limp about; in my left arm, so that I could not lift it to my head, and, of course, a pretty uncomfortable housekeeper all that time. Nevertheless, I expect May to bring me out again, and do think sometimes that I may take C.

with me, and run down for two or three days. . . . I am reading the Martineau book, skippingly. . . . It seems that Miss M. was not an atheist, [340] after all. She believed in a First Cause, only denying that it is the G.o.d of theology,--which who does not deny?-denying, indeed, with Herbert Spencer, that it is knowable. But if they say that it is not knowable, how do they know but it is that which they deny?

Miss Martineau's pa.s.sing out of this world in utter indifference as to what would become of her, seems to me altogether unnatural, on her ground or any other. Any good or glad hold on existence implies the desire for its continuance. She had no hope nor wish for it, as well as no belief in it.

As to belief in it, or hope of it, why should not the law of development lead to such a feeling? The plant, having within it the power to produce flower and fruit, does not naturally die till it comes to that maturity.

The horse or ox attains to its full strength and speed before its life is ended. Why should it not be so with man? His powers are not half, rather say not one-hundredth part, developed, when he arrives at that point which is called death. Development is impossible to him, unless he continues to exist, and to go onward. And why should not the same argument apply to what may trouble some people to think of,--that is, to the three hundred and fifty millions of China, or even the troglodytes, the cave-dwellers? To our weakness and ignorance, it may seem easier to sweep the planet clean every two or three generations. But of the realms and resources of Infinite Power, what can we know or judge?

Until this spring, my father's health had been exceptionally good, notwithstanding his allusions to increasing infirmities. Indeed, apart from his [341] brain trouble, he had always been so well that any interruption to his physical vigor astonished and rather dismayed him.

His sleep was habitually good, and his waking was like that of a child, frolicsome in the return to life. He was never merrier than early in the morning, and his toilet was a very active one. He took an air-bath for fifteen minutes, during which he briskly exercised himself,--and this custom he thought of great importance in hardening the body against cold. Then, after washing, dressing, and shaving, breakfast must come at once,--delay was not conducive to peace in the household; and immediately after breakfast he sat down to his desk for one, two, or three hours, as the case might be. He was singularly tolerant of little interruptions, although he did not like to have any one in his room while he was writing, and when his morning's task was done, especially if he were satisfied with it, he came out in excellent spirits, and ready for outdoor exercise. He walked a great deal in New York, but never without an errand. It was very seldom, either in town or country, that he walked for the walk's sake; but at St. David's he spent an hour or two every day at hard work either in the garden or at the wood-pile, and made a daily visit in all weathers to the village and the post-office.

After his early dinner he invariably took a nap; and after tea, went again to his desk for an hour, and then came to the parlor for the evening's [342] amus.e.m.e.nt, whether reading, or music, or talk, or a game of whist, of which he was very fond; and in all these occupations his animation was so unfailing, his interest so cordial, that family and guests gladly followed his leadership.

But in this spring of 1877 the rheumatic attack of which he speaks was the beginning of a state of languor which in July became low bilious fever. He was not very ill; kept his bed only one day, and by the autumn recovered sufficiently to walk out; but from that time he was an invalid, and he never again left his home.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.

ST. DAVID'S, May 4, 1877. DEAR FRIEND, AND FRIENDS,--I see that I cannot do it. You ought to be glad, not that I cannot, and indeed that would not be strictly true, but that I do not judge it best. I really think that I myself should be afraid of a man, that is, of a man-visitor, in his eighty-fourth year. But what decides me now is that my rheumatism still holds on to me, and does not seem inclined to let me go, or rather to let go of me. This weather, chilly and penetrating to the bones and marrow, is a clencher. I do not walk, but only creep about the house, and can't easily dress myself yet; all which shows where I ought to be.

What a curious thing it is! I had n't a bit of rheumatism all winter till March came, and never had any before. Was n't it the Amalekites that were smitten "hip and thigh"? Well, I am an Amalekite, and no more expected to be knocked over so than they did.[343] I have read with extraordinary pleasure Frank Peabody's sermon on "Faith and Freedom." I saw it in the "Index." I don't know when I have read anything so fine, from any of our young men. . . . As to the limitations of free-will, even more marked than those of heredity and a.s.sociation are those imposed by the law of our nature. I am not free to think that two and two make five, or that a wicked action is good and right. But am I not free to pursue the worst as well as the best? But I am not fit to discuss anything.

To the Same.

Dec. 13, 1877.

YESTERDAY the mail brought me Furness's new book, "The Power of Spirit,"

and I have already read half of it. It seems to be the finishing up of what may be called his life-work, that is, the setting forth of the character of the Master. The book is very interesting, and not merely a repet.i.tion of what he has said before. To be sure, I cannot go along with him when he maintains that the power of Christ's spirit naturally produced those results which are called miracles. You know what Stetson said,--that if that were true, Channing ought to be able to cure a cut finger. But the earnestness, the eloquence, the spirit of faith pervading the book are very charming. Look into it, if you can get hold of it. The chapter on Faith in Christ is very admirable, and that on Easter is a very curious and adroit piece of criticism. I wish that Furness would not be so confident, considering the grounds he goes upon, and that he would not write so darkly upon the materialism of the age.

[344]To the Same.

ST. DAVID'S, Feb. 1, 1878.

How I should like to take such a professional bout as you have had! Now I wish you could sit down by my side and tell me all about it. I think preaching was always my greatest pleasure; and in my dreams now I think I am oftenest going to preach. People try to sum up the good that life is to them. I think it lies most in activity. Bartol, and that grand soul, Clarke, discussed it much.

To the Same.

May 13, 1878.

DEAR FRIEND,-I am so much indebted to your good long letters, that I am ashamed to take my pen to reply. . . .

Your Sanitary Commission Report came to hand two days ago, and I began at once to read it, and finished it without stopping, greatly interested in all the details, and greatly pleased with the spirit. What a privilege to be allowed to take such a part in our great struggle! I cannot write about it, nor anything else, as I want to. I don't know why it is, but I have a strange reluctance to touch my pen. I see that the death of Miss Catherine Beecher is announced. There were fine things about her. What must she not have suffered, of late years! But I am disposed to say of the release of every aged person, "Euthanasia."

6th. I will finish this and get it off to you before Sunday. You have a great deal to do before vacation. Let me enjoin it upon you to have a vacation when the [345] time comes. Don't spend your strength and life too fast. Live to educate those fine boys. Thank you for sending us their picture. See what Furness does. That article on Immortality is as good as anything he ever wrote. Did you read the paper on the Radiometer in the last "Popular Science"? What a (not world merely) but universe do we live in! I am not willing to go out of the world without knowing all I can know of these wonders that fill alike the heavens above and every inch of s.p.a.ce beneath. What a glorious future will it be, if we may spend uncounted years in the study of them! And, notwithstanding the weight of matter-of-fact that seems to lie against it, I think my hope of it increases. This blessed sense of what it is to be,--this sweetness of existence,-why should it be given us to be lost forever?

To the Same.

ST. DAVID'S, June 16, 1878.

. . . ONE point in your letter strikes very deep into my experience,--that in which you speak of my "standing so long upon the verge." To stand as I do, within easy reach of such stupendous possibilities,--that of being translated to another sphere of existence, or of being cut off from existence altogether and forever,--does indeed fill me with awe, and make me wonder that I am not depressed or overwhelmed by it. Habit is a stream which flows on the same, no matter how the scenery changes. It seems as if routine wore away the very sense of the words we use. We speak often of immortality; the word slides easily over our lips; but do we consider what it means? Do you ever ask yourself whether, after having lived a hundred thousands or [346]

millions of years, you could still desire to go on for millions more?--whether a limited, conscious existence could bear it?

I read the foregoing, and said, "I don't see any need of considering matters so entirely out of our reach;" but the question is, can we help it? Fearfully and wonderfully are we made, but in nothing, perhaps, more than this,--that we are put upon considering questions concerning G.o.d, immortality, the mystery of life, which are so entirely beyond our reach to comprehend.

To the Same.

ST. DAVID'S, July 19, 1879.

DEAR FRIEND,--After our long silence, if it was the duty of the ghost to speak first, I think it should have been me, who am twenty years nearer to being one than you are; but it would be hardly becoming in a ghost to be as funny as you are about Henry and the hot weather. A change has come now, and the dear little fellow may put as many questions as he will. It is certainly a very extraordinary season. I remember nothing quite so remarkable.