I say, you won't come; for I have a letter from Mrs. Curtis, from which it is evident the will not, and so I suppose that laudable conspiracy falls to the ground. However, we shall sort o' look for you all the week. But you won't come. I know it to my fingers' ends. Cradled in luxury, wrapped in comfort, enervated by city indulgences, sophisticated by fashionable society--well, I won't finish the essay; but you won't come. Ah! speaking of fashionable society,--that reminds me,--you ask a question, and say, "Answer me." Well, then,--society we must have; and all the question I should have to ask about it would be whether it pleased me,--not whether everybody in it pleased me, but whether its general tone did not offend me, and then, whether I could find persons in it with whose minds I could have grateful and good intercourse. If I could, I don't think the word "fashion," or the word "world," would scare me. As to the time given to it, and the time to be reserved for weightier matters, that is, to be sure, very material. But the chief thing is a reigning spirit in our life, gained from communion with the highest thoughts and themes, which consecrates all time, and subordinates all events and circumstances, and hallows all intercourse, and turns the dust of life into golden treasures. I have no thoughts of going to New York or anywhere [222] else at present. I finished my eighth lecture yesterday. This is my poor service to the world in these days,-since you insist that I have relations to the world. I reciprocate Mr. Lane's kind wishes, and am, as ever, Yours, with no danger of forgetting, ORVILLE DEWEY. To Rev. William Ware. SHEFFIELD, July 3, 1851. DEAR GWYLLYM (is n't that Welsh for William?)--I don't know whether your letter with nothing in it, and the postage paid on the contents, is on the way to me; but I am writing to all my friends, to celebrate the Independence-day of friendship and to help the revenue, and not to write to you would be lese-majesty to love and law. Is it not a distinct mark higher up on the scale of civilization,--this cheap postage? The easier transmission of produce is accounted such a mark,--much more the easier transmission of thought. Transmission, indeed! When I had got so far, I was called away to direct Mr. P. about the sink. And do you know what directing a man is, in the country? Why, it is to do half the work yourself, and to take all the responsibility. And, in consequence of Mr. P., you won't get a bit better letter than you proposed to send. Where's your book? What are you doing? What do you think of your Miss Martineau now? Is n't the Seven Gables a subtile matter, both in thought and style? Have n't I said the truth about the much preaching? Some of the clergy, I perceive, say with heat that [223] preaching is not cold and dull. Better let the laity testify. There is Mr. P. again. Yours ever, ORVILLE DEWEY. To Rev. Henry W. Bellows. WASHINGTON, Dec. 11, 1851.