sermon," you heard last Sunday, hey? And then went to the "Century" Rooms, to see the decorations of the Bryant Festival! It seems to me that was rather a queer thing to do, after sermon! You will have to write a letter to me immediately, to relieve my anxieties about your religious education. Was the text, "And they rose up early on the morrow and offered burnt sacrifices and brought peace offerings; and the people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play "? See the same, Exodus xxxii. 6. [276] There! I am not in deep waters, you see, but skimming on the surface, except when I subscribe myself your abused, scolded, but Faithful friend, ORVILLE DEWEY. My wife and people send their love and dire indignation to you. To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick. SHEFFIELD, Dec. 12, 1864. . . . It is not pleasant to think upon death. It would not be pleasant to any company of friends to think that the hour for parting was near. Death is a solemn and painful dispensation. I will have no hallucination about it. I "wait the great teacher, Death." I do not welcome it. It is a solemn change. It is a dread change to natures like ours. I do not believe that the Great Disposer meant that we should approach it with a smile, with an air of triumph,--with any other than feelings of lowly submission and trust. I do not want to die. I never knew anybody that did, except when bitter pain or great and irremediable unhappiness made the release welcome. And yet, I would not remain forever in this world. And thus, like the Apostle, "I am in a strait betwixt two." And I believe that it is better to depart; but it is a kind of reluctant conclusion. It may be even cheerful; but it does not make it easy for me to tear myself from all the blessed ties of life. I submit to God's awful will; but it is with a struggle of emotions, that is itself painful and trying,--that tasks all the fortitude and faith of which I am capable. [277] Will you tell me that our Christian masters and martyrs spoke of a "victory" over death? Yes, but is victory all joy? Ah, what a painful thing is every victory of our arms in these bloody battles, though we desire it! Do you feel that I am not writing to you in the high Christian strain? Perhaps not. But I confess I am accustomed to bring all that is taught me--all that is said in exceptional circumstances like those of the apostles-into some adjustment with a natural, necessary, and universal experience. Besides, Jesus himself did not approach death with a song of triumph upon his lips. What a union, in him, of sorrow and trust! No defying of pain, no boasting of calmness or strength, no braving of martyrdom,--not half so fine and grand, to a worldly and superficial view, as many a martyr's death! But oh, what a blending in him of everything that makes perfection,--of pain and patience, of trial and trust! But I am writing too long a letter for you to read. . . . K. just came into my study, and says, "Do give my love." I answer, "I give