. . . I AM talking of myself, when I am thinking more of you, and how it is with you in these winter days, the [283] last of the year. I hope that they do not find you oppressed with weakness or suffering; and if they do not, I am sure that your spirit is alert and happy, and that the bright snow-fields and the lovely meteor of beauty that hangs in the air in such a morning as this was, are as charming to you as they ever were. It is-a delight to your friends to know that all things lovely are, if possible, more lovely to you than ever. Are there not bright rays shining through our souls,--streaming from the Infinite Light,--that make us feel that they are made to grow brighter and brighter forever? Ah! our confidence in immortality must be this feeling, and never a thing to be reasoned out by any logical processes. Jan. 1, 1866. I have stepped, you see, from the old year to the new. I wish all the good wishes to you, and take them from you in return as surely as if you uttered them. This year is to be momentous to us, if for no other reason, that K. is to be married. And we are to be no more together much, perhaps, in this world. It is an inconceivable wrench in my existence. This marrying is the cruellest thing; and it is a perfect wonder and mystery of Providence that parents give in to it as they do. To Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D. SHEFFIELD, Feb. 20, 666. MY DEAR FRIEND,--I wonder if you can understand how happy I am in my nook,--you who have so much of another sort of happiness, but not this, (no nook for you!) with my winter's task done, "with none to hurt nor destroy," that is, my time, "in all the holy [284] mountain," that is, the Taghkonic. Dear old Taghkonic,--quiet, happy valley,--blessed, undisturbed fireside,-what contrast could be greater than New York to all this! "Ahem! not so fast, my friend," say you; "other places are blessed and happy besides valleys and mountains." Yes, I know. And I confess my late experience inclines me to think that, for the mind's health and sharpening, cities are desirable places to be in, for a part of the year, notwithstanding all the notwithstandings. Of course, strong and collected thought works free and clear everywhere, or tends that way; but it did seem to me that the whirl of the great maelstrom left but few people in a condition to think, or to form well-considered opinions, or to meditate much upon anything. Yes, I know it,--"The mind is its own place," (nothing was ever better said), and it may be fretted and frittered away to nothing in country quiet, and it may be strong and calm and full in the city throng. . . . And more and more do I feel that this nature of mine is the deep ground-warrant for faith in God and immortality. Everywhere in the creation there is a proportion between means and ends,--between all natures and their destinies. And can it be that my soul, which, in its few days' unfolding, is already stretching ()LA its hands to God and to eternity, and which has all