. . . 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 God, 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. Have you Professor Brown's "Life of Choate" by you? If you have, do read what he says of Walter Scott, in vol. i., from p. 204 on. I often turn to Scott's pages now, in preference to almost anything else, as I should to the old masters in painting. Good-by. Cold morning,--cold fingers,--cold everything, but my love for you and yours. ORVILLE DEWEY. [347] To the Same. ST. DAVID'S, April 14, 1880. MY DEAREST YOUNG FRIEND, --For three or four years I have thought your mind was having a new birth, and now it is more evident than ever. Everybody will tell you that your Newport word is not only finer than mine, but finer, I think, than anything else that has been said of Channing. The first part was grand and admirable; the last, more than admirable,--unequalled, I think. . . . Take care of yourself. Don't write too much. Your long, pleasant letter to me shows how ready you are to do it. May you live to enjoy the budding life around you. . . . My writing tells you that I shan't last much longer. Then keep fresh the memory of Your loving friend, ORVILLE DEWEY. To the Same. June 15, 1880.