ORVILLE DEWEY.
To the Same.
June 15, 1880.
DEAR FRIEND,—To think of answering such a letter as yours of June 5th is too much for me, let alone the effort to do it. It seems absurd for me to have such a correspondent, and would be, if he were not of the dearest of friends. For its pith and keenness, I have read over this last letter two or three times. . . . I see that you won't come here in June. Don't try. That is, don't let my condition influence you. I shall probably, too probably, continue to live along for some time, as I have done. No pain, sound sleep, good [348] digestion,—what must follow from all this, I dread to think of. Only the weakness in my limbs—in the branches, so to say—admonishes me that the tree may fall sooner than I expect.
Love to all,
O. D.
To his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.
ST. DAVID'S, Oct. 13, 1880.
DEAREST SISTER,—Why do you tell me such "tells," when I don't believe a bit in them? However, I do make a reservation for my preaching ten years in New Bedford and ten in New York. They could furnish about the only "tells" in my life worth telling, if there were anybody to tell 'em. Nobody seems to understand what preaching is. George Curtis does his best two or three times a year. The preacher has to do it every Sunday.
I agree with you about Bryant's "Forest Hymn." I enjoy it more than anything he ever wrote, except the "Waterfowl."