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?