ir Walter, I think, than any writer of fiction abroad, and
in depth of religious sentiment goes very far beyond him. Now, I presume
that Washington Irving is acquainted with all these individuals; and
what I venture to ask is, whether, through your intervention, letters
can be obtained from him to any of them, and especially to the two
first.

Now I must make you comprehend how little I wish you to go out of your
way, or to put any constraint on yourself in the matter. I have none
of the passion for seeing celebrated men, merely as such. Those whose
writings have interested me, I do, of course, wish to see; but I am to
be too hasty a traveller to make it a great object to see them, or to
go very much out of my way for it. Above all, if you have the least
reluctance to ask this of Mr. Irving, you must allow me to impose it as
a condition of my request that you will not do it; or if Mr. Irving is
reluctant to give the letters, do not undertake to tell me so with
any circumlocution, for I understand all about the delicacy of these
Transatlantic connections. I only fear that the very length of this
letter will convey to you an undue impression of the importance which I
give to the subject of it. Pray construe it not so, but set it down as
one of the involuntary consequences of the pleasure I have in conversing
with you.

Very truly your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

[145] The letters, and every other advantage that the kindness of
friends could provide, were given him, and the mingled anticipations
with which he entered on his year of solitary exile were all fulfilled.
His enjoyment in the wonders of nature and of art, in society, and in
the charm of historical and romantic association which is the peculiar
pleasure to an American of travel in the Old World, was very great, and
the relief to his brain from the weekly pressure of original production
gave him ease for the present and hope for the future. But the year
was darkened for him by the death of his youngest sister, who had been
married the previous summer to Mr. Andrew L. Russell, of Plymouth,
and of his wife's brother, John Hay Farnham, of Indiana; and when
he returned home, three months' work convinced him that arduous and
prolonged mental labor was henceforth impossible for him. With deep
disappointment and sorrow, he resigned his charge at New Bedford, and
left the place and people which had been and always remained very dear
to him.

Few are left of those who