e articles in the "Inquirer" as
"Communications." Some of them will have things in them that cannot
possibly be delivered as Wegotisms. Don't be stiff about the matter. I
tell you there is no other way; and indeed I think it no harm, but an
advantage, to diversify the form, and leave out the solemn and juridical
Wego sometimes, for the more sprightly and "sniptious" Ego.

To his Daughter Mary.

WASHINGTON, May, 1852.

DEAREST MOLLY,--To be sure, how could you? And, indeed, what did you
for? Oh! for little K.'s sake. Well, anything for little K.'s sake.
Indeed, it's the duty of parents to sacrifice themselves for their
children. It's the final cause of parents to mind the children. Poor
little puss! We shall feel relieved when we hear she is in New York,
and safe under the sisterly wing. I am afraid she is getting too big for
nestling. How I want to see the good little comfort! Is she little? Tell
us how she looks and does.

Yesterday, beside preaching a sermon more than half new, and attending a
funeral (out of the society), I read skimmingly more than half Nichol's
"Architecture of the Heavens." I laid aside the book overwhelmed. What
shall we do? What shall we think? Far from our [226] Milky Way,--there
they lie, other universes,--rebuke resolved by Rosse's telescope into
stars, starry realms, numerous, seemingly innumerable, and as vast as
our system; and yet from some of them it takes the light thirty--sixty
thousand years to come to us: nay, twenty millions, Nichol suggests,
I know not on what grounds. And yet in the minutest details such
perfection! A million of perfectly formed creatures in a drop of water!
I do not doubt that it is this overwhelming immensity of things that
leads some minds to find a sort of relief, as it were, in the idea of
an Infinite Impersonal Force working in all things. But it is a child's
thought. Nay, does not the very fact that my mind can take in so vast a
range of things lead me better to conceive of what the Infinite Mind can
do? An ant's mind, if it had one, might find it just as hard to conceive
of me.

With love to you two miserable creatures, away from your parents,

Thine ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

[Undated.]

What have I not written to you about, you cross thing? Oh! Kossuth.
Well, then, here is an immensely interesting person, whom we invited
over here to settle, and who is much more likely to unsettle us. How far
would you have him unsettle us? To the