then I blurted
it out,--I must say that it was with inward wrath and indignation that
I had listened to the essay, from beginning to end. There was a marked
sensation all round the circle; but I defended my opinion, and, to my
astonishment, all but two agreed with me."

The following winter he was invited to repeat his lectures in
Charleston, and passed some time there, accompanied by his family. In
March, 1856, he went with Mrs. Dewey to New Orleans, and, returning to
Charleston at the end of April, went home in June.

[237] To his Daughters.

ON BOARD THE "HENRY KING," ON THE

ALABAMA RIVER, March 18, 1856.

. . . Sum charming things cars are! No dirt,--no sp-tt-g, oh! no,--and
such nice places for sleeping! Not a long, monotonous, merely animal
sleep, but intellectual, a kind of perpetual solving of geometric
problems, as, for instance,--given, a human body; how many angles is it
capable of forming in fifteen minutes? or how many more than a crab
in the same time? And then, no crying children,--not a bit of
that,--singing cherubs, innocently piping,--cheering the dull hours with
dulcet sounds.

I write in the saloon, on this jarring boat, that shakes my hand and
wits alike. We are getting on very prosperously. Your mother bears the
journey well. This boat is very comfortable-for a boat; a good large
state-room, and positively the neatest public table I have seen in all
the South.

There! that'll do,--or must do. I thought wife would do the writing, but
I have "got my leg over the harrow," and Mause would be as hard to stop.

To Mrs. David Lane.

NEW ORLEANS, March 29, 1856.

DEAR FRIEND,--Yesterday I was sixty-two years old. After lecturing in
the evening right earnestly on "The Body and Soul," I came home very
tired, and sat down with a cigar, and passed an hour among the scenes of
the olden time. I thought of my father, when, a boy, I used to walk with
him to the fields. Something way-[238] ward he was, perhaps, in his
moods, but prevailingly bright and cheerful,--fond of a joke,--strong
in sense and purpose, and warm in affection,--steady to his plans, but
somewhat impulsive and impatient in execution. Where is he now? How
often do I ask! Shall I see him again? How shall I find him after
thirty, forty years passed in the unseen realm? And of my mother you
will not doubt I thought, and called up the scenes of her life: in the
mid-way of it, when she was so patient, and often weary in the care
of us a