rt of happiness, but not this,
(no nook for you!) with my winter's task done, "with none to hurt nor
destroy," that is, my time, "in all the holy [284] mountain," that is,
the Taghkonic. Dear old Taghkonic,--quiet, happy valley,--blessed,
undisturbed fireside,-what contrast could be greater than New York to
all this! "Ahem! not so fast, my friend," say you; "other places are
blessed and happy besides valleys and mountains." Yes, I know. And I
confess my late experience inclines me to think that, for the mind's
health and sharpening, cities are desirable places to be in, for a part
of the year, notwithstanding all the notwithstandings. Of course, strong
and collected thought works free and clear everywhere, or tends that
way; but it did seem to me that the whirl of the great maelstrom left
but few people in a condition to think, or to form well-considered
opinions, or to meditate much upon anything. Yes, I know it,--"The mind
is its own place," (nothing was ever better said), and it may be fretted
and frittered away to nothing in country quiet, and it may be strong and
calm and full in the city throng. . . . And more and more do I feel
that this nature of mine is the deep ground-warrant for faith in God and
immortality. Everywhere in the creation there is a proportion between
means and ends,--between all natures and their destinies. And can it be
that my soul, which, in its few days' unfolding, is already stretching
()LA its hands to God and to eternity, and which has all its being and
welfare wrapped up in those sublime verities, is made to strive and sigh
for them in vain, to stretch out its hands to--nothing? This day rises
upon us fair and beautiful,--the precursor, [285] I believe, of endless
days. If not, I would say with Job, "Let it be darkness; let not God
regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it; for darkness
and the shadow of death stain it." But what a different staining was
upon it this morning! As I looked out upon the mountain just before
sunrise, it showed like a mountain-rose blossoming up out of the
earth,--covered all over with the deepest rose-color. . . .

Ever your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

SHEFFIELD, March 12, 1866.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--I should like to know whether you propose, from
your own pen, to provide me with all my reading. Look which way I
will,--towards the "Inquirer," the "Monthly," or the "Examiner,"--and
H. W. B. is coming at me with an article, and som