s above, to be let; a million of people,
and nobody at home, in our American sense of the word; an infinite
boutiquerie, an infinite bonbonnerie, an infinite stir and movement,
and no deep moral impulse that I can see; a strange melange of the most
shallow levity in society, the most atrocious license in literature,
and the most savage liberalism in politics,--on the whole, what sort of
people is it?

He bien!-to come down from my high horse before I break my neck,--here
we are, at honest housekeeping; for we hope to pay the bills. Hope to
pay, did I say? We pay as we go; that is the only way here; no stores,
no larder, no bins, no garners,--the shops of [170] Paris are all
this to every family. Our greatest good-fortune here is in having the
Walshes for our next-door neighbors; and who should I find in Mrs. W.
but a very loving cousin and hearty admirer of yours? She wishes to
write a P. S. in my letter, and I am so happy to come to you in
such good company, as well as to enhance the value of my letter with
something better than I can write, that I very gladly give the space to
her. I am only sorry and ashamed that it is so little. And so, with all
our love to you all,

I am as ever yours,

ORVILLE DEWEY. To the Same.

CHAMPEL, NEAR GENEVA, July 18, 1842.

MY DEAR FELLOW AND FRIEND,--At the hour of midnight, with the moon
shining in at my open window, the sound of the rushing Arve in my
ears,--around me, a fine table of land a hundred feet above the stream
that washes its base, and covered with a hundred noble chestnuts, and
laid out with beautiful walks,--thus "being and situate," I take in hand
this abominable steel pen to write you. Envy me not, William Ware! Let
no man, that is well, envy him that is sick. If I were "lying and being
and situate," as the deeds have it, and as I ought to have it, I should
think myself an object of envy, that is, supposing I thought at all. No;
in this charmed land, and in every land where I go, I bear a burden of
diseased nerves which I might well exchange for the privilege of living
on the Isle of Shoals, could I but have the constitution of some of its
pechereux (by contraction, pesky) inhabitants.

. . . There has come a new day, and I have got a new [171] pen. Last
night I was too much awake; I got up from my bed and wrote in my
dressing-gown; to-day I am too much asleep. But allons, and see what
will come of it.

This morning we walked into Geneva to church, the air so