There is one comfort,—Unitarianism will succeed just as far as it is worthy of it,—and there are some forms of practical Unitarianism that ought not to meet with any favor in the world. If the whole mass becomes of this character, let it go down, till another wave of providence shall bring it up again.

But enough of this preaching: you think of all these things, and a thousand more, better than I can say them. I turn to your letter. Elder H., for whom you ask, is a very good man,-very friendly to me; but le is a terrible fanatic. He has Unitarian revivals that might match with any of them. It is a curious fact that the Christians, as they call themselves, Unitarian as they ire, form the most extravagant, fiery, fanatical sect in this country.

Mrs. Dewey desires very friendly regards to Mrs. Ware, of whose continued illness we are concerned to lean Let my kind remembrance be joined with my wife's, and believe me very truly,

Your friend and brother,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

NEW BEDFORD, Feb. 14, 1824.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I cannot repress the inclination to offer you my sympathy. I have often thought with [FN: Mrs. Ware died in the interval between those two letters she was the daughter of Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse, of Cambridge, Mass. In 1827 Mr. Ware was again married to Miss Mary Lovell Pickard.] [139] pain of what was coming upon you; and I fear, though long threatening, it has come at last with a weight which you could hardly have anticipated. May God sustain and comfort you! You are supported, I well know, while you are afflicted, in every recollection of what you lave lost. Surely the greatness of your trial argues the Kindness of Heaven, for it proves the greatness of the blessing you have enjoyed.

But, my dear sir, I will not urge upon you words which are but words, and touch not the terrible reality that occupies your mind. You want not the poor and old sayings of one who knows not—who cannot know—what you suffer. You need not the aids of reflection from me. But you need what, in common with your hands, I would invoke for you,—the aid, the consolation that is divine. God grant it to you,—all that affection can ask,—all that affliction can need,—prays

Your friend and brother,

O. DEWEY.

To Dr. Channing.

NEW BEDFORD, Oct. 16, 1827.

MY DEAR AND REVERED FRIEND,—Excuse me for calling you so; may the formalities and the English reserves excuse me too.

I have had two letters from New York, one from Mr. Sewall, and the other from Mr. Ware, which are so pressing as really to give me some trouble. Do say something to me on this subject, if you have anything to say. There certainly are many reasons, and strong as numerous, why I should not at present leave New Bedford,-why I should not take such a post. I cannot say I am made to doubt what I ought to do; but I have a fear lest [140] I should not do right, lest I should love my ease too well, lest it should be said to me in the other world, "A great opportunity, a glorious field was opened to you, and you did not improve it,"—lest, in other words, I should not act upon considerations sufficiently high, comprehensive, and disinterested,—fit, in short, for contemplation from the future world as well as from the present.

I do not write asking you to reply; for I do not suppose you have anything to say which you would not have suggested when I was with you. Indeed, I believe I write, as much as for anything, because I want to communicate with you about something, and this is uppermost in my mind.

Present my affectionate regards to Mrs. Channing and the children, and to Miss Gibbs.

Yours most affectionately,

O. DEWEY. To Rev. Henry Ware.

NEW BEDFORD, March 29, 1829.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I cannot let you go off without my blessing. I did not know of your purpose till last evening, or I should not have left myself to write to you in the haste of a few minutes snatched on Sunday evening, to say nothing of the aching nerves' and the misled hand that usually come along with it. By the by, I have a good mind to desire you to propose a year's exchange [for me] to somebody in England. If you meet with a man who is neither too good nor too bad, suppose you suggest it to him,—not as from me, however.

I should think that a man, in going to England, would feel the evil of belonging to a sect, unless that sect [141] embraced all the good and wise and gifted,—which can be said of no sect. The sectarianism of sects, however, is the bad thing. These are necessary; that is not necessary, but to human weakness. But fie upon discoursing to a man who is just stepping on shipboard! May it bear you safely! May it tread the mountain wave "as a steed that knows its rider," and is conscious of what it bears from us! My heart will go with you in a double sense; for I want to see England,—I want to see Italy, and the Alps, and the south of France. I don't know whether you intend to do all this; and I am very certain not to do any of it. I know that yours will not be a travelled heart, any more than Goldsmith's. Let me lay in my claim for as many of its kind thoughts as belong to me. But yet more, let me assure you, as the exigency demands, that for every one you have thus to render, I have five to give in return.

I believe you will not be sorry, at this time, that my lines and words are few and far between; for your leisure cannot serve to read many.

Mrs. D. desires her best wishes to you. We do not know whether Mrs. Ware goes with you, but hope she does.

I took my pen feeling as if I had not a word to say, but—God bless you! and that I say with all my heart. Write me from abroad if you can, but make no exertion to do so.

Yours as ever,

O. DEWEY.

To the Same.

NEW BEDFORD, Sep. 14, 1830,

DEAR WARE,—I write down the good old compellation here, not because I have anything in particular to say [142] to you, but just to assure myself in the agreeable conviction that you are again within sixty miles of me. When you get a little quiet, when matters have taken some form with you, when you have seen some hundreds of people, and answered some thousands of questions, then take your pen for the space of ten minutes, and tell me of your "whereabouts," and how your strength and spirits hold out, and what is the prospect.

I hope you will not disappoint me of the visit this autumn, for I want to talk the sun down and the stars up with you. I suppose you have tales enough for "a thousand and one nights." You have made friends here, moreover, even in Rome,—some by hearsay, and others who will be here probably in a fortnight or three weeks. Kind Mrs. Ware has admirers here. Think of that, sir! That while Mr. W. is spoken of only with a kind of reverence, the lady carries off all the charms and fascinations of epithet. But alas! Such is the hard fate of us of the wiser sex. There are other senses than Saint Paul's in which we may say, "Where I am weak, there am I strong."

Pray excuse the levity (specific) of this letter, on two rounds,—first, that I am very heavy, and should sink in any other vessel; and, secondly, that I cannot take in any of the weighty matters, because I have no room for them.

Mrs. Dewey joins me in the regards to you and Mrs. Ware, with which I am,

Most truly yours,

O. DEWEY.

In less than three years from this time the nervous suffering from overwork became so intense that Mr. Dewey was advised to go abroad [143] to obtain the absolute rest from labor that was impossible here.

To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.

SHEFFIELD, May 2, 1833.

My DEAR FRIEND,—I am about to go abroad. I have made up my mind to that huge, half pleasurable, half painful undertaking; or shall I say, rather, that both the pleasure and the pain come by wholes, and not by halves? The latter I feel as a domestic man, for I must go alone; the former I feel as a civilized man. Civilized, I say, for who that has the lowest measure of educated intelligence and sensibility can expect to tread all the classic lands of the world, Greece only excepted, without a thrill of delight?

If you should think that I had written thus much as claiming your sympathy in what so much interests me, and if you should think this without accusing me of presumption, I should be tempted, were I assured of the fact, to stop here, and to leave the matter on a footing so gratifying to my feelings. But I must not venture to take so considerable a risk, and must therefore hasten to tell you that what I have said is only a vestibule to something further.

Nor is the vestibule at all too large or imposing for the object, as I conceive it, to which it is to open the way; for I am about to ask through you, if you will consent and condescend to be the medium, a very considerable favor of a very distinguished man. Among many letters of introduction which I have received, it so happens, as they say in Parliament, that I can obtain none to certain persons that I want to see quite as much as any others [144] in Europe. None of our Boston gentlemen that I can find are acquainted with Professor Wilson, or Miss Ferrier, the author of "Inheritance," or Thomas Moore, or Campbell, or Bulwer. The "Noctes Ambrosianx," with other things, have made me a great admirer of Wilson; and Miss Ferriers (I don't know whether her name ends with s or not) I had rather see than any woman in Europe. She comes nearer to Sir 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 heard his first preaching there. One of his sisters says: "To me, brought up on the Orthodoxy of Berkshire, it was like a revelation, and I think it was much the same to the Quakers. Those views of life and human nature and its responsibilities that are common now, were new then, and the effect produced upon us all was most thrilling and solemn; and [146] when, service over, we passed out of the church, I remember there were very few words spoken,-a contrast to the custom nowadays of chatting and laughing at the door." I have heard others speak of the overwhelming pathos of his manner, and I asked the Rev. Dr. Morison, who came to New Bedford as a young man during the last years of our stay there, to put some of his personal remembrances on paper. In a note from him, dated Toth January, 1883, he says: "I have not forgotten my promise to send you some little account of your father's preaching in New Bedford. He was so great a man, uttering himself in his preaching, the sources of his power lay so deep, his words came to us so vitally connected with the most subtle and effective forces of the moral and spiritual universe, that I can no more describe him than I could a June day, in all its glory and beauty and its boundless resources of joy and life, to one who had never known it."

The following pages, which Dr. Morison was nevertheless kind enough to send, have touching value and beauty:

"More than half a century ago, in March, 1832, I went to New Bedford, and, for nearly a year, was a constant attendant at Mr. Dewey's church. During that year he preached most of the sermons contained in the first volume that he published. As we read them, they are among the ablest and most impressive sermons in the language. But when read now they give only a slight idea of what they were as they came to us then, all [147] glowing and alive with the emotions of the preacher. When he walked through the church to the pulpit, his head swaying backward and forward as if too heavily freighted, his whole bearing was that of one weighed down by the thoughts in which he was absorbed and the solemn message which he had come to deliver. The old prophetic 'burden of the Lord' had evidently been laid upon him. Some hymn marked by its depth of religious feeling was read. This was followed by a prayer, which was not the spontaneous, easy outflowing of calmly reverential feelings, but the labored utterance of a soul overawed and overburdened by emotions too strong for utterance. There was sometimes an appearance almost of distress in this exercise, so utterly inadequate, as it seemed to him, were any words of his to express what lay deepest in his mind, when thus brought face to face with God. 'I do not shrink,' he said, 'from speaking to man.' But, except in his rarest and best moments, he was oppressed by a sense of the poverty of any language of thanksgiving or supplication that he could use in his intercourse with God."

"His manner in preaching was marked by great depth and strength of feeling, but always subdued. He spoke on great subjects. He entered profoundly into them, and treated them with extraordinary intellectual ability and clearness. They who were seeking for light found it in his preaching. But more than any intellectual precision or clearness of thought was to be gained from him in his treatment of the momentous questions which present themselves, sooner or later, to every thoughtful mind. Behind these questions, more important than any one or all of them intellectually considered, was the realm of thought, emotion, aspiration, out of which [148] religious ideas are formed, and in which the highest faculties of our nature are to find their appropriate nourishment and exercise. He spoke to us as one who belonged to this higher world. The realm in which he lived, and which seemed never absent from his mind, impressed itself as he spoke, and gave a deeper solemnity and attractiveness to his words than could be given by any specific and clearly-defined ideas. A sense of mystery and awe pervaded his teachings, and infused into his utterances a sentiment of divine sacredness and authority. He preached as I never, before or since, have heard any one else, on human nature, on retribution, on the power of kindness, on life and death, in their relations to man and to what is divine. He stood before us compassed about by a religious atmosphere which penetrated his inmost nature, and gave its tone and coloring to all he said. For he spoke as one who saw rising visibly before him the issues of life and of death."

"He was gifted with a rare dramatic talent. But it was a gift, not an art, and showed itself in voice and gesture as by the natural impulse of a great nature profoundly moved, and in its extremest manifestations so subdued as to leave the impression of a vast underlying reserved force. His action, so full of meaning and so effective, was no studied or superficial movement of hand and voice, but the action of the whole man, body and soul, all powerfully quickened and moved from within by the living thoughts and emotions to which he was giving utterance."

"I have heard many of the greatest orators of our time. But, with the exception of Daniel Webster and Dr. Channing in their highest moments, Mr. Dewey was the most [149] eloquent man among them all, and that not once or twice, on great occasions, but Sunday after Sunday, forenoon and afternoon, for months together."

"Some allowance should perhaps be made for the state of mind and the period of life in which I heard him. I had just come from college, where the intellect had been cultivated in advance of the moral and religious faculties. The equilibrium which belongs to a perfectly healthy and harmonious nature was disturbed, and, as a necessary consequence of this unbalanced and distempered condition, there was a deep inward unrest, and a craving for something,—the greatest of all,—which had not yet been attained. Mr. Dewey's preaching came in just at this critical time, and it was to me the opening into a new world. The hymn, the prayer, the Scripture reading, usually brought me into a reverent and plastic state of mind, ready to receive and be moulded by the deepest and loftiest Christian truths. From the beginning to the end of the sermon I was under the spell which he had thrown over me, and unconscious of everything else. Very seldom during my life, and then only for a few minutes at a time, has any one, by his eloquence, exercised this absorbing and commanding influence over me. Once or twice in hearing Dr. Channing I felt as I suppose the prophet may have felt when he heard 'the still small voice,' at which 'he wrapped his face in his mantle,' and listened as to the voice of God. A few such experiences I have had with other men; but with Mr. Dewey more than with all others. And when the benediction was pronounced, I wished to go away and be by myself in the new world of spiritual ideas and emotions into which I had been drawn. Those were to me great experiences, [150] inwrought into the inmost fibres of my nature, and always associated in my mind with Mr. Dewey's preaching."

"Nor were these experiences peculiar to any one person. The audience as a whole were affected in a similar manner. A deep solemnity pervaded the place. There was not merely silence, but the spell of absorbed attention that makes itself felt, and spreads itself as by a general sympathy through a congregation profoundly moved by great thoughts filled out and made alive by deep and uplifting emotions. The exercises in the church were often followed by lasting convictions. The Sunday's sermon was the topic, not of curious discussion or indiscriminate eulogy, but of serious conversation among the young, who looked forward to the coming Sunday as offering privileges which it would be a misfortune to lose. The services of the church were remembered and anticipated as the most interesting and important event of the week."

"I shall never cease to think with gratitude of Mr. Dewey's preaching. In common with other great preachers of our denomination,—Dr. Channing, for example, Dr. Nichols, and Dr. Walker,—he spoke as one standing within the all-encompassing and divine presence. He awakened in us a sense of that august and indefinable influence from which all that is holiest and best must come. He brought us into communication with that Light of life. He showed us how our lives, our thoughts, and even our every-day acts, may be sanctified and inspired by it, as every plant and tree is not only illuminated by the sun but vitally associated with it."

"If, in the light of later experience, I were to criticise [151] the preaching I then heard, I should say that it was too intense. The writing and the delivery of such sermons subjected the preacher to too severe a strain both of body and mind. No man could go on preaching in that way, from month to month, without breaking down in health. And it may be questioned whether a mind acting under so high a pressure is in the best condition to take just views, to preserve its proper equipoise, or to impart wise and healthful instruction. The stimulus given may be too strong for the best activity of those who receive it. They whose sensitive natures are most deeply affected by such an example may, under its influence, unconsciously form an ideal of intellectual attainments too exacting, and therefore to them a source of weakness rather than of strength."

"The danger lies in these directions. But Mr. Dewey's breadth of apprehension, his steadfast loyalty and devotion to the truth, the judicial impartiality with which he examined the whole field before making up his mind, saved him from one-sided or ill-balanced conclusions. And the intense action of all the faculties not only enables a man of extraordinary intellectual powers to impress his thought on others and infuse his very soul into theirs; but it also, as we see in the best work of Channing, Dewey, and Emerson, opens to them realms of thought which otherwise might never have been reached, and gives to them glimpses of a divine love and splendor never granted to a less earnest and passionate devotion."

In the autumn of 1835 Mr. Dewey was settled over the Second Unitarian Church in New York, trusting to his stock of already written discourses [152] to save him from a stress of intellectual labor too severe for his suffering brain, which was never again to allow him uninterrupted activity in study. When his life-work is viewed, it should always be remembered under what difficulties it was carried on. It was work that taxed every faculty to the uttermost, while the physical organ of thought had been so strained by over-exertion at the beginning of his professional career, owing to a general ignorance of the bodily laws even greater then than it is now, that the use of it during the rest of his life was like that which a man has of a sprained foot; causing pain in the present exercise, and threatening far worse consequences, if the effort is continued. Fortunately, his health in all other respects was excellent, and his spirits and courage seldom flagged. I remember him as lying much on the sofa in those days, and liking to have his head "scratched" by the hour together, with a sharp-pointed comb, to relieve by external irritation the distressing sensation's, which he compared to those made, sometimes by a tightening ring, sometimes by a leaden cap, and sometimes (but this was in later life) by a dull boring instrument. Yet he was the centre of the family life, and of its merriment as well; and his strong social instincts and lively animal spirits made him full of animation and vivacity in society, although he was soon tired, and with a nervous restlessness undoubtedly the effect of disease, never wanted to stay long in any company. [153] He preached a sermon after the great fire in New York, in December, 1835, which drew forth the following letter from Mr. Henry Ware:—

CAMBRIDGE, Jan. 15, 1836.

DEAR FRIEND,—I must acknowledge your sermon,-you made me most happy by it. It was so true, so right, so strongly and movingly put; it was the word that ought to be said, the word in season. My feeling was: God Almighty be praised for sending that man there to speak to that great and mighty city, and to interpret to it his providence. You cannot but feel gratitude in being appointed to be such an instrument; and I trust that you are to be used much and long, and for great good. Keep yourself well and strong; look on yourself as having a message and a mission, and live for nothing else but to perform it.

I happen to have found out, very accidentally, what is always the most secret of undiscoverable secrets,—that you are asked to preach the Dudleian Lecture. Do not let anything hinder you. We want you: you must come; do not hesitate; and, mind, I speak first, to have you come and house it with me while you are in Cambridge. Pray, deny me not.

Shall I tell you? Your sermon made me cry so that I could not finish reading it, but was obliged to lay it down. Not from its pathos,—but from a stronger, higher, deeper, holier something which it stirred up. I am almost afraid for you when I think what a responsibility lies on you for the use of such powers. May He that gave them give you grace with them! Love to you and yours, and all peace be with you. Yours ever,

H. WARE, JR.

[154] In the same year he addressed a letter to Emerson, who, as a cousin of his wife, was well known to him from the first. The familiarity of the opening recalls what he said in writing of him many years after: "Waldo, we always called him in those days, though now all adjuncts have dropped away from the shining name of Emerson."

To Ralph Waldo Emerson.

BOSTON, May 13, 1836.

DEAR WALDO,—I felt much disappointed when, on going to Hancock Place the third time, I found that you had gone to Concord; for I was drawn to you as by a kind of spell. I wanted to see you, though it seemed to me that I could not speak to you one word. I can do no more now,—I am dumb with amazement and sorrow; [FN] and yet I must write to you, were it only to drop a tear on the page I send. Your poor mother! I did not know she had come with you. Miss Hoar 2 I do not know, and will intrude no message; but I think of her more than many messages could express. My dear friend, I am as much concerned for you as for any one. God give you strength to comfort others! Alas! we all make too much of death. Like a vase of crystal that fair form was shattered,—in a moment shattered! Can such an event be the catastrophe we make it?

[FN: This letter was called forth by the sudden death of Charles Chauncey Emerson, a younger brother of Ralph Waldo Emerson, and one of the noblest young men of America.]

[FN: Miss Hoar was betrothed to Charles Emerson.]

[155] I preached to-day at Chauncey Place [FN 1]. I will copy a passage. (I have not space to give the connection.)

"There stood once where now I stand, a father,—I knew him not, but to some of you he was known,—who, ere his children were twined up for life, was called to leave them, but whose fair example and fervent prayer visited them, and dwelt among them, and helped, with much kindly nurture, to form them to learning, virtue, honor, and to present them to the world a goodly band of brothers. And say not, because one and another has fallen on the threshold of life,—fallen amidst the brightest visions and most brilliant promises of youth,—that it is all in vain; that parental toils and cares and prayers are all in vain. There is another life, where every exalted power trained here shall find expansion, improvement, and felicity. [Those sons of the morning, who stand for a moment upon the verge of this earthly horizon amidst the first splendors of day, and then vanish away into heaven, as if translated, not deceased, seem to teach us, almost by a sensible manifestation, how short is the step and how natural is the passage from earth to heaven.][FN 2] They almost open heaven to us, and they help our languid efforts to reach it, by the most powerful of all earthly aids,—the memory of admired and loved virtues. Yes, the mingled sorrow and affection which have swelled many hearts among us within the last week, tell me that the excellence we have lost has not lived in vain. Precious memory of early [156] virtue and piety! and such memories, and more than one such, there are among you. Hold these bright companions ever dear, my young friends; embalm their memory in the fragrant breath of your love; follow them with the generous emulation of virtue; let the seal which death has set upon excellence stamp it with a character of new sanctity and authority; let not virtue die and friendship mourn in vain!"

[FN 1: The church formerly ministered to by the Rev. William Emerson, the father of these rare sons.]

[FN 2: This letter is taken from a copy, not the original; and the meaning of the brackets is uncertain. Probably, however, the passage which they enclose is a quotation.]

Remember me with most affectionate sympathy to your mother, and Aunt Mary, and to Dr. Ripley.

With my kind regards to your wife, I am, dear Waldo, in love and prayer, yours,

O. DEWEY.

Everybody mourns with you. Dr. Channing said yesterday, "I think Massachusetts could not have met with a greater loss than of that young man."

Mr. Emerson's letter in reply is beautiful in itself, and has the added interest attaching now to every word of his:—

CONCORD, May 23, 1836,

MY DEAR SIR,—I received the last week your kind letter, and the copy of your affectionate notice of Charles A Chauncey Place. I remember how little while ago you consoled us by your sympathy at Edward's departure,—a kind, elevating letter, which I have never acknowledged. I feel as if it was kind, even compassionate, to remember me now that these my claims of remembrance are gone.

Charles's mind was healthy, and had opened steadily with a growth that never ceased from month to month [157] under favorable circumstances. His critical eye was so acute, his rest on himself so absolute, and his power of illustrating his thought by an endless procession of fine images so excellent, that his conversation came to be depended on at home as daily bread, and made a very large part of the value of life to me. His standard of action was heroic,—I believe he never had even temptations to anything mean or gross. With great value for the opinion of plain men, whose habits of life precluded compliment and made their verdict unquestionable, he held perhaps at too low a rate the praise of fashionable people,—so that he steadily withdrew from display, and I felt as if nobody knew my treasure. Meantime, like Aaron, "he could speak well." He had every gift for public debate, and I thought we had an orator in training for the necessities of the country, who should deserve the name and the rewards of eloquence. But it has pleased God not to use him here. The Commonwealth, if it be a loser, knows it not; but I feel as if bereaved of so much of my sight and hearing.

His judgment of men, his views of society, of politics, of religion, of books, of manners, were so original and wise and progressive, that I feel—of course nobody can think as I do—as if an oracle were silent.

I am very sorry that I cannot see you,—did not when we were both in Boston. My mother and brother rejoice in your success in New York, and I with them. They have had their part in the benefit. I hear nothing of the aching head, and hope it does not ache. . . . Cannot I see you in Concord during some of your Boston visits? I will lay by every curious book or letter that I can think might interest you. My cousin Louisa, I know, would be glad to see this old town, and the old [158] man at the parsonage whilst he is yet alive. My mother joins me in sending love to her.

Yours affectionately,

R. WALDO EMERSON.

Mr. Dewey's mind was too logical in its methods for entire intellectual sympathy with Mr. Emerson; but that he thoroughly appreciated his spiritual insight is shown by the following passage from a manuscript sermon on Law, preached 13th August, 1868, on the occasion of the earthquake of that year in South America: "But the law [of retribution] does stand fast. Nothing ever did, ever shall, ever can escape it. Take any essence-drop or particle of evil into your heart and life, and you shall pay for it in the loss, if not of gold or of honor, yet of the finest sense and the finest enjoyment of all things divinest, most beautiful and most blessed in your being. I know of no writer among us who has emphasized this fact, this law, more sharply than Waldo Emerson, and I commend his pages to you in this view. Freed from all conventionalism, whether religious or Scriptural, though he has left the ranks of our faith, yet he has gone, better than any of us, to the very depth of things in this matter."

To Rev. William Ware.

NEW YORK, Nov. 7, 1836.

MY DEAR WARE,—Shall I brood over my regrets in secret, or shall I tell you of them? I sometimes do not care whether any human being knows what is passing in [159] me; and then again my feelings are all up in arms for sympathy, as if they would take it by storm. I declare I have a good deal of liking for that other,—that sullenness, or sadness, or what you will; it is calmer and more independent. So I shall say nothing, only that I miss you even more than I expected.' Never, in all this great city, will a face come through my door that I shall like to see better than yours,—I doubt if so well.

The next nearest thing to you is Furness's book. Have you got it? Is it not charming? It is a book of beauty and life. Spots there are upon it,—they say there are upon the sun. Certes, there are tendencies to naturalism in Furness's mind which I do not like,—do not think the true philosophy; but it is full of beauty, and hath much wisdom in it too.

I write on the gallop. My dinner is coming in three minutes, and a wagon is coming after that to carry me to Berkshire, that is, by steamboat to Hudson as usual. But I am going to send this, though it be worth nothing but to get a letter from you.

If letters, like dreams, came from the multitude of business, I should write of nothing but that tragedy extempore,-for I am sure it was got up in a minute,-the argument whereof was your running away. It positively is the staple of conversation. And I think it is rather hard upon me, too. I am here; but that seems to go for nothing. All their talk is of your going away,—running away, I say,—desertion,—and help yourself if you can. . . .

My love to Henry Ware, and the love of me and mine to you and yours.

Yours ever,

O. DEWEY.

[See p. 86.]

[160] To the Same.

NEW YORK, Dec. 1, 1836.

MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM,—For a prince you are in letter-writing, and you can call me Lord Orville, for I have a birthright claim to that title.' Excuse this capricole of my pen; it has been drawing hard enough at a sermon all the morning, and can't help cutting a caper when it is let out. You won't get the due return for your good long letter this time, nor ever, I think. I am taking comfort in the good long letters that are going with mine, and of whose sending by this conveyance I am the cause.

This conveyance is Miss Searle; and if you and Mrs. Ware don't cultivate her, or let her cultivate you, your folly will be inconceivable.

Mrs. Jameson I have missed two or three chances of seeing,—very bright sometimes, and very foolish others; but who shall resist such intoxicating draughts as have for some years been offered to her! She set off for Canada yesterday, going for her husband, since he could n't or would n't come for her.

Ingham has just finished one of the most exquisite portraits of Miss Sedgwick that eye ever saw. Did you see anything of it before you went?

Furness ['s book] is selling much, and I hear nothing but admiration, save the usual quaver in the song about the part on miracles. Apropos, . . . I think that the explication of the miracles must be a moot and not a test point, and I would not break with the [161] "Christian Examiner" upon it; and yet I think the heterodox opinions of Ripley should have come into it in the shape of a letter, and not of a review. It is rather absurd to say "We" with such confidence, and that for opinions in conflict with the whole course of the "Examiner" and the known opinions of almost all its supporters. . . .

[FN He was named after Lord Orville, the hero of Miss Burney's "Evelina," which his mother had read with delight shortly before his birth.]

Yours forever and a day,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

NEW YORK, May. 2, 1837.

. . . A WEEK ago to-day I sat down at my desk, spread before me a sheet of paper, grasped my pen energetically, and had almost committed myself for a letter to you, when suddenly it occurred to me that Mrs. Schuyler was in Boston, and would have told you just what it was my special design to write; that is, all about the congregation of the faithful in Chambers Street. Well, I suppose she has; but I shall have my say. The congregation has certainly not improved, as you seem, in your preposterous modesty, to suppose, but suffered by your leaving it. The attendance, I should think, is about the same. . . . But I am afraid that the society is gradually losing strength.

I have been preaching some Sunday-evening sermons to the merchants. Have n't you heard of them? And if you have n't, do you pretend that Brookline is a place? Take my word, Sir, that it is not to be found on the map of the world,—not known either to the ancients or the moderns. You are not in existence, Sir, take my word [162] for it, if you have not heard of these crowded, listening, etc. assemblies at the Mercer Street Church. Well, really, I have seen a packed audience there, and even the galleries pretty well filled. I have thoughts of publishing the discourses (only three, more than an hour long, however), and if I could only write three more, I would; but my brain got into a pretty bad condition by the third week, and I don't know whether I can go On at present.

To the Same.

NEW YORK, March 27, 1837.

MY DEAR WARE,—I should like to know what you mean by not letting me hear from you these three months. Do you not know that you are in my debt for a letter at least twenty lines long, which it took me three minutes to write? And three minutes and twenty lines, in this Babel, are equal to one hour and two sheets in Brookline. Do you not know that everybody is saying, "When have you heard from Mr. Ware?" Do you not know that ugly and choking weeds will spring up on the desolation you have made here if you do not scatter some flower-seeds upon it? Consider and tremble. Or, respect this and repent, as the Chinese say.

Well, Dr. Follen is to be here for a twelvemonth, and we shall not get you back again,—oh me!

Dr. Follen has quite filled the church at some evening lectures on Unitarianism. Good! and everything about him is good, but that he comes after you. [163]

To the Same.

NEW YORK, July 10, 1837.

MY DEAR WARE,—I can scarcely moderate my expressions to the tone of wisdom in telling you how much pleasure I have had in reading your book,—how much I am delighted with you and for you. There is no person to whom I would more gladly have had the honor fall of writing the "Letters from Palmyra." And it is a distinction that places your name among the highest in our—good-for-nothing—literature, as the Martineau considers it. By the bye, you need n't think you are a-going to stand at the head of everything, as she will have it. Have not I written a book too, to say nothing of the names less known of Channing, Irving, Bryant, etc.? And, by the bye, again, speaking of the Martineau, she is a woman of one idea,—takes one view, that is, and knows nothing of qualification,—and hence is opinionated and confident to a degree that I think I never saw equalled. Julia, Fausta, nay, Zenobia, for me, rather. How beautifully have you shown them up! And Gracchus and Longinus as nobly. What things is literature doing to gratify ambition,—things beyond its proudest hope! How little thought Zenobia that her character, two thousand years after she lived, would be illustrated by the genius of a clime that she dreamed not of!

My love and congratulations to your wife; my love and envy to you.

O. DEWEY.

[164] To the Same.

NEW YORK, May 13, 1838.

MY DEAR WARE,—Brother Pierpont has preached finely for me this morning, and is to do so again this evening; and for this I find myself indirectly indebted to you. But you are one of those to whom I can't feel much obligation—for the love I bear you.

I wrote to you three weeks ago. I hope Mrs. Ware is patient and sustained. Of you I expect it. But, O heaven! what a world of thought does it take even to look on calamity!

Your name is abroad in the world as it should be. I rejoice. Pierpont is now sitting by me, reading the London and Westminster article on "Zenobia, or the Fall of Palmyra." I am glad you have altered the title. We are looking for the sequel.

The next letter describes some of the difficulties of a journey from Berkshire to New York forty years ago. The route by Hartford was probably chosen instead of the ordinary one by Hudson, to take advantage of the new railroad between that city and New Haven.

To his W.

NEW YORK, February 5, 1841.

I PRAY you to admire my style of writing February. Began to write July, but the truth is, I nearly lost my wits on my journey. Twelve or thirteen mortal hours in getting to Hartford [FN: Fifty miles]. After two or three hours, called [165] up, just when the sleep had become so profound that on being waked I could not, for some seconds, settle it on what hemisphere, continent, country, or spot of the creation I was, nor why I was there at all. Then whisked away in the dark to the science-lighted domes of New Haven, but did n't see them—for why? I was asleep as I went through to the wharf. From the wharf, pitched into the steamboat, not having the points of compass, nor the time of day, nor the zenith and nadir of my own person. After two previous months of quiet, the whirl-about made me feel very "like an ocean weed uptorn And loose along the world of waters borne." If not a foundered weed, a very dumfoundered one at least.

To Rev. William Ware.

SHEFFIELD, Feb. 15, 1841.

How glad I am you wrote to me, my dear W. Is n't that a queer beginning? But there are people who say that everything natural is beautiful, and I am sure that first line was as natural as the gushing out of a fountain; for the very sight of your handwriting was as a sunbeam in a winter's day. By the bye, speaking of sunbeams, they certainly do wonders in winter weather. Have you ever seen such blue depths, or depths of blue, in the mountains, that it seemed as if the very azure of the sky had fallen and lodged in their clefts and leafless trees? Yesterday I was looking towards our barn roofs covered with snow,—and you know they are but six rods off,—and so deep was the color that I thought for the moment it was the blue of the distant horizon. [166] Our friend Catherine Sedgwick, writing to me a day or two ago, speaks in raptures of it. She says it is like the haze over Soracte or Capri.

So you see my paragraph has led me from winter to summer. Summer is gone to New York a week since. No doubt it will produce beautiful flowers in due time, many of them culled from far distant lands, but most of them native, I ween. Foreign seeds, you know, can do nothing without a good soil. In truth, I am looking with great interest for Catherine Sedgwick's book.

"Hard work to write." Yes, terribly hard it has been for me these two years past; but when I am vigorous, I like it. However, the pen is ever, doubtless, a manacle to the thought; draws it out, if you please, but makes a dragging business of it. By the bye, is your laziness making an apology for not finishing "Scenes in Judea "? Hear a compliment of my mother's for your encouragement. "I should think the man that could write the Letters from Palmyra,'—anything so beautiful and so powerful too" (her very words),—"could write anything."

I am delighted to hear of Mr. Farrar's being better. Give my love to them, and tell him I know of nothing in the world I could near with more pleasure than of his improvement. What a beautiful, gentle, precious spirit he is!

Yes, I grant you all about Cambridge; and if I don't go abroad, perhaps we will come and live with you a year or two. Something I must do; I get no better.

I can't guess your plaguy charade. I never thought of one a minute before, and I have ruminated upon yours an hour. [167] Oh that you were my colleague, or I yours, as you please!

With our love to your wife and children,

I am as ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Dr. Channing.

NEW YORK, Sept. 30, 1841.

MY DEAR SIR,—I cannot go away for two years without taking leave of you. I wish I could do so by going to see you. But my decision to go is not more than three weeks old, and the intervening time has been overwhelmed with cares. Among other things, I have been occupied with printing a volume of sermons. I feel as if it were a foolish thing to confess, but I imagined that I had something to say about "human life" (that is my subject), though I warrant you will find it little enough. But then, you are accustomed to say so much better things than the rest of us, that you ought to distrust your judgment.

I sail for Havre on the 8th October with my family.

I am extremely glad to learn from Mrs. G. that your health is so good, and that you pass some time every day with your pen in hand. The world, I believe, is to want for its guidance more powerful writing, during twenty years to come, than it has ever wanted before, or will again, and I hope you will be able to do your part. Perhaps this is speaking more oracularly than becomes my ignorance; but it does appear to me that the civilized world is on the eve of a change and a progress, putting all past data at fault, and outstripping all present imagination. What questions are to arise and to be [168] hotly agitated about human rights, social position, lawful government, and the laws that are to press man down or to help him up? What Brownsons and Lamennais' and Strauss' are to come upon the stage, and to be confronted with sober and earnest reasoning?

But I did not think to put my slender finger into such great matters, but only to say adieu! If you would write me while abroad, you know it would give me great pleasure.

With my most kind and affectionate regards to Mrs. Channing, and my very heart's good wishes and felicitations to M., I am as ever,

Very truly your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. William Ware.

PARIS, Dec. 25, 1841.

MY DEAR FELLOW,—You see how I begin; truth is, I feel more like writing a love-letter to you than a letter about affairs, or matters, or things; for have you not been my fellow more than anybody else has been? Have we not lived and labored together, have I not been in your house as if it were my own, and have you not come into my study many a time and oft, as little disturbing my thought, and seeming as much to belong there, as any sunbeam that glided into it? And furthermore, is not this anniversary time not only a fellowship season for all Christian souls, but especially a reminder to those who have walked to the house of God in company?

Still, however, it is of affairs that I have felt pressed to write you ever since I left home,—indeed, ever since I received your letter from Montreal. I have felt [169] that I ought at least to tell you that I see no prospect of doing anything that you desire of me. When I shall be able to address myself to any considerable task again, I know not. At present I am lying quite perdu. I have lost all faculty, but to read French histories, memoirs, novels, periodicals, etc., and to run after this great show-world of Paris,—Louvre, gallery, opera, what not. I am longing to get behind these visible curtains, and to know the spirit, character, manner of being, of this French people. At present all is problem to me. No Sunday, literally no cessation of labor, no sanctity of domestic ties with multitudes, no honesty or truth (it is commonly reported), but courtesy, kindness, it seems, and a sort of conventional fidelity,—for instance, no stealing; a million of people here, but without either manufactures or commerce on a great scale; petit manufacture, petit trade, petit menage, petit prudence unexampled, and the grandest tableaux of royal magnificence in public works and public grounds to be seen in the world; the rez-au-chaussee (ground floor) of Paris, a shop; all the stories 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 clear that it seemed as if we could count every tile on the houses. The chimneys are crowned with a forest of tin pipes, twisted in every direction to carry off smoke. At dusky eve, in a superstitious time, a man, coming suddenly upon the town, might think that an army of goblins had just alighted upon its roofs. . . . What stupendous things do ages accumulate upon every spot where they have passed! Every time we go into town we pass by the very place where Servetus was burned. And Geneva is old enough to have seen Julius Caesar!

. . . Here's another new day, William; and I wish I were a new man. But the heavens are bright, and the air so clear that I can define every man's patch of vineyard and farm on the Jura, ten miles off; every fissure and seam on Saleve, two miles back of us; and through a gap in the Saleve, I do not doubt, were I to go out on the grounds, I could see the top of Mont Blanc. And yet lay one or two ounces' weight on a man's brain, and a tackle, standing on the Jura, Saleve, and Mont Blanc together, can't lift him up. You see, I am resolved you shan't envy me. However, not to be too lugubrious, I am improving; that is, the paroxysms of this trouble are less severe, though I am far from being relieved of the burden.

But it is time I turn to your letter, which I received here with Henry's, on the 12th June. Thank him, for I cannot write you both now. Much news he gave me; [172] but how much that was distressing, and that concerning himself most of all. What is to become of our churches? And what is he to do? It relieves me very much to hear that Gannett's case is no worse. My love and sympathy to him when you see him. Is he not one of our noblest and most disinterested, as well as ablest men,—nay, as an extemporaneous speaker, unrivalled among us? . . .

To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.

CHAMPEL, NEAR GENEVA, July 13, 1842.

MY DEAR FRIEND,-The public prints have doubtless relieved me from what I should consider a most painful duty,—that of announcing to you the death of your friend Sismondi! He died on the 25th of last month. I saw Mme. Sismondi yesterday, and she desired me to tell you particularly that she must defer writing to you some little time; that she did not feel that she could write now, especially in a way to give you any comfort. She thought it was better that I should announce it to you, not seeming to be aware that the death of her husband is one of the events that the newspapers soon carry through the world. Indeed, the modesty of Sismondi and his wife is one of the things in them that has most struck me. Mme. S. said yesterday, in speaking of the commencement of your friendship, that "Sismondi was so grateful to her for finding him out." And Sismondi, when I saw him on my arrival, in expressing to me his regret and concern that it was so long since he had heard from you, said he knew that you had many letters to write, etc.; as if that could be the reason why you did not write to him! Well, there is more modesty in the world than we think, I verily believe. [173]. . . Speaking of her husband, Mme. S. said: "Of his acquisitions and powers, I say nothing; but it was such a heart,—there never was such a heart!"

I ought to add, while speaking of Mme. S., since we owe it all to you, that her reception of us was the kindest possible. She brought us all, children and all, to her house immediately to pass an evening, and indeed took all our hearts by storm,—if that can be said of a creature so gentle and modest. . . .

I wrote the foregoing this morning. At dinner-time your letter of June 12 came, which, with several others, has so turned my head, that I don't know whether it is morning or afternoon. We are conscious, "at each remove," of dragging "the lengthening chain," but we do not know exactly how heavy or how strong it is, till some one lays a hand on the other end. The lightest pressure there!—you know how it is when some one steps on the end of a long string which a boy draws after him. God bless you!—it was in my heart to say no less,—for thinking it is a long time. . . . We read and walk and talk and laugh, and sometimes sigh. Switzerland has no remedy against that. Of myself I have nothing to say that is worth the saying. I am improving somewhat, but I am suffering much and almost continually, and as yet I recover no energy for work.

To Rev. Henry W Bellows.

FLORENCE, ITALY, Nov. 24, 1842.

. . . It is now a fortnight or more since the overwhelming news came to us of the death of Channing. During this time my mind has been passing through steps of gradual approximation to the reality, but never did it [174] find, or else voluntarily interpose, so many barriers between itself and reality as in this most deplorable event. There are losses which I should more acutely feel than the loss of Channing; because friendship with him lacked, I imagine, in all who enjoyed it, those little familiarities, those fonder leanings, which leave us, as it were, bewildered and utterly prostrate when the beloved object is gone. But there is here a sense of general and irreparable loss, such as the people of a realm might be supposed to feel when its cherished head is suddenly taken away. For I suppose that no person sustained so many and such vital relations to the whole republic of thought, to the whole realm of moral feeling among us, as this, our venerated teacher and friend. To call him "that great and good man," does not meet the feeling we have about him. Familiar to almost nobody, he was near to everybody. His very personality seems to have been half lost in the sense of general benefit. He was one of those great gifts of God, like sunlight or the beauty of nature, which we scarcely know how to live without, or in the loss of which, at least, life is sadly changed, and the world itself is mournfully bereft.

But a letter affords no scope for such a theme; and besides, painful as it is to pass to common topics, they claim their dues. Life, ay, common life, must go on as it ever did, and nothing shall tear that infinite web of mystery in which it walks enveloped. Ours, however, in these days, is rather a shaded life. Absence from home, a strange land, a land, too, that sits in mourning over the great relics of the past,—all this tends to make it so. More material still is what passes within the microcosm, and I am not yet well. Not that I am worse, for I am continually better. But—but, in short, not to [175] speak too gravely, if a man feels as if one of the snakes of Medusa's head were certainly in his brain,—I have seen a horrible picture of the Medusa to-day by Leonardo da Vinci,—he cannot be very happy, you know. And if those around him be of such as "bear one another's burdens," then you see how the general conscience follows.

But let me not make the picture too dark, for the sake of truth and gratitude. Pleasantly situated we are, in his fair Florence, which grows fairer to my eye the more I see it. Our rooms look to the south, and down from a balcony upon a garden full of orange-trees, and roses End chrysanthemums in full bloom. . . . Then we have reading and music in-doors, and churches and palaces and galleries out-doors. And such galleries they grow upon me daily; the more ordinary paintings, or those hat seemed such at first, reveal something new on very new perusal. It is great reading with such walls or pages. Still there is a longing, almost a sick pining, or home at times. . .

To Rev. William Ware.

NEW YORK, Sept. 26, 1843.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—Why have I not written to you, before? Every day for the last three weeks I have thought of it. I have been with you in thought, and with him, your dear brother,—my dear friend! If he should have known me and conversed with me, I could lot have refrained from making the journey to see him. How easy his converse ever was, how natural, how sensible [176] and humorous by turns, but especially so unforced that for me it always had a charm by itself. The words seemed to drop from our lips almost without our will, and yet with nobody could I get through so much conversation in so little time. Neither of us seemed to want much explanation from the other; I think we understood one another well.

Where is he now? With whom talks he now? Perhaps with Channing and Greenwood! Oh! are not the best of us gone; and all in one year! Was there ever such a year?

My dear William Ware, we must hold on to the ties of life as we may, and especially to such as unite you and me. But are you not getting a strange feeling of nonchalance about everything,—life, death, and the time of death, what matters it? I rather think it is natural for the love of life to grow stronger as we advance in life and yet it is so terribly shaken by the experience of life, and one is so burdened at times by the all-surrounding and overwhelming mystery and darkness, that one is willing to escape any way and on any terms.

I have your few kind words. I hope I shall have such oftener than once or twice a year. I will try to take care of myself, and to live. . . .

To the Same.

NEW YORK, Oct. 17, 1844.

MY DEAR WARE,—I ought not—I must not—I cannot—I dare not,—at least not at present. When the present stress is over. I may feel better. The fact is, at present I am scarcely fit to take care of my parish, and it would be madness to take upon myself any new [177] burden. See there a fine fellow I should be to have charge of the "Examiner," who have written present three times in as many lines! However, I am writing now in terrible haste, on the spur of an instant determination; for I must and will put this thing off from my mind. I have kept it there for a fortnight. I have wished to do this. First, because you wished it; secondly, because others wish it; and, thirdly, I had a leaning to it. In case of a colleagueship, and that must come, I might be glad of it. Bellows, too, would help me,—would take charge with me,—and that may be, if the thing is open by and by, but not now; I must not think of it any more now. I have not slept a wink all night for thinking of this and other things.

All this, my dear fellow, is somewhat confidential. I do not wish to be considered a good-for-nothing. Perhaps I shall rally. I was doing very well when I left the Continent. England overwhelmed me with engagements, and so it is here. With our love to your love and the children,

Yours as ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

NEW YORK, Jan. 6, 1845.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I shall make no clue return for your good long letter; I have none of the Lambent light which plays around your pen wherewith to illuminate my page, and indeed am in these days, I am sorry to say, something more dark than usual. However, if wishes be such good things as you ingeniously represent, [178] I judge that attempts are worth something. Ergo, Q. S., which means good sequitur; it can hardly be a non sequitur, if nothing follows.

There! I have just touched all the points of your letter, I think. I have sent my light comment-stone skittering over your full smooth lake.

Well, I see you on the bank of your literal lake, your beautiful Menotomy,—beautiful as Windermere, only not so big; and I see the spring coming to cover that bank with verdure, and I long for both; that is, for spring and you. I always long for you, and for spring, I think I long for it more than I ever did It must be that I am growing old. Shall we ever meet, my friend, if not by Menotomy, by those fountains where Christ leads his flock in the immortal clime, and rejoin our beloved Henry, and Greenwood, and Channing? I am not sad, but my thoughts this winter are far more of death than of life. Ought one to part with his friends so? No; happy New Year to you. Hail the expected years, and the years of eternity! God bless you.

As ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

SHEFFIELD, Aug. 18, 1845.

MY DEAR FRIEND,-. . . The whole previous page is to no purpose but to let you know that I have thought about you incessantly; for you know that I have a sympathy not only with your heart, but with your head, if that be again, as I suppose it is, the seat of your trouble. Heads certainly can bear a great deal. Mine has; and [179] I am now reading the work, in six volumes, of a man who was out of his head for years from hard study; and yet these volumes are full of thought, full of minute and endless explications on the greatest of subjects. It is the work of Auguste Comte on the "Philosophie Positive," essentially an attempt at a philosophic appreciation of the whole course of human thought and history. With an awfully involved style, with a great over-valuation of his own labor, he seems to me to have done a great deal. I have met with nothing on the philosophy of history to compare with it, as philosophy, though I have read Vico and Herder.

I shall not be easy till I know something about your health and plans. My vacation is nearly ended. I go down to New York the 1st of September. . . .

As ever yours,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows.

SHEFFIELD, Aug. 25, 1845.

DEAR BELLOWS,—I thought to answer you in your own vein, but I am made very serious just now by reading the first five chapters of Matthew. How many things to think of! Does no doubt arise concerning those introductory chapters? And then what heart-penetrating, what tremendous teaching is that of the Sermon on the Mount!

In fact, though jests have flown pretty freely about the house, and hearty laughter is likely to be where the Deweys muster in much strength, yet I have had a pretty serious vacation. I set for my stent, to read the [180] New Testament, or the Gospels at least, in Greek, and to master the great work of Auguste Comte, and to write one or two sermons. With the philosopher I have spent the most time. Morning after morning, with none to annoy or make me afraid, I have gone out on the green grass under the trees, and, seated in the bosom of the world, I have striven with the great problem of the world. The account looks fanciful, perhaps, but the matter is not so; for amidst this solitude and silence, and this infinitude which nature opens to me as the city never does, I find the most serious and terrible business of my existence. I do not mean terrible in a bad sense; I have courage and faith, but I can gain no approach towards philosophical apathy.

We are well, and expect to go down on Wednesday next, and we too begin to feel a longing for New York and you. With our love to E.

As ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Mrs. Ephraim Peabody.

NEW YORK, Oct. 24, 1845.

MY DEAR MRS. PEABODY,—Do not regret that you have let us have your husband a few days. He has done us much good; unless I am to put in the opposite scale his having stolen away the hearts of my children.

If you had heard him last evening, I think you would have been satisfied, though wives are hard to please. It was a majestical and touching ministration; I have never felt anything from the pulpit to be more so. The hearty, honest, terrible tears it wrung from me were [181] such as I have given to no sermon this many a day, I think, never. I hope you are better; and with all other good wishes, I am, Yours very truly,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. William Ware.

NEW YORK, Jan. 27, 1846.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—This week is a little breathing-time, the first I have allowed myself for five months; and my old pile of sermons shows such a sprinkling of new ones as it has not in any equal time these ten years. Sometimes I have thought I might get my head strong and clear again, and good as anybody's; but this last week has brought me to a stand, and made me think of that monitory prediction of yours when I came home, two years ago. . . . To be sure, I do not usually think of any retreat that will separate me entirely from New York. I have expected to live and die in connection with this church; but I have had a feeling this winter as if a new voice might be better for them; and any way it may be better for them to have one man than two; that is, myself and a colleague. Somewhere, indeed, I expect to preach as long as I can do anything, for I suppose this is my vocation, if I have any, poorly as it is discharged. Poorly; alas! how does this eternal ideal fly before us, and leave us ever restless and unsatisfied! How much Henry felt it! more, indeed, than I had thought, well as I knew his humility. And indeed I cannot help thinking that he did not sufficiently distinguish between outward and inward defect. I can very well understand how, in any right mind, the latter should give deep pain. But for Henry Ware to charge himself with indolence [182] and idleness,—with not doing enough! Why, he was ever doing more than his health would bear. The Memoir, I hardly need say, is read here with deep interest. Tell your brother, with my regards and thanks to him, that it appears to me a perfect biography in this,—that it placed me in the very presence of my friend, and made me feel, all the while I was reading it, as if he were with me. I laid it down, however, I may confess to you, with one sad feeling beyond that of the general loss; and that was that nowhere throughout was there one recognition of the friendship that bound me and Henry Ware together. It is nobody's fault, unless it be mine. And I am led sometimes to query whether there be not something strange about me in my friendly relations; some apparent repulsion, or some want of visible kindliness. One thing I do know; that we are all crushed down under this great wheel of modern life and labor, and friendships seem to have but poor chance of culture and expression.

To pass on; with regard to our New York churches, we have more visible activity this winter than usual. I hold a weekly evening meeting in the library of our church; Mr. Bellows also. Our Sunday school is reorganized, being divided into two, and the numbers are more than doubled; and we have formed a Unitarian Association for the State of New York, with headquarters in the hall over the entrance to the Church of the Divine Unity.

To the Same.

NEW YORK, May 4, 1846.

MY DEAR not "rugged and dangerous," but gentle and good-natured,—I foresee a biography (far be the [183] day when it shall be required!) in which it is not difficult to anticipate a passage running somewhat as follows: "He seemed to possess every attribute of genius but self-reliance. From this cause, doubtless, he failed to some extent of what he might otherwise have accomplished. He himself thought that the choice of his profession was the fatal mistake of his life; and perhaps he might have found a more congenial sphere. But it may be doubted whether his self-distrust might not have prevented him from putting forth his full strength, or rather, perhaps, from giving full play to his mind in any walk of literature or art. Even in those beautiful Oriental and Roman fictions there is a certain staidness, a measured step, from which he never departs. Even in some of those chapters of Zenobia, which a critic of the day pronounced to be 'absolute inspiration,' the light glows through the smooth and polished sentences as through the crevices of plated armor. In fact, it was only in his familiar letters that his genius seemed to break out into perfect freedom. In these he approached the letters of Charles Lamb nearer than any writer of his day.

"There is a curious and really amusing specimen of his modesty in a letter of his to a friend of the name of Dewey,—if we read the name rightly in his somewhat illegible manuscripts. This Dewey, it seems, had published some sermons, or volumes of sermons, we know not which,—for they are long since swept down beneath the flood of time to that oblivion to which many cart-loads of such things are worthily destined,—and the author of Zenobia really addresses this forgotten preacher as his superior in strength, in power, and, it would seem, even in the felicities of style. We hope [184] the good man had too much sense, or humility at least, to have his head turned by such inexplicable fatuity."

Now I will thank you to preserve this letter among your papers, that the biographer may light upon some evidence of "the good man's" sanity.

. . . I do not think I shall go to the great May meetings in Boston. I am afraid I am not made for them. It wants a man, at any rate, with all his faculties about him, ready and apt and in full vigor; and mine are not,—certainly not now-a-days, if they ever are. The condition of my brain at present makes quiet necessary to me. Every exertion is now something too much.

I have addressed the trustees of the church to-day, to express my conviction to them that, by next autumn, some material change must be made. By that time all my sermons will be preached to death, and I shall have no power to make new ones. The church must determine whether it will relinquish my services entirely, or have them one quarter or one third of the time.

The thought of having soon to be clone with time and life has almost oppressed me for the year past, so constantly has it been with me. And indeed I have felt that there may be too much of this for the vigor, not to say the needful buoyancy, of life. Earth is our school, our sphere; and I more than doubt whether the anchorite's dreaming of heaven, or the spirit of the "Saints' Rest," is the true spiritual condition. I have long wanted to review Baxter's work, in this and other views.

With my love to your wife and children,—I mean, by your leave, your wife especially,—I am, as ever, Yours,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

[185] To the Same.

NEW YORK, July 10, 1846.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—If from this awful heat (90 degrees in my study) where I am busy, I were not going to an equally awful country heat where I shall be lazy, I would put off writing a few days. . . . My principal—no, I won't say that—my most painful business is hunting up sermons fit to be preached. The game grows scarce, and my greatest vexation is that every now and then, when I think I have got a fox or a beaver, it turns out to be a woodchuck or a muskrat.

From the tenor of some of our late letters, I believe we should be thought to belong to the "Mutual Admiration Society." I deny that of us both, though appearances are rather against us. I will have done, at any rate, for your last has quite knocked me down, or rather so outrageously set me up, as I was never before.

With regard to my plans, I myself prefer four months in the pulpit here, and that was what I proposed; but something had been said by me, about three months in a different connection, and the congregation, I am told, thought that in naming three they were conforming precisely to my wishes. But that will be arranged satisfactorily. I am to go out of town, of course; I cannot live here upon a quarter or third of a salary. I have something of my own, this house and a little more,—twelve thousand dollars, perhaps, in all; so far I have carried out the plan you speak of. I have had reasons more than most others for attending to the means, for I am the only surviving male member of my family. I have had the satisfaction of doing something for them all along, and shall have that of leaving to my mother [186] and sisters a house to cover them, and forty acres of land. . . .

Yours as ever, only more than ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows.

WASHINGTON, Nov. 2, 1846.

MY DEAR BELLOWS,—Suppose I take my pen and write just what comes into my head. Did you expect things coming from anywhere else, I would like to know? It's a pretty serious condition, however. Conceive—I am to write in total forgetfulness that I am a Dr., and without any fear before my eyes of having it printed in a biography. Bah! if anybody ever did write letters that never could be printed anywhere, I am that person. What the reason is precisely, I do not know, but I always fancied it was because I had no time and no superfluous energies to throw away upon letters, any pore than upon conundrums. And I have fancied, too that when the blessed leisure days should come in the quiet country,—not only the otium cum dignitate, but he silence and the meditation,—that then I should pour myself out in letters. But the time has n't come yet. Consider that my leisure as yet extends to only about (I've pulled out my watch to see) three hours and twenty minutes. It is now Monday, 11: 20 A.M., and we did not arrive here till Saturday evening.

Let me hear from you as soon as ten thousand things will let you. You will easily see that there is no good reason why I have written this letter but this,—that have left the greater part of my heart in New York and naturally turn back to find it. Remind your three [187] houses of the stock they have in it, bad as it is; and, to be most sadly serious, remember my very affectionate regards to Mrs. Kirkland, and give my love to the -s and -s, and believe me,

Ever your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

WASHINGTON, Dec. 10, 1846.

. . . FOR am I not through the one third of the second of the five months, and am I not very glad of it? And yet I am very glad I came away. You have no idea how I am relieved, and I shall not go back empty-handed. But the relief I feel admonishes me never to return to the full charge. How little do people know or conceive what it is! One case, like what I fear Mrs.-'s is, of slow decline,-one such case weighs upon the mind and heart for months. If you could go and make the call, without any sad anticipation or afterthought; but you cannot. And then, when it is not one case that draws upon your sympathies, but several, and you are made the confidant of many sorrows besides, and you are anxious for many minds; and when, moreover, your studies are not of the habitudes of bees, and the length of butterflies' wings, but wasting thoughts of human souls in sorrow and peril, and your Sundays rack your sinews with pain,—I declare I wonder that men live through it at all.

To the Same.

WASHINGTON, Feb. 7, 1847.

MY DEAR BELLOWS,—I consider it a mercy to you to put some interval between my letters; indeed, I do [188] not know how you write any, ever; besides, I feel all the while as if some of your burdens were to be laid at the door of my delinquencies. . . . Indeed, I rejoice in you always. I never hear of you but to hear good of you; and it is often that I hear. . . .

As to the sermons I have been writing here, I consider your suggestion that you might read since you will not hear them such an enormous compliment, such a reckless piece of goodness, that all your duties in regard to them are fully discharged in the bare proposition. And I am not going to have you canonized and sent down to all ages as the most suffering saint in the nineteenth century, for having read twelve of Dewey's manuscript sermons. I have preached one of them this evening, and it made so much impression (upon, me) that I was quite taken by surprise. The title is "Nature.". . . Last week I wrote the most considerable lucubration of the winter, on the darkest problem in the philosophy of life and history, "the ministry of error and evil in the world," to wit, Polytheism, Despotism, War, and Slavery. . . . Always my poor mind and heart are struggling with one subject, and that is the great world-question.

You speak of my opportunities here. Perhaps I have not improved them very well. I am not very enterprising in the social relations, and half of the winter I have not cared for Washington, nor anything else but what was passing in my own mind. . . . I have met some admirable persons here, of those I did not know before. Crittenden and Corwin and Judge McLean have interested me most; men they seem to me of as fine and beautiful natures as one can well meet. I have had two interviews with Calhoun that interested me much; [189] and the other evening I met Soule, the Louisiana senator, and had a long conversation with him, chiefly about slavery,—a very remarkable person. There is no face in the Senate, besides Webster's, so lashed up with the strong lines of intellect; and his smile shines out as brightly and beautifully from the dark cloud of his features.

To his Daughter Mary.

NEW YORK, May 23, 1847.

DEAR MOLLY,—I thought M. E. D. made you m-a-d; but you shall have it hereafter, if it makes you "demnition" mad; no appreciation of my delicacy in leaving out the E,—which stands for error, egotism, eggnog, epsom-salts, and every erroneous entity extant. Yes, the E,—have it, with all its compounds. The fact is, I suppose, that when people retire up into the country, they grow monstrous avaricious, and exact everything that belongs to them; lay up their best clothes and go slip-shod. I'm preparing for that condition, mentally and bodily. You see I begin to slip already in language. Your mother is trying to persuade me to buy a dressing-gown. A dressing-gown! when I don't expect to dress at all. As if a beggar who never expects to dine were to buy a service of plate, or a starving man should have his picture taken, and give a hundred dollars for famine in effigy. I have ordered a suit of summer clothes, to be sure, because I feel very thin, and expect to feel very light some five weeks hence. I shall get some cigars by the same token, because all things with me are vanishing into smoke. And if thin clothes can't live, can't be distended, filled out, and look respectable, upon smoke, let 'em die, and be crushed before the moth.

[190] Monday morning. These tantrums, dear Molly, were—what? cut up?-last night after preaching, and mortal tired I was too. I do not know how it is, but it seems to me that every sermon I take now, every poor, little, innocent sermon comes bouncing out in the pulpit like a Brobdingnag.

To Rev. William Ware.

SHEFFIELD, Aug. 22, 1847.

DEAR FRIEND,—I don't like Commencements. I hate travelling. And just now I hate my pen so much that I can scarce muster patience to tell you so.

I have been reading Prescott's "Peru." What a fine accomplishment there is about it! And yet there is something wanting to me in the moral nerve. History should teach men how to estimate characters. It should be a teacher of morals. And I think it should make us shudder at the names of Cortez and Pizarro. But Prescott's does not. He seems to have a kind of sympathy with these inhuman and perfidious adventurers, as if they were his heroes. It is too bad to talk of them as the soldiers of Christ. If it were said of the Devil, they would have better fitted the character.

Monday morning. The shadows of the lilac fall upon my page, checkered with the slant rays of the morning light; there is a slope of green grass under the window; here is quiet all around; I wish you were here.

My love to your wife and children.

Yours as ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

[191]To the Same.

SHEFFIELD, Sept. 30, 1847.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I should have answered your letter of the 6th before, but sermons have been in hand or the first and second Sundays of October in New York, and my hand is commonly too weary, when engaged in such tasks, to turn to anything else.

I sent the late edition of my—things (works, they call 'em) to the Harvard College Library, and if you will take the second volume, you will see, in a sermon "On the Slavery Question," how entirely I agree with you hat this is the great trial question of the country. And I think it will press upon the country this coming winter is it never has before. It certainly will if the Californias are ceded to us, and the Wilmot Proviso is brought before Congress, not for hypothetical, but for practical, actual decision. If it should be, I entertain the most painful apprehensions for the result. We have lost a host by the death of Silas Wright. A sagacious politician said to a friend of mine the other day, "It is a special providence, for it has saved us from a dissolution of the Union." His opinion was that Silas Wright, if he lad lived, would have been President; and you know that he would have taken his stand on the Proviso.

The judgment of the individual to whom I have just referred presents the true issue. It is Policy against Right. I suppose there is not a man in New England who does not wish for the extinction of Slavery. I suppose there is hardly a man at the North who does not feel that the system is wrong, that it ought to be abolished, and must eventually be abolished; and that the only question about its abolition is a question of time. [192] But here is the peril,—that a good many persons in Congress and out of Congress will falter in their conviction before the determined stand of the South,—the determination, that is to say, to break off from the Union rather than submit to the Wilmot Proviso. And I do most seriously fear, for my part, that they would hold to that determination. But I am prepared, for myself, to say that, rather than yield the national sanction to this huge and monstrous wrong, I would take the risk of any consequences whatever. I reason for the nation as I would for myself. I say, rather than tell a lie, I would die. I cannot deliberately do wrong, and I cannot consent that my people shall. I would rather consent to the dismemberment of my right hand than to lay it in solemn mockery on the altar of injustice. As I have said in the sermon to which I have referred you, suppose that we were called upon to legalize polygamy or no marriage in California; would we do it? Certainly we would not, though all the Southern States should threaten to break off from us for our refusal, and should actually do it. I asked a similar question with regard to legalizing theft, in my sermon on the Annexation of Texas; and one of the stanchest opposers of the Wilmot Proviso once told me that that was the hardest instance he had ever been called upon to answer.

But though he felt the force of the moral parallel, still policy was carrying it with him over the right; or rather I should say, perhaps, that he resolved the right' of the matter into temporary expediency. He did not mean to cross the line of conscience, but he thought it should sway to this great emergency.

This, I say, is the great peril; and he who would raise up this nation to the height of this great argument, must [193] lift it to the determination to do no wrong,—must lift it high enough, in fact, to see that the right is the only true policy.

Who shall do it? You exhort me to write. I shall do so as I am able, and see occasion, as I have done. I shall scarcely refrain, I suppose, from writing this winter. But alas! I am broken in health, and am totally unable fairly and fully to grapple with any great subject. I have more than I can well, or, I fear, safely do to meet the ordinary calls of my pulpit.

In fact I am a good deal discouraged about my ability to do good in any way, unless it be by quiet study, and such fruits as may come of it. I have encountered so much misconstruction within a year past, or rather have come to the knowledge of so much, that I am seriously tempted, at times, to retire from the pulpit, from the church, from the open field of controversy in every form, and to spend the remainder of my days in studies, which, if they last long enough, may produce a book or two that will not subject me to that sort of personal inquisition which I find has beset me hitherto.

You may be surprised at my saying this, and may ask if I have not had as much honor and praise as I deserve. I do not deny it. But still there is, unless I am mistaken, a sort of question about me as a professional person,—about my professional sanctity, or strictness, or peculiarity, that moves my indignation, I must say, but (what is more serious) that makes me doubt whether, as a clergyman, I am doing any good that is proportionate to my endeavors, and inclines me to retreat from this ground altogether. How, for instance, if I have any desirable place in one denomination, could the "Christian World" venture to say that I had done more hurt [194] by my observation about teetotalism in my Washington discourse than all the grog-shops in the land! How could a clerical brother of mine seriously propose, as if he spoke the sense of many, to have me admonished about my habits of living,—of eating, he said, but perhaps he meant drinking, too,—my habits, who am a remarkably simple and small eater; and, as to wine, do not taste it one day in twenty! Yet this person actually attributed my ill-health to luxurious living. I live as list; I feast as other men feast, when I am at a feast, which is very rarely; I laugh as other men laugh; I will not have any clerical peculiarity in my manners; and if his cannot be understood, I will retire from the profession, for I will be a man more than a minister. I came unto the profession from the simplest possible impulse,—from a religious impulse; I have spoken in it as I would,—with earnestness, if nothing else,—and I cannot throw away this earnestness upon a distrusting community. Besides, I confess that I am peculiarly sensitive to personal wrong. I do not suppose that this blackguardism of the Abolition press would have found anywhere a more sensitive subject than I am. It fills me with horror,—as if I had been struck with a blow and beaten into the mire and dust in the very street.

I must have some great faults,—that is my conclusion,—and such faults, perhaps, as unfit me for doing much good. I open my heart to you. God bless you and yours.

Your assured friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

[195]To Mrs. David Lane.

SHEFFIELD, Oct. 19, 1847.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I cannot feel easy without knowing how little C. is getting along. I pray you to take your pen, if you are not too busy, or she too ill, and tell me how she is.

And now, having my pen in hand, I could and should go on and write a letter to you, were it not that all ingenuity, fancy, liberty of writing, is put to a complete nonplus by the uncertainty in what state of mind my writing will find you. I must not write merrily, I would not write sadly. I hope all is well, I fear all is not, and I know not how to blend the two moods, though an apostle has said, "As sorrowful, yet always rejoicing." But apostolic states of mind somehow seem to me too great to enter into letters, and there is nothing to me more surprising than to find in biography—Foster's, for instance—long letters occupied with the profoundest questions in religion. If I were not habitually engaged in the contemplation of such subjects, if I had not another and appropriate vehicle for them, and if they did not always seem to me too vast for a sheet or two of paper, I suppose that my letters, too, might be wise and weighty. As it is, they are always mere relaxations, or mere chip-pings and parings from the greater themes, at the most. So you see that neither you nor the public lose anything by my being a negligent and reluctant letter-writer.

Well, I shall make a serious letter, if I do not mind, about nothing, and so doubly disprove all I have been saying. I trust C. is getting well, but I am always anxious about that fever. Pray write a word to relieve my [196] solicitude, which my wife shares with me, as in the affectionate regard with which I am,