{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18956/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18956","id":"gutenberg_18956","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18956","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Biographies","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Dewey, Orville, 1794-1882"],"text":"Transcribers Notes:\n\nNumbers in brackets are the original page numbers: [1].\nNumbers in braces are footnote markers: {1}.\n\n\n\n\nAUTOBIOGRAPHY AND LETTERS OF ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.\n\nEdited by his Daughter Mary Dewey\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n                             Page\n  Introductory                  7\n\n  Autobiography                11\n\n  Letters                     127\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY.\n\n\nIT is about twenty-five years since, at my earnest desire, my father\nbegan to write some of the memories of his own life, of the friends\nwhom he loved, and of the noteworthy people he had known; and it is by\nthe help of these autobiographical papers, and of selections from his\nletters, that I am enabled to attempt a memoir of him. I should like\nto remind the elder generation and inform the younger of some things\nin the life of a man who was once a foremost figure in the world from\nwhich he had been so long withdrawn that his death was hardly felt\nbeyond the circle of his personal friends. It was like the fall of\nan aged tree in the vast forests of his native hills, when the deep\nthunder of the crash is heard afar, and a new opening is made towards\nheaven for those who stand near, but when to the general eye there is\nno change in the rich woodland that clothes the mountain side.\n\nBut forty years ago, when his church in New York was crowded morning\nand evening, and [8] eager multitudes hung upon his lips for the very\nbread of life, and when he entered also with spirit and power into the\nsocial, philanthropic, and artistic life of that great city; or nearly\nsixty years ago, when he carried to the beautiful town and exquisite\nsociety of New Bedford an influx of spiritual life and a depth of\nreligious thought which worked like new yeast in the well-prepared\nQuaker mind,--then, had he been taken away, men would have felt that a\ntower of strength had fallen, and those especially, who in his parish\nvisits had felt the sustaining comfort of his singular tenderness and\nsympathy in affliction, and of his counsel in distress, would have\nmourned for him not only as for a brother, but also a chief. Now,\nalmost all of his own generation have passed away. Here and there one\nremains, to listen with interest to a fresh account of persons and\nthings once familiar; while the story will find its chief audience\namong those who remember Mr. Dewey{1} as among the lights of their own\nyouth. Those also who love the study of [9] human nature may follow\nwith pleasure the development of a New England boy, with a character\nof great strength, simplicity, reverence, and honesty, with scanty\nopportunities for culture, and heavily handicapped in his earlier\nrunning by both poverty and Calvinism, but possessed from the first\nby the love of truth and knowledge, and by a generous sympathy which\nmade him long to impart whatever treasures he obtained. To trace the\ngrowth of such a life to a high point of usefulness and power, to see\nit unspoiled by honor and admiration, and to watch its retirement,\nunder the pressure of nervous disease, from active service, while never\nlosing its concern for the public good, its quickness of personal\nsympathy, nor its interest in the solution of the mightiest problems\nof humanity, cannot be an altogether unprofitable use of time to the\nreader, while to the writer it is a work of consecration. He who was at\nonce like a son and brother to my father, he who should have crowned\na forty-years' friendship by the fulfilment of this pious task, and\nwho would have done it with a stronger and a steadier hand than mine,\nBELLOWS, was called first from that \"fair companionship,\" while still\nin the unbroken exercise of the varied and remarkable powers which\nmade his life one of such [10] large use, blessing, and pleasure to\nthe world. None could make his place good to his elder friend, whose\napproaching death was visibly hastened by grief for the loss of the\nconstant sympathy and devotion which had faithfully cheered his\ndeclining years. Many and beautiful tributes were laid upon my father's\ntomb by those whom he left here. Why should we not hope that that of\nBellows was in the form of greeting?\n\nST. DAVID'S, July, 1883.\n\n    {FN 1: My father always preferred this simple title to the more\n    formal \"Dr.\" and in his own family and among his most intimate\n    friends he was Mr. Dewey to the last. He was, of course,\n    gratified by the complimentary intention of Harvard University\n    in bestowing the degree of D.D. upon him in 1839, but he never\n    felt that his acquisitions in learning entitled him to it.}\n\n\n\n\n[11] AUTOBIOGRAPHY\n\n\nI WAS born in Sheffield, Mass., on the 28th of March, 1794. My\ngrandparents, Stephen Dewey and Aaron Root, were among the early\nsettlers of the town, and the houses they built the one of brick, and\nthe other of wood--still stand. They came from Westfield, about forty\nmiles distant from Sheffield, on horseback, through the woods; there\nwere no roads then. We have always had a tradition in our family that\nthe male branch is of Welsh origin. When I visited Wales in 1832, I\nremember being struck with the resemblance I saw in the girls and young\nwomen about me to my sisters, and I mentioned it when writing home. On\ngoing up to London, I became acquainted with a gentleman, who, writing\na note one day to a friend of mine and speaking of me, said: \"I spell\nthe name after the Welsh fashion, Devi; I don't know how he spells it.\"\nOn inquiring of this gentleman, and he referred me also to biographical\ndictionaries,--I found that our name had an origin of unsuspected\ndignity, not to say sanctity, being no other than that of Saint David,\nthe patron saint [12] of Wales, which is shortened and changed in the\nspeech of the common people into Dewi.'{2}\n\n    {FN 2: This was the reason why Mr. Dewey gave to the country\n    home which he inherited from his father the name of \"St.\n    David's,\" by which it is known to his family and friends.--M.\n    E. D.}\n\nEveryone tries, I suppose, to penetrate as far back as he can into\nhis childhood, back towards his infancy, towards that mysterious and\nshadowy line behind which lies his unremembered existence. Besides\nthe usual life of a child in the country,--running foot-races with my\nbrother Chandler, building brick ovens to bake apples in the side-hill\nopposite the house, and the steeds of willow sticks cut there, and\nbeyond the unvarying gentleness of my mother and the peremptory\ndecision and playfulness at the same time of my father,--his slightest\nword was enough to hush the wildest tumult among us children, and yet\nhe was usually gay and humorous in his family,--besides and beyond\nthis, I remember nothing till the first event in my early childhood,\nand that was acting in a play. It was performed in the church, as\npart of a school exhibition. The stage was laid upon the pews, and\nthe audience seated in the gallery. I must have been about five years\nold then, and I acted the part of a little son. I remember feeling,\nthen and afterwards, very queer and shamefaced about my histrionic\npapa and mamma. It is striking to observe, not only how early, but\nhow powerfully, imagination [13] is developed in our childhood. For\nsome time after, I regarded those imaginary parents as sustaining a\npeculiar relation, not only to me, but to one another; I thought they\nwere in love, if not to be married. But they never were married, nor\never thought of it, I suppose. All that drama was wrought out in the\nbosom of a child. It is worth noticing, too, the freedom with sacred\nthings, of those days, approaching to the old fetes and mysteries in\nthe church. We are apt to think of the Puritan times as all rigor and\nstrictness. And yet here, nearly sixty years ago, was a play acted in\nthe meeting-house: the church turned into a theatre. And I remember my\nmother's telling me that when she was a girl her father carried her on\na pillion to the raising of a church in Pittsfield; and the occasion\nwas celebrated by a ball in the evening. Now, all dancing is proscribed\nby the church there as a sinful amusement.\n\nThe next thing that I remember, as an event in my childhood, was\nthe funeral of General Ashley, one of our townsmen, who had served\nas colonel, I think, in the War of the Revolution. I was then in my\nsixth year. It was a military funeral; and the procession, for a long\ndistance, filled the wide street. The music, the solemn march, the\nbier borne in the midst, the crowd! It seemed to me as if the whole\nworld was at a funeral. The remains of Bonaparte borne to the Invalides\namidst the crowds of Paris could not, [14] I suppose, at a later day,\nhave affected me like that spectacle. I do not certainly know whether\nI heard the sermon on the occasion by the pastor, the Rev. Ephraim\nJudson; but at any rate it was so represented to me that it always\nseems as if I had heard it, especially the apostrophe to the remains\nthat rested beneath that dark pall in the aisle. \"General Ashley!\" he\nsaid, and repeated, \"General Ashley!--he hears not.\"\n\nTo the recollections of my childhood this old pastor presents a\nvery distinct, and I may say somewhat portentous, figure, tall,\nlarge-limbed, pale, ghostly almost, with slow movement and hollow tone,\nwith eyes dreamy, and kindly, I believe, but spectral to me, coming\ninto the house with a heavy, deliberate, and solemn step, making me\nfeel as if the very chairs and tables were conscious of his presence\nand did him reverence; and when he stretched out his long, bony arm\nand said, \"Come here, child!\" I felt something as if a spiritualized\nogre had invited me. Nevertheless, he was a man, I believe, of a very\naffectionate and tender nature; indeed, I afterwards came to think\nso; but at that time, and up to the age of twelve, it is a strict\ntruth that I did not regard Mr. Judson as properly a human being,--as\na man at all. If he had descended from the planet Jupiter, he could\nnot have been a bit more preternatural and strange to me. Indeed, I\nwell remember the occasion when the idea of his proper humanity first\nflashed upon [15] my mind. It was when I saw him, one day, beat the\nold black horse he always rode, apparently in a passion like any other\nman. The old black horse--large, fat, heavy, lazy--figures in my mind\nalmost as distinctly as its master; and if, as it came down the street,\nits head were turned aside towards the school-house, as indicating the\nrider's intent to visit us, I remember that the school was thrown into\nas much commotion as if an armed spectre were coming down the road. Our\nawe of him was extreme; yet he loved to be pleasant with us. He would\nsay,--examining the school was always a part of his object, \"How much\nis five times seven?\" \"Thirty-five,\" was the ready answer. \"Well,\"\nreplied the old man, \"saying so don't make it so\"; a very significant\nchallenge, which we were ill able to meet. At the close of his visit\nhe always gave an exact and minute account of the Crucifixion,--I\nthink always, and in the same terms. It was a mere appeal to physical\nsympathy, awful, but not winning. When he stood before us, and, lifting\nhis hands almost to the ceiling, said, \"And so they reared him up!\"\nit seemed as if he described the catastrophe of the world, not its\nredemption. Indeed, Mr. Judson appeared to think that anything drawn\nfrom the Bible was good, whether he made any moral application of it or\nnot. I have heard him preach a whole sermon, giving the most precise\nand detailed description of the building of the Tabernacle, without one\nword of comment, [16] inference, or instruction. But he was a good and\nkindly man; and when, as I was going to college at the age of eighteen,\nhe laid his hand upon my head, and gave me, with solemn form and tender\naccent, his blessing, I felt awed and impressed, as I imagine the\nHebrew youth may have felt under a patriarch's benediction.\n\nWith such an example and teacher of religion before me, whose goodness\nI did not know, and whose strangeness and preternatural character only\nI felt; and indeed with all the ideas I got of religion, whether from\nSunday-keeping or catechising, my early impressions on that subject\ncould not be happy or winning. I remember the time when I really feared\nthat if I went out into the fields to walk on Sunday, bears would come\ndown from the mountain and catch me. At a later day, but still in my\nchildhood, I recollect a book-pedler's coming to our house, and when he\nopened his pack, that I selected from a pile of story-books, Bunyan's\n\"Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners.\" Religion had a sort of\nhorrible attraction for me, but nothing could exceed its gloominess. I\nremember looking down from the gallery at church upon the celebration\nof the Lord's Supper, and pitying the persons engaged in it more than\nany people in the world,--I thought they were so unhappy. I had heard\nof \"the unpardonable sin,\" and well do I recollect lying in my bed a\nmere child--and having thoughts and words injected into my mind, which\nI [17]imagined were that sin, and shuddering, and trembling, and saying\naloud, \"No, no, no; I do not,--I will not.\" It is the grand mystery of\nProvidence that what is divinest and most beautiful should be suffered\nto be so painfully, and, as it must seem at first view, so injuriously\nmisconstrued. But what is universal, must be a law; and what is law,\nmust be right,--must have good reasons for it. And certainly so it is.\nVarying as the ages vary, yet the experience of the individual is but\na picture of the universal mind,--of the world's mind. The steps are\nthe same, ignorance, fear, superstition, implicit faith; then doubt,\nquestioning, struggling, long and anxious reasoning; then, at the end,\nlight, more or less, as the case may be. Can it, in the nature of\nthings, be otherwise? The fear of death, for instance, which I had,\nwhich all children have, can childhood escape it? Far onward and upward\nmust be the victory over that fear. And the fear of God, and, indeed,\nthe whole idea of religion,--must it not, in like manner, necessarily\nbe imperfect? And are imperfection and error peculiar to our religious\nconceptions? What mistaken ideas has the child of a man, of his parent\nwhen correcting him, or of some distinguished stranger! They are\nscarcely less erroneous than his ideas of God. What mistaken notions\nof life, of the world, the great, gay, garish world, all full of\ncloud-castles, ships laden with gold, pleasures endless and entrancing!\nWhat mistaken impressions [18]about nature; about the material world\nupon which childhood has alighted, and of which it must necessarily\nbe ignorant; about clouds and storms and tempests; and of the heavens\nabove, sun and moon and stars! I remember well when the fable of the\nHappy Valley in Rasselas was a reality to me; when I thought the sun\nrose and set for us alone, and how I pitied the glorious orb, as it\nsunk behind the western mountain, to think that it must pass through\na sort of Hades, through a dark underworld, to come up in the east\nagain. It is a curious fact, that the Egyptians in the morning of the\nworld had the same ideas. Shall I blame Providence for this? Could it\nbe otherwise? If earthly things are so mistaken, is it strange that\nheavenly things are? And especially shall I call in question this order\nof things,--this order, whether of men's or of the world's progress,\nwhen I see that it is not only inevitable, the necessary allotment for\nan experimenting and improving nature, which is human nature, but when\nI see too that each stage of progress has its own special advantages;\nthat \"everything is beautiful in its time;\" that fears, superstitions,\nerrors, quicken imagination and restrain passion as truly as doubts,\nreasonings, strugglings, strengthen the judgment, mature the moral\nnature, and lead to light?\n\nI am dilating upon all this too much, perhaps. I let my pen run.\nSitting down here in the blessed [19]country home, with nothing else\nin particular just now to do, at the age of sixty-three, I have time\nand am disposed to look back into my early life and to reason upon it;\nand although I have nothing uncommon to relate, yet what pertains to me\nhas its own interest and significance, just as if no other being had\never existed, and therefore I set down my experience and my reflections\nsimply as they present themselves to me.\n\nIn casting back my eyes upon this earliest period of my life, there are\nsome things which I recall, which may amuse my grandchildren, if they\nshould ever be inclined to look over these pages, and some of which\nthey may find curious, as things of a bygone time.\n\nChildren now know nothing of what \"'Lection\" was in those days, the\nannual period, that is, when the newly elected State government came\nin. It was in the last week in May. How eager were we boys to have the\ncorn planted before that time! The playing could not be had till the\nwork was done. The sports and the entertainments were very simple.\nRunning about the village street, hither and thither, without much aim;\nstands erected for the sale of gingerbread and beer,--home-made beer,\nconcocted of sassafras roots and wintergreen leaves, etc.; games of\nball, not base-ball, as now is the fashion, yet with wickets,--this was\nabout all, except that at the end there was always horse-racing.\n\nHaving witnessed this exciting sport in my [20] boyhood, without any\nsuspicion of its being wrong, and seen it abroad in later days, in\nrespectable company, I was led, very innocently, when I was a clergyman\nin New York, into what was thought a great misdemeanor. I was invited\nby some gentlemen, and went with them, to the races on Long Island.\nI met on the boat, as we were returning, a parishioner of mine, who\nexpressed great surprise, and even a kind of horror, when I told him\nwhat I had been to see. He could not conceal that he thought it very\nbad that I should have been there; and I suppose it was. But that was\nnot the worst of it. Some person had then recently heard me preach a\nsermon in which I said, that, in thesis, I had rather undertake to\ndefend Infidelity than Calvinism. In extreme anger thereat, he wrote a\nletter to some newspaper, in which, after stating what I had said, he\nadded, \"And this clergyman was lately seen at the races!\" It went far\nand wide, you may be sure. I saw it in newspapers from all parts of the\ncountry; yet some of my friends, while laughing at me, held it to be\nonly a proof of my simplicity.\n\nThere were worse things than sports in our public gatherings; even\nstreet fights,--pugilistic fights, hand to hand. I have seen men thus\nengage, and that in bloody encounter, knocking one another down, and\nthe fallen man stamped upon by his adversary. The people gathered\nround, not to interfere, but to see them fight it out. [21] Such a\nspectacle has not been witnessed in Sheffield, I think, for half a\ncentury. But as to sports and entertainments in general, there were\nmore of them in those days than now. We had more holidays, more games\nin the street, of ball-playing, of quoits, of running, leaping, and\nwrestling. The militia musters, now done away with, gave many occasions\nfor them. Every year we had one or two great squirrel-hunts, ended by a\nsupper, paid for by the losing side, that is, by the side shooting the\nfewest. Almost every season we had a dancing-school. Singing-schools,\ntoo, there were every winter. There was also a small band of music in\nthe village, and serenades were not uncommon. We, boys used to give\nthem on the flute to our favorites. But when the band came to serenade\nus, I shall never forget the commotion it made in the house, and the\ndelight we had in it. We children were immediately up in a wild hurry\nof pleasure, and my father always went out to welcome the performers,\nand to bring them into the house and give them such entertainment as he\ncould provide.\n\nThe school-days of my childhood I remember with nothing but pleasure. I\nmust have been a dull boy, I suppose, in some respects, for I never got\ninto scrapes, never played truant, and was never, that I can remember,\npunished for anything. The instruction was simple enough. Special\nstress was laid upon spelling, and I am inclined to think that every\none of my fellow-pupils [22] learned to spell more correctly than some\ngentlemen and ladies do in our days.\n\nOur teachers were always men in winter and women in summer. I remember\nsome of the men very well, but one of them especially. What pupil of\nhis could ever forget Asa Day,--the most extraordinary figure that\never I saw, a perfect chunk of a man? He could not have been five feet\nhigh, but with thews and sinews to make up for the defect in height,\nand a head big enough for a giant. He might have sat for Scott's \"Black\nDwarf;\" yet he was not ill-looking, rather handsome in the face. And\nI think I never saw a face that could express such energy, passion,\nand wrath, as his. Indeed, his whole frame was instinct with energy.\nI see him now, as he marched by our house in the early morning, with\nquick, short step, to make the school-room fire; and a roaring one it\nwas, in a large open fireplace; for he did everything about the school.\nIn fact, he took possession of school, schoolhouse, and district too,\nfor that matter, as if it were a military post; with the difference,\nthat he was to fight, not enemies without, but within,--to beat down\ninsubordination and enforce obedience. And his anger, when roused, was\nthe most remarkable thing. It stands before me now, through all my\nlife, as the one picture of a man in a fury. But if he frightened us\nchildren, he taught us too, and that thoroughly.\n\nIn general our teachers were held in great [23] reverence and\naffection. I remember especially the pride with which I once went\nin a chaise, when I was about ten, to New Marlborough, to fetch the\nschoolma'am. No courtier, waiting upon a princess, could have been\nprouder or more respectful than I was.\n\nTo turn, for a moment, to a different scene, and to much humbler\npersons, that pass and repass in the camera obscura of my early\nrecollections. The only Irishman that was in Sheffield, I think, in\nthose days, lived in my father's family for several years as a hired\nman,--Richard; I knew him by no other name then, and recall him by no\nother now,--the tallest and best-formed \"exile of Erin\" that I have\never seen; prodigiously strong, yet always gentle in manner and speech\nto us children; with the full brogue, and every way marked in my view,\nand set apart from every one around him,--\"a stranger in a strange\nland.\" The only thing besides, that I distinctly remember of him, was\nthe point he made every Christmas of getting in the \"Yule-log,\" a huge\nlog which he had doubtless been saving out in chopping the wood-pile,\nbig enough for a yoke of oxen to draw, and which he placed with a kind\nof ceremony and respect in the great kitchen fireplace. With our absurd\nNew England Puritan ways, yet naturally derived from the times of the\nEnglish Commonwealth, when any observance of Christmas was made penal\nand punished with [24] imprisonment, I am not sure that we should have\nknown anything of Christmas, but for Richard's Yule-log.\n\nThere was another class of persons who were frequently engaged to do\nday's work on the farm,--that of the colored people. Some of them had\nbeen slaves here in Sheffield. They were virtually emancipated by our\nState Bill of Rights, passed in 1783. The first of them that sought\nfreedom under it, and the first, it is said, that obtained it in New\nEngland, was a female slave of General Ashley, and her advocate in the\ncase was Mr. Sedgwick, afterwards Judge Sedgwick, who was then a lawyer\nin Sheffield.\n\nThere were several of the men that stand out as pretty marked\nindividualities in my memory, Peter and Caesar and Will and Darby;\nmerry old fellows they seemed to be,--I see no laborers so cheerful and\ngay now,--and very faithful and efficient workers. Peter and his wife,\nToah (so was she called), had belonged to my maternal grandfather, and\nwere much about us, helping, or being helped, as the case might be.\nThey both lived and died in their own cottage, pleasantly situated on\nthe bank of Skenob Brook. They tilled their own garden, raised their\nown \"sarse,\" kept their own cow; and I have heard one say that \"Toah's\ngarden had the finest damask roses in the world, and her house, and all\naround it, was the pink of neatness.\"\n\nIn taking leave of my childhood, I must say [25] that, so far as my\nexperience goes, the ordinary poetic representations of the happiness\nof that period, as compared with after life, are not true, and I must\ndoubt whether they ought to be true. I was as happy, I suppose, as\nmost children. I had good health; I had companions and sports; the\nschool was not a hardship to me,--I was always eager for it; I was\nnever hardly dealt with by anybody; I was never once whipped in my\nlife, that I can remember; but instead of looking back to childhood\nas the blissful period of my life, I find that I have been growing\nhappier every year, up to this very time. I recollect in my youth times\nof moodiness and melancholy; but since I entered on the threshold of\nmanly life, of married and parental life, all these have disappeared.\nI have had inward struggles enough, certainly,--struggles with doubt,\nwith temptation,--sorrows and fears and strifes enough; but I think I\nhave been gradually, though too slowly, gaining the victory over them.\nTruth, art, religion,--the true, the beautiful, the divine,--have\nconstantly risen clearer and brighter before me; my family bonds have\ngrown stronger, friends dearer, the world and nature fuller of goodness\nand beauty, and I have every day grown a happier man.\n\nTo take up again the thread of my story, I pass from childhood to my\nyouth. My winters, up to the age of about sixteen, were given to [26]\nschool,--the common district-school,--and my summers, to assisting my\nfather on the farm; after that, for a year or two, my whole time was\ndevoted to preparing for college. For this purpose I went first, for\none year, to a school taught in Sheffield by Mr. William H. Maynard,\nafterwards an eminent lawyer and senator in the State of New York. He\ncame among us with the reputation of being a prodigy in knowledge;\nhe was regarded as a kind of walking library; and this reputation,\ntogether with his ceaseless assiduity as a teacher, awakened among us\nboys an extraordinary ambition. What we learned, and how we learned\nit, and how we lost it, might well be a caution to all other masters\nand pupils. Besides going through Virgil and Cicero's Orations that\nyear, and frequent composition and declamation, we were prepared, at\nthe end of it, for the most thorough and minute examination in grammar,\nin Blair's Rhetoric, in the two large octavo volumes of Morse's\nGeography, every fact committed to memory, every name of country, city,\nmountain, river, every boundary, population, length, breadth, degree\nof latitude,--and we could repeat, word for word, the Constitution\nof the United States. The consequence was, that we dropped all that\nload of knowledge, or rather burden upon the memory, at the very\nthreshold of the school. Grammar I did study to some purpose that year,\nthough never before. I lost two years of my childhood, I think, upon\nthat study, absurdly [27] regarded as teaching children to speak the\nEnglish language, instead of being considered as what it properly is,\nthe philosophy of language, a science altogether beyond the reach of\nchildhood.\n\nOf the persons and circumstances that influenced my culture and\ncharacter in youth, there are some that stand out very prominently in\nmy recollection, and require mention in this account of myself.\n\nMy father, first of all, did all that he could for me. He sent me to\ncollege when he could ill afford it. But, what was more important as\nan influence, all along from my childhood it was evidently his highest\ndesire and ambition for me that I should succeed in some professional\ncareer, I think that of a lawyer. I was fond of reading,--indeed, spent\nmost of the evenings of my boyhood in that way,--and I soon observed\nthat he was disposed to indulge me in my favorite pursuit. He would\noften send out my brothers, instead of me, upon errands or chores, \"to\nsave me from interruption.\" What he admired most, was eloquence; and I\nthink he did more than Cicero's De Oratore to inspire me with a similar\nfeeling. I well remember his having been to Albany once, and having\nheard Hamilton, and the unbounded admiration with which he spoke of\nhim. I was but ten years old when Hamilton was stricken down; yet such\nwas my interest in [28] him, and such my grief, that my schoolmates\nasked me, \"What is the matter?\" I said, \"General Hamilton is dead.\"\n\"But what is it? Who is it?\" they asked. I replied that he was a great\norator; but I believe that it was to them much as if I had said that\nthe elephant in a menagerie had been killed. This early enthusiasm I\nowed to my father. It influenced all my after thoughts and aims, and\nwas an impulse, though it may have borne but little appropriate fruit.\n\nFor books to read, the old Sheffield Library was my main resource.\nIt consisted of about two hundred volumes,--books of the good old\nfashion, well printed, well bound in calf, and well thumbed too. What a\ntreasure was there for me! I thought the mine could never be exhausted.\nAt least, it contained all that I wanted then, and better reading, I\nthink, than that which generally engages our youth nowadays,--the great\nEnglish classics in prose and verse, Addison and Johnson and Milton\nand Shakespeare, histories, travels, and a few novels. The most of\nthese books I read, some of them over and over, often by torchlight,\nsitting on the floor (for we had a rich bed of old pine-knots on the\nfarm); and to this library I owe more than to anything that helped me\nin my boyhood. Why is it that all its volumes are scattered now? What\nis it that is coming over our New England villages, that looks like\ndeterioration and running down? Is our life going out of us to enrich\nthe great West? [29]I remember the time when there were eminent men in\nSheffield. Judge Sedgwick commenced the practice of the law here; and\nthere were Esquire Lee, and John W. Hurlbut, and later, Charles Dewey,\nand a number of professional men besides, and several others who were\nnot professional, but readers, and could quote Johnson and Pope and\nShakespeare; my father himself could repeat the \"Essay on Man,\" and\nwhole books of the \"Paradise Lost.\"\n\nMy model man was Charles Dewey, ten or twelve years older than\nmyself. What attracted me to him was a singular union of strength and\ntenderness. Not that the last was readily or easily to be seen. There\nwas not a bit of sunshine in it,--no commonplace amiableness. He wore\nno smiles upon his face. His complexion, his brow, were dark; his\nperson, tall and spare; his bow had no suppleness in it, it even lacked\nsomething of graceful courtesy, rather stiff and stately; his walk was\na kind of stride, very lofty, and did not say \"By your leave,\" to the\nworld. I remember that I very absurdly, though unconsciously, tried to\nimitate it. His character I do not think was a very well disciplined\none at that time; he was, I believe, \"a good hater,\" a dangerous\nopponent, yet withal he had immense self-command. On the whole, he\nwas generally regarded chiefly as a man of penetrative intellect and\nsarcastic wit; but under all this I discerned a spirit so true, so\ndelicate and tender, so touched [30] with a profound and exquisite,\nthough concealed, sensibility, that he won my admiration, respect, and\naffection in an equal degree. He removed early in life to practise the\nlaw in Indiana. We seldom meet; but though twenty years intervene,\nwe meet as though we had parted but yesterday. He has been a Judge\nof the Supreme Court, and, I believe, the most eminent law authority\nin his adopted State; and he would doubtless have been sent to take\npart in the National Councils, but for an uncompromising sincerity\nand manliness in the expression of his political opinions, little\ncalculated to win votes.\n\nAnd now came the time for a distinct step forward,--a step leading into\nfuture life.\n\nIt was for some time a question in our family whether I should enter\nCharles Dewey's office in Sheffield as a student at law, or go to\ncollege. It was at length decided that I should go; and as Williams\nCollege was near us, and my cousin, Chester Dewey, was a professor\nthere, that was the place chosen for me. I entered the Sophomore class\nin the third term, and graduated in 1814, in my twenty-first year.\n\nTwo events in my college life were of great moment to me,--the loss of\nsight, and the gain, if I may say so, of insight.\n\nIn my Junior year, my eyes, after an attack of measles, became so\nweak that I could not use them more than an hour in a day, and I was\n[31] obliged to rely mainly upon others for the prosecution of my\nstudies during the remainder of the college course. I hardly know\nnow whether to be glad or sorry for this deprivation. But for this,\nI might have been a man of learning. I was certainly very fond of my\nstudies, especially of the mathematics and chemistry. I mention it\nthe rather, because the whole course and tendency of my mind has been\nin other directions. But Euclid's Geometry was the most interesting\nbook to me in the college course; and next, Mrs. B.'s Chemistry: the\nfirst, because the intensest thinking is doubtless always the greatest\npossible intellectual enjoyment; and the second, because it opened\nto me my first glance into the wonders of nature. I remember the\ntrembling pride with which, one day in the Junior year, I took the\nhead of the class, while all the rest shrunk from it, to demonstrate\nsome proposition in the last book of Euclid. At Commencement, when my\nclass graduated, the highest part was assigned to me. \"Pretty well for\na blind boy,\" my father said, when I told him of it; it was all he\nsaid, though I knew that nothing in the world could have given him more\npleasure. But if it was vanity then, or if it seem such now to mention\nit, I may be pardoned, perhaps, for it was the end of all vanity,\neffort, or pretension to be a learned man. I remember when I once told\nChanning of this, and said that but for the loss of sight I thought I\nshould have devoted myself to the pursuits of learning, his [32] reply\nwas, \"You were made for something better.\" I do not know how that may\nbe; but I think that my deprivation, which lasted for some years, was\nnot altogether without benefit to myself. I was thrown back upon my own\nmind, upon my own resources, as I should never otherwise have been. I\nwas compelled to think--in such measure as I am able--as I should not\notherwise have done. I was astonished to find how dependent I had been\nupon books, not only for facts, but for the very courses of reasoning.\nTo sit down solitary and silent for hours, and to pursue a subject\nthrough all the logical steps for myself,--to mould the matter in my\nown mind without any foreign aid,--was a new task for me. Ravignan, the\ncelebrated French preacher, has written a little book on the Jesuit\ndiscipline and course of studies, in which he says that the one or two\nyears of silence appointed to the pupil absolute seclusion from society\nand from books too were the most delightful and profitable years of\nhis novitiate. I think I can understand how that might be true in more\nways than one. Madame Guyon's direction for prayer to pause upon each\npetition till it is thoroughly understood and felt had great wisdom in\nit. We read too much. For the last thirty years I have read as much as\nI pleased, and probably more than was good for me.\n\nThe disease in my eyes was in the optic nerve; there was no external\ninflammation. Under the [33] best surgical advice I tried different\nmethods of cure,--cupping, leeches, a thimbleful of lunar caustic on\nthe back of the neck, applied by Dr. Warren, of Boston; and I remember\nspending that very evening at a party, while the caustic was burning.\nSo hopeful was I of a cure, that the very pain was a pleasure. I said,\n\"Bite, and welcome!\" But it was all in vain. At length I met with a\nperson whose eyes had been cured of the same disease, and who gave me\nthis advice: \"Every evening, immediately before going to bed, dash on\nwater with your hands, from your wash-bowl, upon your closed eyes; let\nthe water be of about the temperature of spring-water; apply it till\nthere is some, but not severe, pain, say for half a minute; then, with\na towel at hand, wipe the eyes dry before opening them, and rub the\nparts around smartly; after that do not read, or use your eyes in any\nway, or have a light in the room.\" I faithfully tried it, and in eight\nmonths I began to experience relief; in a year and a half I could read\nall day; in two years, all night. Let any one lose the use of his eyes\nfor five years, to know what that means. Afterwards I neglected the\npractice, and my eyes grew weaker; resumed it, and they grew stronger.\n\nThe other event to which I have referred as occurring in my college\nlife was of a far different character, and compared to which all this\nis nothing. It is lamentable that it ever should be an event in any\nhuman life. The sense of religion [34] should be breathed into our\nchildhood, into our youth, along with all its earliest and freshest\ninspirations; but it was not so with me. Religion had never been a\ndelight to me before; now it became the highest. Doubtless the change\nin its form partook of the popular character usually attendant upon\nsuch changes at the time, but the form was not material. A new day rose\nupon me. It was as if another sun had risen into the sky; the heavens\nwere indescribably brighter, and the earth fairer; and that day has\ngone on brightening to the present hour. I have known the other joys\nof life, I suppose, as much as most men; I have known art and beauty,\nmusic and gladness; I have known friendship and love and family ties;\nbut it is certain that till we see GOD in the world--GOD in the bright\nand boundless universe we never know the highest joy. It is far more\nthan if one were translated to a world a thousand times fairer than\nthis; for that supreme and central Light of Infinite Love and Wisdom,\nshining over this world and all worlds, alone can show us how noble and\nbeautiful, how fair and glorious, they are. In saying this, I do not\narrogate to myself any unusual virtue, nor forget my defects; these are\nnot the matters now in question. Nor, least of all, do I forget the\ngreat Christian ministration of light and wisdom, of hope and help to\nus. But the one thing that is especially signalized in my experience is\nthis, the Infinite Goodness and Loveliness began to be [35] revealed to\nme, and this made for me \"a new heaven and a new earth.\"\n\nThe sense of religion comes to men under different aspects; that is,\nwhere it may be said to come; where it is not imbibed, as it ought to\nbe, in early and unconscious childhood, like knowledge, like social\naffection, like the common wisdom of life. To some, it comes as the\nconsoler of grief; to others, as the deliverer from terror and wrath To\nme it came as filling an infinite void, as the supply of a boundless\nwant, and ultimately as the enhancement of all joy. I had been somewhat\nsad and sombre in the secret moods of my mind, read Kirke White and\nknew him by heart; communed with Young's \"Night Thoughts,\" and with his\nprose writings also; and with all their bad taste and false ideas of\nreligion, I think they awaken in the soul the sense of its greatness\nand its need. I nursed all this, something like a moody secret in my\nheart, with a kind of pride and sadness; I had indeed the full measure\nof the New England boy's reserve in my early experience, and did not\ncare whether others understood me or not. And for a time something\nof all this flowed into my religion. I was among the strictest of my\nreligious companions. I was constant to all our religious exercises,\nand endeavored to carry a sort of Carthusian silence into my Sundays.\nI even tried, absurdly enough, to pass that day without a smile upon\nmy countenance. It was on the ascetic side only that I [36] had\nany Calvinism in my religious views, for in doctrine I immediately\ntook other ground. I maintained, among my companions, that whatever\nGod commanded us to do or to be, that we had power to do and be.\nAnd I remember one day rather impertinently saying to a somewhat\ndistinguished Calvinistic Doctor of Divinity: \"You hold that sin is an\ninfinite evil?\" \"Yes.\" \"And that the atonement is infinite?\" \"Yes.\"\n\"Suppose, then, that the first sinner comes to have his sins cancelled;\nwill he not require the whole, and nothing will be left?\" \"Infinites!\ninfinites!\" he exclaimed; \"we can't reason about infinites!\"\n\nIn connection with the religious ideas and impressions of which I have\nbeen speaking, comes before me one of the most remarkable persons\nthat I knew in my youth, Paul Dewey, Uncle Paul, we always called\nhim. He was my father's cousin, and married my mother's half-sister.\nHis religion was marked by strong dissent from the prevailing views;\nindeed, he was commonly regarded as an infidel. But I never heard\nhim express any disbelief of Christianity. It was against the Church\nconstruction of it, against the Orthodox creed, and the ways and\nmethods of the religious people about him, that he was accustomed\nto speak, and that in no doubtful language. I was a good deal with\nhim during the year before I went to college, for he taught me the\nmathematics; and one day he said to me, \"Orville, you are going to\ncollege, and you will [37] be converted there.\" I said, \"Uncle, how\ncan you speak in that way to me?\" \"Nay,\" he replied, \"I am perfectly\nserious; you will be converted, and when you are, write to me about\nit, for I shall believe what you say.\" When that happened which he\npredicted,--when something had taken place in my experience, of which\nneither he, nor I then, had any definite idea, I wrote to him a long\nletter, in which I frankly and fully expressed all my feelings, and\ntold him that what he had thus spoken of, whether idly or sincerely,\nhad become to me the most serious reality. I learned from his family\nafterwards that my letter seemed to make a good deal of impression\non him. He was true to what he had said; he did take my testimony\ninto account, and from that time after, spoke with less warmth and\nbitterness upon such subjects. Doubtless his large sagacity saw an\nexplanation of my experience, different from that which I then put\nupon it. But he saw that it was at least sincere, and respected it\naccordingly. Certainly it did not change his views of the religious\nministrations of the Church. He declined them when they were offered\nto him upon his death-bed, saying plainly that he did not wish for\nthem. He was cross with Church people even then, and said to one of\nthem who called, as he thought obtrusively, to talk and pray with him,\n\"Sir, I desire neither your conversation nor your prayers.\" All this\nwhile, it is to be remembered that he was a man, not only of [38]\ngreat sense, but of incorruptible integrity, of irreproachable habits,\nand of great tenderness in his domestic relations. Whatever be the\nreligious judgments formed of such men, mine is one of mingled respect\nand regret. It reminds me of an anecdote related of old Dr. Bellamy,\nof Connecticut, the celebrated Hopkinsian divine, who was called into\ncourt to testify concerning one of his parishioners, against whom\nit was sought to be proved that he was a very irascible, violent,\nand profane man; and as this man was, in regard to religion, what\nwas called in those days \"a great opposer,\" it was expected that the\nDoctor's testimony would be very convincing and overwhelming. \"Well,\"\nsaid Bellamy, \"Mr. X is a rough, passionate, swearing man,--I am sorry\nto say it; but I do believe,\" he said, hardly repressing the tears that\nstarted, \"that there is more of the milk of human kindness in his heart\nthan in all my parish put together!\"\n\nI may observe, in passing, that I heard, in those days, a great deal\nof dissent expressed from the popular theology, beside my uncle's. I\nheard it often from my father and his friends. It was a frequent topic\nin our house, especially after a sermon on the decrees, or election,\nor the sinner's total inability to comply with the conditions on which\nsalvation was offered to him. The dislike of these doctrines increased\nand spread here, till it became a revolt of nearly half the town,\nI think, against them; and thirty years ago a Liberal [39] society\nmight have been built up in Sheffield, and ought to have been. I very\nwell remember my father's coming home from the General Court [The\nMassachusetts Legislative Assembly is so called.--M. E. D.], of which\nhe was a member, and expressing the warmest admiration of the preaching\nof Channing. The feeling, however, of hostility to the Orthodox faith,\nin his time, was limited to a few; but somebody in New York, who was\nacquainted with it,--I don't know who,--sent up some infidel books. One\nof them was lying about in our house, and I remember seeing my mother\none day take it and put it into the fire. It was a pretty resolute act\nfor one of the gentlest beings that I ever knew, and decisively showed\nwhere she stood. She did not sympathize with my father in his views of\nreligion, but meekly, and I well remember how earnestly, she sought and\nhumbly found the blessed way, such as was open to her mind.\n\nAs my whole view of religion was changed from indifference or aversion\nto a profound interest in it, a change very naturally followed in my\nplan for future life, that is, in my choice of a profession,--very\nnaturally, at least then; I do not say that it would be so now.\nI expected to be a lawyer; and I have sometimes been inclined to\nregret that I was not; for courts of law always have had, and have\nstill, a strange fascination for me, and I see now that a lawyer's\nor physician's life may be [40] actuated by as lofty principles, and\nmay be as noble and holy, as a clergyman's. But I did not think so\nthen. Then, I felt as if the life of a minister of religion were the\nonly sacred, the only religious life; as, in regard to the special\nobjects with which it is engaged, it is. But what especially moved me\nto embrace it, I will confess, was a desire to vindicate for religion\nits rightful claim and place in the world, to roll off the cloud and\ndarkness that lay upon it, and to show it in its true light. It had\nbeen dark to me; it had been something strange and repulsive, and even\nunreal,--something conjured up by fear and superstition. I came to see\nit as the divinest, the sublimest, and the loveliest reality, and I\nburned with a desire that others should see it.\n\nThis \"divine call\" I had, whether or not it answers to what is commonly\nmeant by that phrase, and I am glad that I obeyed it.\n\nBut now, how was I to prosecute this design? how carry on the\npreparatory studies, when my eyes did not permit me to read more than\nhalf an hour a day? I hesitated and turned aside, first to teach a\nschool in Sheffield for a year, and next, for another year, to try\na life of business in New York. At length, however, my desire for\nmy chosen profession became so irrepressible, that I determined to\nenter the Theological Seminary at Andover, and to pursue my studies\nas well as I could without my eyes, expecting afterwards to preach\nwithout notes. [41] At Andover I passed three years, attending to\nthe course of studies as well as I was able. I gave to Hebrew the\nhalf-hour a day that I was able to study; with the Greek Testament I\nwas familiar enough to go on with my room-mate, Cyrus Byington, {3}\nwho since has spent his life as a missionary among the Choctaws; and\nfor reading I was indebted to his unvarying kindness and that of my\nclassmates and friends. Still, I was left, some hours of every day, to\nmy own meditations. But the being obliged to think for myself upon the\ntheological questions that daily came before [42] the class, instead of\nreading what others had said about them, seemed to me not without its\nadvantages.\n\n    {FN 3: Byington was a young lawyer, here in Sheffield, of\n    good abilities and prospects, but under a strong religious\n    impression he determined to quit the law and study theology.\n    He was a man of ardent temperament, whose thoughts were all\n    feelings as well, which, though less reliable as thought,\n    were strong impulses, always directed, consecrated to good\n    ends. A being more unselfish, more ready to sacrifice himself\n    for others, could not easily be found. This spirit made him\n    a missionary. When our class was about leaving Andover, the\n    question was solemnly propounded to us by our teachers, who\n    of us would go to the heathen--I well remember the pain and\n    distress with which Byington examined it,--for no person could\n    be more fondly attached to his friends and kindred,--his final\n    decision to go, and the perfect joy he had in it after his\n    mind was made up. He went to the Choctaw and Cherokee Indians\n    in Florida, and, on their removal to the Arkansas reservation,\n    accompanied them, and spent his life among them. He left,\n    as the fruit of one part of his work, a Choctaw grammar and\n    dictionary, and a yet better result in the improved condition\n    of those people. Late in life, on a visit here, he told me\n    that the converted Indians in Arkansas owned farms around him,\n    laboring, and living as respectably as white people do. Here\n    was that very civilization said to be impossible to the Indian.}\n\nAndover had its attractions, and not many distractions. I liked it,\nand I disliked it. I liked it for its opportunities for thorough\nstudy,--our teachers were earnest and thorough men,--and for the\nassociates in study that it gave me. I could say, \"For my companions'\nsake, peace be within thy walls.\" I disliked it for its monastic\nseclusion. Not that this was any fault of the institution, but for\nthe first time in my life I boarded in commons; the domestic element\ndropped out of it, and I was persuaded, as I never had been before, of\nthe beneficence of that ordinance that \"sets the solitary in families.\"\nIt was a fine situation in which to get morbid and dispirited and\ndyspeptic. On the last point I had some experiences that were somewhat\nnotable to me. We were directed, of course, to take a great deal of\nexercise. We were very zealous about it, and sometimes walked five\nmiles before breakfast, and that in winter mornings. It did not avail\nme, however; and I got leave to go out and board in a family, half a\nmile distant. I found that the three miles a day in going back and\nforth, that regular exercise, was worth more to me than all my previous\nand more violent efforts in that way. But I imagine that was not all.\nI had the misfortune to scald my foot, and was obliged for three weeks\nto sit perfectly still. [43] When I came back, Professor Stuart said\nto me, \"Well, how is it with your dyspepsia?\" \"All gone,\" was the\nreply. \"But how have you lived?\" for his dietetics were very strict.\n\"Why, I have eaten pies and pickles,--and pot-hooks and trammels I\nmight, for any harm in the matter.\" Here was a wonder,----no exercise\nand no regimen, and I was well! The conclusion I came to, was, on the\nwhole, that cheerfulness first, and next regularity, are the best\nguards against the monster dyspepsia. And another conclusion was, that\nexercise can no more profitably be condensed than food can.\n\nAs to morbid habits of mind, to which isolated seminaries are exposed,\nI had also some experience. What complaints of our spiritual dulness\nconstantly arose among us! And there was other dulness, too,--physical,\nmoral, social. I remember, at one time, the whole college fell into a\nstrange and unaccountable depression. The occasion was so serious that\nthe professors called us together in the chapel to remonstrate with\nus; and, after talking it all over, and giving us their advice, one of\nthem said: \"The evil is so great, and relief so indispensable, that I\nwill venture to recommend to you a particular plan. Go to your rooms;\nassemble some dozen or twenty in a room; form a circle, and let the\nfirst in it say 'Haw!' and the second 'Haw!' and so let it go round;\nand if that does n't avail, let the first again say 'Haw! haw!' and so\non.\" We tried it, [44] and the result may be imagined. Very astonishing\nit must have been to the people without, but the spell was broken.\n\nBut more serious matters claim attention in connection with Andover. I\nwas to form some judgment upon questions in theology. I certainly was\ndesirous of finding the Orthodox system true. But the more I studied\nit, the more I doubted. My doubts sprung, first, from a more critical\nstudy of the New Testament. In Professor Stuart's crucible, many a\nsolid text evaporated, and left no residuum of proof. I was startled\nat the small number of texts, for instance, which his criticism left\nto support the doctrine of \"the personality of the Holy Spirit.\" I\nremember saying to him in the class one day, when he had removed\nanother prop,--another proof-text: \"But this is one of the two or three\npassages that are left to establish the doctrine.\" His answer was: \"Is\nnot one declaration of God enough? Is it not as strong as a thousand?\"\nIt silenced, but it did not satisfy me. In the next place, I found\ndifficulties in our theology from looking at it in a point of view\nwhich I had not before considered, and that was the difference between\nwords and ideas, between the terms we used and the actual conceptions\nwe entertained, or between the abstract thesis and the living sense of\nthe matter. Thus with regard to the latter point, I found that the more\nI believed in the doctrine of literally eternal punishments, the more\n[45] I doubted it. As the living sense of it pressed more and more upon\nmy mind, it became too awful to be endured; it darkened the day and the\nvery world around me. At length I could not see a happy company or a\ngay multitude without falling into a sadness that marred and blighted\neverything. All joyous life, seen in the light of this doctrine, seemed\nto me but a horrible mockery. It is evident that John Forster's doubts\nsprung from the same cause. And then, I had been accustomed to use the\nterms \"Unity\" and \"Trinity\" as in some vague sense compatible; but\nwhen I came to consider what my actual conceptions were, I found that\nthe Three were as distinct as any three personalities of which I could\nconceive. The service which Dr. Channing's celebrated sermon at the\nordination of Mr. Sparks in Baltimore did me, was to make that clear\nto me. With such doubts, demanding further examination, I left the\nSeminary at Andover.\n\nWe parted, we classmates, many of us in this world never to meet again.\nSome went to the Sandwich Islands, one to Ceylon, one to the Choctaw\nIndians; most remained at home, some to hold high positions in our\nchurches and colleges, Wheeler, President of the Vermont University,\na liberal-minded and accomplished man; Torrey, Professor in the same,\na man of rare scholarship and culture; Wayland, President of Brown\nUniversity, in Rhode Island, well and widely [46] known; and Haddock,\nProfessor in Dartmouth College, New Hampshire, and recently our charge\nd'affaires in Portugal. Haddock, I thought, had the clearest head among\nus. Our relations were very friendly, though I was a little afraid of\nhim, and with him I first visited his uncle, Daniel Webster, in Boston.\nI was struck with what Mr. Webster said of him, many years after,\nconsidering that the great statesman was speaking of a comparatively\nretired and studious man: \"Haddock I should like to have always with\nme; he is full of knowledge, of the knowledge that I want, pure-minded,\nagreeable, pious,\" I use his very words, \"and if I could afford it,\nand he would consent, I would take him to myself, to be my constant\ncompanion.\"\n\nI left Andover, then, in the summer of 1819, and in a state of mind\nthat did not permit me to be a candidate for settlement in any of\nthe churches. I therefore accepted an invitation from the American\nEducation Society to preach in behalf of its objects, in the churches\ngenerally, through the State, and was thus occupied for about eight\nmonths.\n\nSome time in the spring, I think, of 1820, I went down to Gloucester\nto preach in the old Congregational Church, and was invited to become\nits pastor. I replied that I was too unsettled in my opinions to be\nsettled anywhere. The congregation then proposed to me to come and\npreach [47] a year to them, postponing the decision, both on their part\nand mine, to the end of it. I was very glad to accept this proposition,\nfor a year of retired and quiet study was precisely what I wanted. I\nspent that year in examining the questions that had arisen in my mind,\nespecially with regard to the Trinity. I read Emlyn's \"Humble Inquiry,\"\nYates and Wardlaw, Channing and Worcester, besides other books; but\nespecially I made the most thorough examination I was able, of all the\ntexts in both Testaments that appeared to bear upon the subject. The\nresult was an undoubting rejection of the doctrine of the Trinity. The\ngrounds for this, and other modifications of theological opinion, I\nneed not give here; they are sufficiently stated in what I have written\nand published.\n\nAnd here let me say that, although I had my anxieties, I had none about\nmy personal hold upon heart-sustaining truth. It was emphatically a\nyear of prayer, if I may without presumption or indelicacy say so.\nHumbly and earnestly I sought to the God of wisdom and light to guide\nme; and I never felt for a moment that I was perilling my salvation.\nI had a foundation of repose, stronger than mere theology can give,\ndeep and sure beneath me. I had indeed my anxieties. I felt as if I\nwere putting in peril all my worldly welfare. All the props which a\nman builds up around him in his early studies, all the props of church\nrelationship and religious friendship, seemed to be suddenly falling\naway, and I was [48] about to take my stand on the threshold of life,\nalone, unsupported, and unfriended.\n\nI soon had practical demonstration of this, not only in the coldness\nand the withdrawal of friends, all natural enough, I suppose, and\nconscientious, no doubt, but in the summons of the Presbytery of the\ncity of New York, from which I had taken out my license to preach,\nto appear before it and answer to the charge of heresy. The summons\nwas made in terms at war, I thought, with Christian liberty, and I\nrefused to obey it. The terms may have been in consonance with the\nPresbyterian discipline, and perhaps I ought not to have refused. What\nI felt was, and this, substantially, I believe, was what I said, that,\nif \"the Presbytery propose to examine me simply to ascertain whether\nmy opinions admit of my standing in the Presbyterian Church, I have no\nobjection; I neither expect nor wish to remain with it; but it appears\nto me to assume a right and authority over my opinions to which I\ncannot submit.\"\n\nAt the end of the year passed in Gloucester, it appeared that the\ncongregation was about equally divided on the question of retaining me\nas pastor; at any rate, the circumstances did not permit me to think\nof it, and I went up to Boston to assist Dr. Channing in his duties as\npastor of the Federal Street Church.\n\nBut I must not pass over, yet cannot comment upon, the great event of\nmy year at Gloucester, the greatest and happiest of my life, my [49]\nmarriage. {4} It took place in Boston, on the 26th day of December,\n1820, the Rev. Dr. Jarvis officiating as clergyman, my wife's family\nbeing then in attendance upon his church. As in the annals of nations\nit is commonly said that, while calamities and disasters crowd the\npage, the happy seasons are passed over in silence and have no record,\nso let it be here.\n\nMy going up to Boston, to be acquainted with Channing, and to preach\nin his church, excited in me no small expectation and anxiety. I\napproached both the church and the man with something of trembling.\nOf Channing, of his character, of his conversation, and the great\nimpression it made upon me, as upon everybody that approached him, I\nhave already publicly spoken, in a sermon {5} which I delivered on my\nreturn from Europe after his death, and in a letter to be inserted in\nDr. Sprague's \"Annals of the American Pulpit.\" In entering the pulpit\nof Dr. Channing, as his assistant for a season, I felt that I was\ncommitting myself to an altogether new ordeal, I had been educated in\nthe Orthodox Church; I knew little or nothing about the style and way\nof preaching in the Unitarian churches; I knew only the pre-eminent\nplace which Dr.\n\n    {FN 4: To Louisa Farnham, daughter of William Farnham, of\n    Boston. M. E. D.}\n\n    {FN 5: This sermon, a noble, tender, and discriminating tribute\n    to Dr. Channing, was reprinted in 1831, on the occasion of the\n    Channing Centennial Celebration at Newport, R. I.--M. E. D.}\n\n[50] Channing occupied, both as writer and preacher, and I naturally\nfelt some anxiety about my reception. I will only say that it was kind\nbeyond my expectation. After some months Dr. Channing went abroad, and\nI occupied his pulpit till he returned. In all, I was in his pulpit\nabout two years. On my taking leave of it, the congregation presented\nme with a thousand dollars to buy a library. It was a most timely and\nwelcome gift.\n\nDuring my residence in Boston, I made my first appearance, but\nanonymously, in print, in an essay entitled \"Hints to Unitarians.\" How\nready this body of Christians has always been to accept sincere and\nhonest criticism, was evinced by the reception of my adventurous essay.\nMy gratification, it may be believed, was not small on learning that\nit had been quoted with approbation in the English Unitarian pulpits;\nand Miss Martineau told me, when she was in this country, then learning\nthat I was the author, that she, with a friend of hers, had caused it\nto be printed as a tract for circulation. She would say now that it was\nin her nonage that she did it.\n\nThe most remarkable man, next to Channing, that I became acquainted\nwith during this residence of two years in Boston, was Jonathan\nPhillips. He was a merchant by profession, but inherited a large\nfortune, and was never, that I know, engaged much in active business.\nHe led, when I knew him, a contemplative life, was an assiduous reader,\nand a deeper thinker. He had [51] a splendid library, and spent much\nof his time among his books. If he had had the proper training for\nit, I always thought he would have made a great metaphysician. His\nconversation was often profound, and always original, always drawn\nfrom the workings of his own mind, and was always occupied with\ngreat philosophical and religious themes. It was born of struggle,\nmore, I think, than any man's I ever talked with. For he had a great\nmoral nature, and great difficulties within, arising partly from his\nreligious education, but yet more from the contact with actual life of\na very sensitive temperament and much ill health. He had worked his way\nout independently from the former, and stood on firm ground; and when\nsome of his family friends charged Channing with having drawn him away\nfrom Orthodoxy, Channing replied, \"No; he has influenced me more than I\nhave influenced him.\"\n\nIn London, in 1833, I met Mr. Phillips with Dr. Tuckerman, well known\nas the pioneer in the \"Ministry to the Poor in Cities,\" about to take\nthe tour on the Continent. He invited me to join them, and we travelled\ntogether on the Rhine and in Switzerland. It was on this journey that\nI became acquainted with the sad effect produced upon him by great and\ndepressing indisposition. His case was very singular, and explains\nthings in him that surprised his acquaintances very much, and, in\nfact, did him much wrong with them. It was a scrofulous condition of\nthe stomach, and [52] when developed by taking cold, it was something\ndreadful to hear him describe. The effect was to make entirely another\nman of him. He who was affluent in means and disposition became\nsuddenly not only depressed and melancholy, but anxious about expenses,\nsharp with the courier upon that point, and not at all agreeable as a\ntravelling companion. But when the fit passed off, which seemed for\nthe time to be a kind of insanity, his spirits rose, and his released\nfaculties burst out in actual splendor. He became gay; he enjoyed\neverything, and especially the scenery around him. I never knew before\nthat his aesthetic nature was so fine. He said so many admirable things\nwhile we were going over Switzerland, that I was sorry afterwards that\nI had not noted them down at the time, and written a sheet or two of\nPhillipsiana. His countenance changed as much as his conversation,\nand its expression became actually beautiful. There was a miniature\nlikeness taken of him in London. I went to see it; and when I expressed\nto the artist my warm approval of it, he said: \"I am glad to have you\nsay that; for I wanted to draw out all the sweetness of that man's\nface.\" {6}\n\nOne of the most distinguished persons in Dr. Channing's congregation\nwas Josiah Quincy, who, during his life, occupied high positions in the\ncountry, and of a very dissimilar character,--\n\n    {FN 6: the point in this is that Mr. Phillips' features were\n    of singular and almost repellent homeliness till irradiated by\n    thought or emotion. M. E. D.}\n\n[53] Member of Congress, Mayor of Boston, and President of Harvard\nUniversity, all of which posts he filled with credit and ability;\nalways conscientious, energetic, devoted to his office, high-toned, and\ndisinterested. He was a model of pure and unselfish citizenship, and\ndeserves for that a statue in Boston.\n\nWhen Mr. Quincy was a very old man, I asked him one day how he had come\nto live so long, and in such health and vigor. He answered: \"For forty\nyears I have taken no wine; and every morning, before dressing myself,\nI have spent a quarter of an hour in gymnastic exercises.\" I adopted\nthe practice, and have found it of great benefit, both as exercise, and\ninuring against colds. It is really as much exercise as a mile or two\nof walking. President Felton said: \"After that, I can let the daily\nexercise take care of itself, without going doggedly about it.\" I find\nthat a good many studious men are doing the same thing. I asked Bryant\nhow much time he gave, and he said, \"Three quarters of an hour.\" After\nthat, at least in his summer home, he is upon his feet almost as much\nas a cat, and about as nimbly. With his thin and wiry frame, and simple\nhabits, he is likely to live to a greater age than anybody I know.\n[Mr. Bryant and my father were about of an age. They had known each\nother almost from boyhood, and their friendship had matured with time.\nThe sudden death of the poet in 1878, from causes that seemed almost\naccidental, was a great and unexpected blow to the survivor, then\nhimself in feeble health. M. E. D.]\n\n[54] I shall add a word about the healthfulness of these exercises,\nsince it is partly my design in this sketch to give the fruits of my\nexperience. It is true one cannot argue for everybody from his own\ncase. Nevertheless, I am persuaded that this morning exercise and the\ninuring would greatly promote the general health. \"Catching cold\" is\na serious item in the lives of many people. One, two, or three months\nof every year they have a cold. For thirty years I have bathed in cold\nwater and taken the air-bath every morning; and in all that time, I\nthink, I have had but three colds, and I know where and how I got\nthese, and that they might have been avoided.\n\nBut I have wandered far from my ground, Boston, and my first residence\nthere. I was Dr. Channing's guest for the first month or two, and then\nand afterwards knew all his family, consisting of three brothers and\ntwo sisters. They were not people of wealth or show, but something\nmuch better. Henry lived in retirement in the country, not having\nan aptitude for business, but a sensible person in other respects.\nGeorge was an auctioneer, but left business and became a very ardent\nmissionary preacher; and Walter was a respectable physician. William\nwas placed in easy circumstances by his marriage. Their sister Lucy,\nMrs. Russel of New York, told me that she was very much amused one day\nby something that her brother William said to Walter. \"Walter,\" he\nsaid, \"I think we are a very [55] prosperous family. There is Henry, he\nis a very excellent man. And George, why, George has come out a great\nspiritual man. And you, you know how you are getting along. And as for\nme, I do what I can. I think we are a very prosperous family.\"\n\nMrs. Russel was a person of great sense, of strong, quiet thought\nand feeling; and some of her friends used to say that, with the same\nadvantages and opportunities her brother had, she would have been his\nequal.\n\nOn a day's visit which Henry once made me in New Bedford, I remember we\nhad a long conversation on hunting and fishing, in which he condemned\nthem, and I defended. Pushed by his arguments, at length I said, \"for\nI went a-fishing myself sometimes with a boat on the Acushnet; yes,\nand barely escaped once being carried out to sea by the ebb tide,\" I\nsaid, \"My fishing is not a reckless destruction of life; somebody must\ntake fish, and bring them to us for food, and those I catch come to\nmy table.\" \"Now,\" said he, \"that is as if you said to your butcher,\nYou have to slay a certain number of cattle, calves, and sheep, and\nturkeys, and fowls for my table; let me have the pleasure of coming and\nkilling them myself.\"\n\nOf Dr. Channing himself, I should, of course, have much to say here,\nif, as I have just said, I had not already expressed my thoughts of\nhim in print. His conversation struck me most; more [56] even than any\nof his writings ever did. He was an invalid, and kept much at home and\nindoors, and he talked hour after hour, day after day, and sometimes\nfor a week, upon the same subject, without ever letting it grow\ndistasteful or wearisome. Edward Everett said, he had just returned\nfrom Europe, where doubtless he had seen eminent persons, \"I have never\nmet with anybody to whom it was so interesting to listen, and so hard\nto talk when my turn came.\" There was, indeed, a grand and surprising\nsuperiority in Channing's talk, both in the topics and the treatment of\nthem. There was no repartee in it, and not much of give and take, in\nany way. People used to come to him, his clerical brethren, I remember\nHenry Ware and others speaking of it, they came, listened to him, said\nnothing themselves, and went away. In fact, Channing talked for his own\nsake, generally. His topic was often that on which he was preparing to\nwrite. It was curious to see him, from time to time, as he talked, dash\ndown a note or two on a bit of paper, and throw it into a pigeon-hole,\nwhich eventually became quite full.\n\nIt would appear from all this that Channing was not a genial person,\nand he was not. He was too intent upon the subjects that occupied\nhis mind for that varied and sportive talk, that abandon, that\nsympathetic adjustment of his thoughts to the moods of people around\nhim, which makes the agreeable person. His thoughts [57] moved in solid\nbattalions, but they carried keen weapons. It would have been better\nfor him if he had had more variety, ease, and joyousness in society,\nand he felt it himself. He was not genial either in his conversation\nor letters. I doubt if one gay or sportive letter can be found among\nthem all. His habitual style of address, out of his own family, was \"My\ndear Sir,\" never \"My dear Tom,\" or \"My dear Phillips,\" scarcely, \"My\ndear Friend.\" Once he says, \"Dear Eliza,\" to Miss Cabot, who married\nthat noble-minded man, Dr. Follen, and in them both he always felt\nthe strongest interest. Let any one compare Channing's letters with\nthose of Lord Jeffrey, for instance. The ease and freedom of Jeffrey's\nletters, their mingled sense and playfulness, but especially the hearty\ngrasp of affection and familiarity in them, make one feel as if he were\nintroduced into some new and more charming society. Jeffrey begins one\nof his letters to Tom Moore thus: \"My dear Sir damn Sir My dear Moore.\"\nWhether there is not, among us, a certain democratic reserve in this\nmatter, I do not know; but I suspect it. Reserve is the natural defence\nset up against the claims of universal equality.\n\nIn the autumn of 1823, on Dr. Channing's return to his pulpit, I went\nto New Bedford to preach in the Congregational Church, formerly Dr.\n(commonly called Pater) West's, was invited to be its pastor, and was\nordained to that charge [58] on the 17th of December, Dr. Tuckerman\ngiving the sermon. An incident occurred at the ordination which showed\nme that I had fallen into a new latitude of religious thought and\nfeeling. After the sermon, and in the silence that followed, suddenly\nwe heard the voice of prayer from the midst of the congregation. At\nfirst we were not a little disturbed by the irregularity, and the\nclergymen who leaned over the pulpit to listen looked as if they would\nhave said, \"This must be put a stop to\"; but the prayer, which was\nshort, went on, so simple, so sincere, so evidently unostentatious\nand indeed beautiful, so in hearty sympathy with the occasion, and in\ndesire for a blessing on it, that when it closed, all said, \"Amen!\nAmen!\" It was a pretty remarkable conquest over prejudice and usage,\nachieved by simple and self-forgetting earnestness. Indeed, it seemed\nto have a certain before unthought-of fitness, as a response from the\ncongregation, which is not given in our usual ordination services. The\nten years' happy, and, I hope, not unprofitable ministration on my\npart that followed, and of fidelity on the part of the people, were\nperhaps some humble fulfilment and answer to the good petitions that\nit offered, and to all the brotherly exhortations and supplications of\nthat hour.\n\nThe congregation was small when I became its pastor, but it grew; a\nconsiderable number of families from the Society of Friends connected\n[59] themselves with it, and it soon rose, as it continues still, to be\none of the wealthiest and most liberal societies in the country.\n\nMy duties were very arduous. There was no clergyman with whom I could\nexchange within thirty miles; {7} relief from this quarter, therefore,\nwas rare, not more than four or five Sundays in the year. I was most\nof the time in my own pulpit, sometimes for ten months in succession.\nIn addition to this, I became a constant contributor to the \"Christian\nExaminer,\" for some years, I think as often as to every other number.\nIt was not wise. The duties of the young clergyman are enough for him.\nThe lawyer, the physician, advances slowly to full practice; the whole\nweight falls upon the clergyman's young strength at once. Mine sunk\nunder it. I brought on a certain nervous disorder of the brain, from\nwhich I have never since been free. Of course it interfered seriously\nwith my mental work. How many days hundreds and hundreds did one hour's\nstudy in the morning paralyze and prostrate me as completely as if I\nhad been knocked on the head, and lay me, for hours after, helpless\non my sofa! After the Sunday's preaching, the effect of which upon me\nwas perhaps singular, making my back and bones ache, and my sinews as\nif they had been stretched on the rack, making me [60] feel as if I\nwanted to lie on the floor or on a hard board, if any one knows what\nthat means, after all this, it would be sometimes the middle of the\nweek, sometimes Thursday or Friday, before I could begin to work again,\nand prepare for the next Sunday. My professional life was a constant\nstruggle; and yet I look back upon it, not with pain, but with pleasure.\n\n    {FN 7: This distance, which now seems so trifling, then\n    involved the hire of a horse and chaise for three days, and two\n    long days' driving through deep, sandy roads. M. E. D.}\n\nBesides all this, subjects of great religious interest to me constantly\npressed themselves upon my attention. I remember Dr. Lamson, of Dedham,\na very learned and able man, asking me one day how I \"found subjects\nto write upon;\" and my answering, \"I don't find subjects; they find\nme.\" I may say they pursued me. It may be owing to this that my sermons\nhave possibly a somewhat peculiar character; what, I do not know, but\nI remember William Ware's saying, when my first volume of Discourses\nappeared, \"that they were written as if nobody ever wrote sermons\nbefore,\" and something so they were written. I do not suppose there\nis much originality of thought in them, nor any curiosa felicitas of\nlanguage, I could not attend to it; it was as much as I could do to\ndisburden myself, but original in this they are, that they were wrought\nout in the bosom of my own meditation and experience. The pen was\ndipped in my heart, I do know that. With burning brain and bursting\ntears I wrote. Little fruit, perhaps, for so much struggle; be it so,\nthough it could not be so [61] to me. But so we work, each one in his\nown way; and altogether something comes of it.\n\nEarly in my professional life, too, I met certain questions, which\nevery thinking man meets sooner or later, and which were pressed upon\nmy mind by the new element that came into our religious society. The\nFriends are trained up to reverence the inward light, and have the less\nrespect for historical Christianity. The revelation in our nature,\nthen, and the revelation in the Scriptures; the proper place of each\nin any just system of thought and theology; what importance is to be\nassigned to the primitive intuitions of right and wrong, and what to\nthe supernaturalism, to the miracles of the New Testament, these were\nthe questions, and I discussed them a good deal in the pulpit, as\nmatters very practical to many of the minds with which I was dealing. I\nadmitted the full, nay, the supreme value of the original intuitions,\nof the inward light, of the teachings of the Infinite Spirit in the\nhuman soul; without them we could have no religion; without them\nwe could not understand the New Testament at all, and Christianity\nwould be but as light to the blind; but I maintained that Christ's\nteaching and living and dying were the most powerful appeal and help\nand guidance to the inward nature, to the original religion of the\nsoul, that it had ever received. And I believed and maintained that\nthis help, at once most divine and most human, was commended to the\nworld by miraculous [62] attestations. Not that the miracle, or the\nmiracle-sanctioned Christianity, was intended to supersede or disparage\nthe inward light; not that it made clearer the truth that benevolence\nis right, any more than it could make clearer the proposition that two\nand two make four; not that it lent a sanction to any intuitive truth,\nbut that it was the seal of a mission, this was what I insisted on. And\ncertainly a being who appeared before me, living a divine life, and\nassuring me of God's paternal care for me and of my own immortality,\nwould impress me far more, if there were \"works done by him\" which no\nother man could do, which bore witness of him. And although it should\nappear, as in a late work on \"The Progress of Religious Ideas\" it has\nbeen made to appear, that in the old systems there were foreshadowings\nof that which I receive as the most true and divine; that the light\nhad been shining on brighter and brighter through all ages, that would\nnot make it any the less credible or interesting to me, that Jesus\nshould be the consummation of all, the \"true Light\" that lighteth the\nsteps of men; and that this Light should have come from God's especial\nillumination, and should be far above the common and natural light of\nthis world's day. Nay, it would be more grateful to me to believe that\nall religions have had in them something supernaturally and directly\nfrom above, than that none have.\n\n[63] But time went on, and work went on, reason as I might; though time\nwould have lost its light and life, and work all cheer and comfort,\nif I had not believed. But work grew harder. I was obliged to take\nlonger and longer vacations, one of them five months long at the home\nin Sheffield. After this I went back to my work, preaching almost\nexclusively in my own pulpit, seldom going away, unless it was now and\nthen for an occasional sermon.\n\nI went over to Providence in 1832, to preach the sermon at Dr. Hall's\ninstallation as pastor of the First Church. Arrived on the evening\nbefore, some of us of the council went to a caucus, preparatory to\na Presidential election, General Jackson being candidate for the\nPresidency and Martin Van Buren for Vice-President. Finding the\nspeaking rather dull, after an hour or more we rose to leave, when\na gentleman touched my arm and said, \"Now, if you will stay, you\nwill hear something worth waiting for.\" We took our seats, and saw\nJohn Whipple rising to speak. I was exceedingly grateful for the\ninterruption of our purpose, for I never heard an address to a popular\nassembly so powerful; close, compact, cogent, Demosthenic in simplicity\nand force, not a word misplaced, not a word too many, and fraught with\nthat strange power over the feelings, lent by sadness and despondency,\na state of mind, I think, most favorable to real eloquence, in which\nall verbiage is eschewed, and the burden [64] upon the heart is too\nheavy to allow the speaker to think of himself.\n\nMr. Whipple was in the opposition, and his main charge against Van\nBuren especially, was, that it was he who had introduced into our\npolitics the fatal principle of \"the spoils to the victors,\" a\nprinciple which, as the orator maintained, with prophetic sagacity,\nthreatened ruin to the Republic. Still there was no extravagance in his\nway of bringing the charge. I remember his saying, \"Does Mr. Van Buren,\nthen, wish for the ruin of his country? No; Caesar never wished for\nthe glory of Rome more than when he desired her to be laid, as a bound\nvictim, at his feet.\"\n\nWe have learned since more than we knew then of the direful influence\nof that party cry, \"The spoils to the victors.\" It has made our\nelections scrambles for office, and our parties \"rings.\" Mr. Whipple\nportrayed the consequences which we are now feeling, and powerfully\nurged that his State, small though it was, should do its utmost to ward\nthem off. As he went on, and carried us higher and higher, I began to\nconsider how he was to let us down. But the skilful orator is apt to\nhave some clinching instance or anecdote in reserve, and Mr. Whipple's\nclose was this:\n\n\"There sleep now, within the sound of my voice, the bones of a man who\nonce stood up in the revolutionary battles for his country. In one of\nthem, he told me, [65] when the little American army, ill armed, ill\nclad, and with bleeding feet, was drawn up in front of the disciplined\ntroops of England, General Washington passed along our lines, and when\nhe came before us, he stopped, and said, 'I place great confidence\nin this Rhode Island regiment.' And when I heard that,\" said he, \"I\nclasped my musket to my breast, and said, Damn 'em; let 'em come!\" \"The\nimmortal Chieftain\" [said the orator] \"is looking down upon us now; and\nhe says, 'I place great confidence in this Rhode Island regiment.'\"\n\nAnd now, on the whole, what shall I say of my life in New Bedford?\nIt was, in the main, very happy. I thought I was doing good there;\nI certainly was thoroughly interested in what I was doing. I found\ncultivated and interesting society there. I made friends, who are\nsuch to me still. In the pastoral relation, New Bedford was, and long\ncontinued to be, the very home of my heart; it was my first love.\n\nIn 1827 I was invited to go to New York. I did not wish to go, so\nI expressly told the church in New York (the Second Church); but I\nconsented, in order to accomplish what they thought a great good,\nprovided my congregation in New Bedford would give their consent. They\nwould not give it; and I remained. I believe that I should have lived\nand died among them, if my health had not failed.\n\nBut it failed to that degree that I could no longer do the work, and I\ndetermined to go abroad and recruit, and recover it, if possible. [66]\nThis was in 1833. The Messrs. Grinnell & Co., of New York, offered me\na passage back and forth in their ships, one of the thousand kind and\ngenerous things that they were always doing, and I sailed from New\nYork in the \"George Washington\" on the 8th of June. It was like death\nto me to go. I can compare it to nothing else, going, as I did, alone.\nIn London I consulted Sir James Clarke, who told me that the disease\nwas in the brain, and that I must pass three or four years abroad if I\nwould recover from it. I believe I stared at his proposition, it seemed\nto me so monstrous, for he said, in fine: \"Well, you may go home in a\nyear, and think yourself well; but if you go about your studies, you\nwill probably bring on the same trouble again; and if you do, in all\nprobability you will never get rid of it.\" Alas! it all proved true.\nI came home in the spring of 1834, thinking myself well. I had had no\nconsciousness of a brain for three months before I left Europe. I went\nto work as usual; in one month the whole trouble was upon me again, and\nit became evident that I must leave New Bedford. I could write no more\nsermons; I had preached every sermon I had, that was worth preaching,\nfive times over, and I could not face another repetition. I retired\nwith my family to the home in Sheffield, and expected to pass some\nyears at least in the quiet of my native village. [67] I should like\nto record some New Bedford names here, so precious are they to me.\nMiss Mary Rotch is one, called by everybody \"Aunt Mary,\" from mingled\nveneration and affection. It might seem a liberty to call her so; but\nit was not, in her case. She had so much dignity and strength in her\ncharacter and bearing that it was impossible for any one to speak\nof her lightly. On our going to New Bedford, she immediately called\nupon us, and when she went out I could not help exclaiming, \"Wife,\nwere ever hearts taken by storm like that!\" Storm, the word would be,\naccording to the usage of the phrase; but it was the very contrary,\na perfect simplicity and kindliness. But she was capable, too, of\nrighteous wrath, as I had more than one occasion afterwards to see.\nIndeed, I was once the object of it myself. It was sometime after I\nleft New Bedford, that, in writing a review of the admirable Life of\nBlanco White by the Rev. J. H. Thom, of Liverpool, while I spoke with\nwarm appreciation of his character, I commented with regret upon his\nsaying, toward the close of his life, that he did not care whether he\nshould live hereafter; and I happened to use the phrase, \"He died and\nmade no sign,\" without thinking of the miserable Cardinal Beaufort, to\nwhom Shakespeare applies it. Aunt Mary immediately came down upon me\nwith a letter of towering indignation for my intolerance. I replied\nto her, saying that if ever I should be so [68] happy as to arrive at\nthe blessed world where I believed that she and Blanco White would\nbe, and they were not too far beyond me for me to have any communion\nwith them, she would see that I was guilty of no such exclusiveness as\nshe had ascribed to me. She was pacified, I think, and we went on, as\ngood friends as ever. Her religious opinions were of the most catholic\nstamp, and in one respect they were peculiar. The Friends' idea of the\n\"inward light\" seemed to have become with her coincident with the idea\nof the Author of all light; and when speaking of the Supreme Being,\nshe would never say \"God,\" but \"that Influence.\" That Influence was\nconstantly with her; and she carried the idea so far as to believe that\nit prompted her daily action, and decided for her every question of\nduty.\n\nMiss Eliza Rotch had come from her English home shortly before my\ngoing to New Bedford, and had brought, with her English education and\nsense, more than the ordinary English powers of conversation. She,\nlike all her family, had been bred in the Friends' Society; and she\ncame with many of them to my church. She was a most remarkable hearer.\nWith her bright face, and her full, speaking eye, and interested\nespecially, no doubt, in the new kind of ministration to which she was\nlistening, she gave me her whole attention, often slightly nodding her\nassent, unconsciously to herself and unobserved by others. She married\nProfessor John Farrar of Harvard, and [69] able mathematician, and one\nof the most genial and lovable men that ever lived.\n\nLife, in our quiet little town, was more leisurely than it is in\ncities, and the consequence was an unusual development of amusing\nqualities. There was more fun, and I ventured sometimes to say, there\nwas more wit, in New Bedford than there was in Boston. To be sure, we\ncould not pretend to compare with Boston in culture and in high and\nfine conversation, least of all in music, which was at a very low ebb\nwith us. I remember being at an Oratorio in one of our churches, where\nthe trump of Judgment was represented by a horn not much louder than a\npenny-whistle, blown in an obscure corner of the building!\n\nCharles H. Warren was the prince of humorists among us, and would have\nbeen so anywhere. Channing said to me one day, \"I want to see your\nfriend Warren; I want to see him as you do.\" I could not help replying,\n\"That you never will; I should as soon expect to hear a man laugh in a\ncathedral.\" I never knew a man quite so full of the power to entertain\nothers in conversation as he was. Lemuel Williams, his brother lawyer,\nhad perhaps a subtler wit. But the way Warren would go on, for a whole\nevening, letting off bon-mots, repartees, and puns, made one think\nof a magazine of pyrotechnics. Yet he was a man of serious thought\nand fine intellectual powers. He was an able lawyer, and, placed upon\nthe bench at an uncommonly, early [70] age, he sustained himself with\nhonor. I used to lament that he would not study more, that he gave\nhimself up so much to desultory reading; but he had no ambition. Yet,\nafter all, I believe that the physical organization has more to do with\nevery man's career than is commonly suspected. His was very delicate,\nhis complexion fair, and his face, indeed, was fine and expressive\nin a rare degree. The sanguine-bilious, I think, is the temperament\nfor deep intellectual power, like Daniel Webster's. It lends not only\nstrength, but protection, to the workings of the mind within. It is\nnot too sensitive to surrounding impressions. Concentration is force.\nLong, deep, undisturbed thinking, alone can bring out great results. I\nhave been accustomed to criticise my own temperament in this respect,\ntoo easily drawn aside from study by circumstances, persons, or things\naround me, external interests or trifles, the wants and feelings of\nothers, or their sports, a playing child or a crowing cock. My mind,\nsuch as it is, has had to struggle with this outward tendency, too much\nfeeling and sentiment, and too little patient thinking, and I believe\nthat I should have accomplished a great deal more if I had had, not the\nsanguine alone, but the sanguine-bilious temperament.\n\nManasseh Kempton had it. He was the deacon of my church. I used to\nthink that nobody knew, or at least fairly appreciated, him as I\ndid. Under that heavy brow, and phlegmatic aspect, [71] and reserved\nbearing, there was an amount of fire and passion and thought, and\nsometimes in conversation an eloquence, which showed me that, with\nproper advantages, he would have made a great man.\n\nJames Arnold was a person too remarkable to be passed over in this\naccount of the New Bedford men. With great wealth, with the most\nbeautiful situation in the town, and, yet more, with the aid of his\nwife, never mentioned or remembered but to be admired, his house was\nthe acceptable resort of strangers, more than any other among us. Mr.\nArnold was not only a man of unshaken integrity, but of strong thought;\nand if a liberal education had given him powers of utterance, the habit\nof marshalling his thoughts, equal to the powers of his mind, he would\nhave been known as one of the remarkable men in the State.\n\nOne other figure rises to my recollection, which seems hardly to belong\nto the modern world, and that is Dr. Whittredge of Tiverton. In his\nreligious faith he belonged to us, and occasionally came over to attend\nour church. I used, from time to time, to pay him visits of a day or\ntwo, always made pleasant by the placid and gentle presence of his\nwife, and by the brisk and eager conversation of the old gentleman. He\nwas acquainted in his earlier days with my predecessor, of twenty-five\nyears previous date, Dr. West, himself a remarkable man in his day,\n[72] and almost equally so, both for his eccentricity and his sense.\nAn eccentric clergyman, by the by, is rarely seen now; but in former\ntimes it was a character as common as now it is rare. The commanding\nposition of the clergy the freedom they felt to say and do what they\npleased brought that trait out in high relief. The great democratic\npressure has passed like a roller over society: everybody is afraid of\neverybody; everybody wants something, office, appointment, business,\nposition, and he is to receive it, not from a high patron, but from the\ncommon vote or opinion.\n\nDr. West's eccentricity arose from absorption into his own thoughts,\nand forgetfulness of everything around him. He would pray in the family\nin the evening till everybody went to sleep, and in the morning till\nthe breakfast was spoiled. He would preach upon some Scripture passage\ntill some one went and moved his mark forward. He once paid a visit\nto the Governor in Boston, and, having got drenched in the rain, was\nsupplied with a suit of his host's, which unconsciously, he wore home,\nand arrayed in which, he appeared in his pulpit on Sunday morning. At\nthe same time he was a man of strong and independent thought. I have\nread a \"Reply\" of his to Edwards on the Will, in which the subject was\nably discussed, but without the needful logical coherence, perhaps,\nto make its mark in the debate. [73] The conversations of West with\nhis friend, Dr. Whittredge, as the latter told me, ran constantly into\ntheological questions, upon which they differed. West was a frequent\nvisitor at Tiverton, and, when the debate drew on towards midnight,\nWhittredge was obliged to say, \"Well, I can't sit here talking with\nyou all night; for I must sleep, that I may go and see my patients\nto-morrow.\" He was vexed, he said, that he should thus seem to \"cry\nquarter\" in the controversy again and again, and he resolved that the\nnext time he met West, he would not stop, be they where they might.\nIt so happened that their next meeting was at the head of Acushnet\nRiver, three miles above New Bedford, where Whittredge was visiting his\npatients, and West his parishioners. This done, they set out towards\nevening to walk to New Bedford. Whittredge throwing the bridle-rein\nover his arm, they walked on slowly, every now and then turning aside\ninto some crook of the fence, the horse meantime getting his advantage\nin a bit of green grass, and thus they talked and walked, and walked\nand talked, till the day broke!\n\nBut the most remarkable thing about my venerable parishioner remains\nto be mentioned. Dr. Whittredge was an alchemist. He had a furnace, in\na little building separate from his house, where he kept a fire for\nforty years, till he was more than eighty, visiting it every night,\nof summer and winter alike, to be sure of keeping it alive; [74] and\nmelting down, as his family said, many a good guinea, and all to find\nthe philosopher's stone, the mysterious metal that should turn all to\ngold. From delicacy I never alluded to the subject with him, I am sorry\nnow that I did not. And he never adverted to it with me but once, and\nthat was in a way which showed that he had no mean or selfish aims in\nhis patient and mysterious search; and, indeed, no one could doubt that\nhe was a most benevolent and kind-hearted man. The occasion was this:\nHe had been to our church one day, indeed, it was his last attendance,\nand as we came down from the pulpit, where he always sat, the better\nto hear me, and as we were walking slowly through the broad aisle, he\nlaid his hand upon my shoulder, and said, \"Ah, sir, this is the true\ndoctrine! But it wants money, it wants money, sir, to spread it, and I\nhope it will have it before long.\"\n\nWhile in Europe I had kept a journal, and I low published it under the\ntitle of \"The Old World and the New,\" and about the same time, I forget\nwhich was first, a volume of sermons entitled, \"Discourses on Various\nSubjects.\" The idea of my book of travels, I think, was a good me, to\nsurvey the Old World from the experience of the New, and the New from\nthe observation of the Old; but it was so ill carried out hat what\nI mainly proposed to myself on my second visit to Europe, ten years\nafter, was to [75] fulfil, as far as I could, my original design. But\nmy health did not allow of it. I made many notes, but brought nothing\ninto shape for publication. I still believe that America has much to\nteach to Europe, especially in the energy, development, and progress\nlent to a people by the working of the free principle; and that Europe\nhas much to teach to America, in the value of order, routine, thorough\ndiscipline, thorough education, division of labor, economy of means,\nadjustment of the means to living, etc. As to my first volume of\nsermons, if any one would see his thoughts laid out in a winding-sheet,\nlet them be laid before him in printer's proofs; that which had been\nto me alive and glowing, and had had at least the life of earnest\nutterance, now, through this weary looking over of proof-sheets, seemed\ndead and shrouded for the grave. It did not seem to me possible that\nanybody would find it alive. I have hardly ever had a sadder feeling\nthan that with which I dismissed this volume from my hands.\n\nAt the time of my retirement to Sheffield, the Second Congregational\nChurch in New York, which had formerly invited me to its pulpit, was\nwithout a pastor, and I was asked to go down there and preach. I\ncould preach, though I could not write; my sermons, with their five\nearmarks upon them in New Bedford, would be new in another pulpit, and\nI consented. I was soon [76] invited to take charge of the church,\nbut declined it. It was even proposed to me to be established simply\nas preacher, and to be relieved from parochial visiting; but as the\ncongregation was small, and could not support a pastor beside me, I\ndeclined that also. But I went on preaching, and after about a year,\nfeeling myself stronger, I consented to be settled in the church with\nfull charge, and was installed on the 8th November, 1835, Dr. Walker\npreaching the sermon.\n\nThe church was on the corner of Mercer and Prince Streets; a bad\nsituation, inasmuch as it was on a corner, that is, it was noisy,\nand the annoyance became so great that I seriously thought more than\nonce of proposing to the congregation to sell and build elsewhere. On\nother accounts the church was always very pleasant to me. It was of\nmoderate size, holding seven or eight hundred people, and became in the\ncourse of a year or two quite full. The stairs to the galleries went\nup on the inside, giving it, I know not what, a kind of comfortable\nand domestic air, very social and agreeable; and last, not least, it\nwas easy to speak in. This last consideration, I am convinced, is of\nmore importance, and is so in more ways, than is commonly supposed.\nA place hard to speak in is apt to create, especially in the young\npreacher just forming his habits, a hard and unnatural manner of\nspeaking. More than one young preacher have I known, who began with\ngood natural tones, in the course of a [77] year or two, to fall into\na loud, pulpit monotone, or to bring out all his cadences with a\njerk, or with a disagreeable stress of voice, to be heard. One must\nbe heard, that is the first requisite, and to have one and another\ncome out of church Sunday after Sunday, and touch your elbow, and say,\n\"Sir, I could n't hear you; I was interested in what I could hear,\nbut just at the point of greatest interest, half of the time, I lost\nyour cadence,\" is more than any man can bear for a long time, and so\nhe resorts to loud tones and monotonous cadences, and he is obliged to\nthink, much of the time, more of the mere dry fact of being heard, than\nof the themes that should pour themselves out in full unfolding ease\nand freedom. I have fought through my whole professional life against\nthis criticism, striving to keep some freedom and nature in my speech,\nthough I have made every effort consistent with that to be heard. I\nhave not always succeeded; but I have tried, and have always been\ngrateful, a considerable virtue, especially when the hearer was himself\na little deaf to every one who admonished me. This is really a matter\nthat seriously concerns the very religion that we preach. Everybody\nknows what the preaching tone is; it can be distinguished the moment\nit is heard, outside of any church, school-house, or barn where it is\nuplifted; but few consider, I believe, of what immense disservice it is\nto the great cause we have at heart. Preaching is the [78] principal\nministration of religion, and if it be hard and unnatural, the very\nidea of religion is likely to be hard and unnatural, far away from the\nevery-day life and affections of men. Stamp upon music a character as\nhard, technical, unnatural as most preaching has, and would men be won\nby it? I do not say that what I have mentioned is the sole cause of\nthe \"preaching tone;\" false ideas of religion have, doubtless, even\nmore to do with it. But still it is of such importance that I think\nno church interior should be built without especial nay, without sole\nreference to the end for which it is built, namely, to speak in. Let\nwhat can be done for the architecture of the exterior building; but let\nnot an interior be made with recesses and projections and pillars and\ndomes, only to please the eye, while it is to hurt the edification of\nsuccessive generations, for two or for ten centuries. No ornamentation\ncan compensate for that injury. The science of acoustics is as yet but\nlittle understood; all that we seem to know thus far is that the plain,\nunadorned parallelogram is the best form. And even if we must stick to\nthat, I had rather have it than a church half ruined by architectural\ndevices. Our Protestant churches are built, not for ceremonies and\nspectacles and processions, but for prayer and preaching. And the\nfitness of means to ends that first law of architecture is sacrificed\nby a church interior made more to be looked at than to be heard in.\n[79] But to return: we were not long to occupy the pleasant little\nchurch in Mercer Street, pleasant memories I hope there are of it to\nothers besides myself. On Sunday morning, the 26th November, 1837, it\nwas burned to the ground. Nothing was saved but my library, which was\nflung out of the vestry window, and the pulpit Bible, which I have, a\npresent from the trustees.\n\nThe congregation immediately took a hall for temporary worship in the\nStuyvesant Institute, and directed its thoughts to the building of a\nnew church. Much discussion there was as to the style and the locality\nof the new structure, and at length it was determined to build in a\nsemi-Gothic style, on Broadway. I was not myself in favor of Broadway,\nit being the great city thoroughfare, and ground very expensive; but it\nwas thought best to build there. It was contended that a propagandist\nchurch should occupy a conspicuous situation, and perhaps that view\nhas been borne out by the result. One parishioner, I remember, had an\nodd, or at least an old-fashioned, idea about the matter. \"Sir,\" said\nhe, \"you don't understand our feeling about Broadway. Sir, there is but\none Broadway in the world.\" It is now becoming a street of shops and\nhotels, and is fast losing its old fashionable prestige.\n\nThe building was completed in something more than a year, and on\nthe 2d May, 1839, it was dedicated, under the name of the Church of\nthe Messiah. The burning of our sanctuary had [80] proved to be our\nupbuilding; the position of the Stuyvesant Institute on Broadway, and\nthe plan of free seats, had increased our numbers, and we entered the\nnew church with a congregation one third larger than that with which\nwe left the old. The building had cost about $90,000, and it was a\ncritical moment to us all, but to me especially, when the pews came to\nbe sold. It may be judged what was my relief from anxiety when word was\nbrought me, two hours after the auction was opened, that $70,000 worth\nof pews were taken.\n\nIt was a strong desire with me that the church should have some\npermanent name. I did not want that it should be called Dewey 's\nchurch, and then by the name of my successor, and so on; but that it\nshould be known by some fixed designation, and so pass down, gathering\nabout it the sacred associations of years and ages to come. I believe\nthat it was the first instance in our Unitarian body of solemnly\ndedicating a church by some sacred name.\n\nAnother wish of mine was to enter the new church with the Liturgy\nof King's Chapel in Boston for our form of service. The subject was\nrepeatedly discussed in meetings of the congregation; but although it\nbecame evident that there would be a majority in favor of it, yet as\nthese did not demand it, and there was a considerable minority strongly\nopposed to it, we judged that there was not a state of feeling among\nus that would justify the introduction of what so essentially [81]\nrequired unanimity and heartiness as a new form of worship. And I am\nnow glad that it was not introduced. For while I am as much satisfied\nas ever of the great utility of a Liturgy, I have become equally\nconvinced that original, spontaneous prayer is likely to open the\npreacher's heart, or to stir up the gift in him in a way very important\nto his own ministration and to the edification of his people. The best\nservice, I think, should consist of both.\n\nAnd I cannot help believing that a church service will yet be arranged\nwhich will be an improvement upon all existing ones, Roman Catholic,\nChurch of England, or any other. If in the highest ranges of human\nattainment there is to be an advancement of age beyond age, surely\nthere is to be a progress in the spirit and language of prayer. From\nsome forming hand and heart, by the united aid of consecrated genius,\nwisdom, and piety, something is to come greater than we have yet seen.\nNo Homeric poem or vision of Dante is so grand as that will be. What is\nthe highest idea of God, excluding superstition, anthropomorphism, and\nvague impersonality alike, what is the fit and true utterance of the\ndeepest and divinest heart to God, this, I must think, may well occupy\nthe sublimest meditations of human intellect and devotion. Not that\nthe entire Liturgy, however, should be the product of any one man's\nthought. I would have in a Liturgy some of the time-hallowed prayers,\nsome of the Litanies [82] that have echoed in the ear of all the ages\nfrom the early Christian time. The churches of Rome and England and\nGermany have some of these; and in a service-book, supposed to be\ncompiled by the Chevalier Bunsen, there are others, prayers of Basil\nand of Jerome and Augustine, and of the old German time. There are\nbeautiful things in them, especially in the old German prayers there is\nsomething very filial, free, and touching; but they would want a great\ndeal of expurgation, and I believe that better prayers are uttered\ntoday than were ever heard before; and it is from uttered, not written\nprayers, if I could do so by the aid of a stenographer or of a perfect\nmemory, that I would draw contributions to a book of devotion. What\nwould I not give for some prayers of Channing or of Henry Ware! some\nthat I have heard by their own firesides, or of Dr. Gardiner Spring,\nor of Dr. Payson of Portland, that I heard in church many years ago,\nfor the very words that fell from their lips! I do not believe that the\nright prayers were ever composed, Dr ever will be.\n\nAfter the dedication of our church I went on with my duties for three\nyears, and then again broke down in health, able indeed, that is,\nwith physical strength, to preach, but not able to write sermons. The\ncongregation increased; many of is members became communicants; in the\nlast Tear before I went abroad once more, the church [83] was crowded;\nin the evening especially, the aisles as well as pews were sometimes\nfilled.\n\nIt was this fulness of the attendance in the evening that reconciled\nme to a second service; especially it was that many strangers came, to\nwhom I had no other opportunity to declare my views of religion. For\nI judge that, for any given congregation, one service of worship, and\nof meditation such as the sermon is designed to awaken, is enough for\none day. In the \"Christian Examiner,\" two or three years after this,\nI think it was; I published an article on this subject, in which I\nmaintained that there was too much preaching, too much preaching for\nthe preacher, and too much preaching for the people. It was received\nwith great surprise and little favor, I believe, at the time; but since\nthen not a few persons, both of the clergy and laity, have expressed\nto me their entire agreement with it. What I said, and say, is that\none sermon, one discourse of solemn meditation, designed to make a\ndistinct and abiding impression upon the heart and life, is all that\nanybody should preach or hear in one day, and that the other part of\nSunday should be used for conference or Sunday-school, or instructive\nlecture, or something with a character and purpose different from the\nmorning meditation, something to instruct the people in the history, or\nevidences, or theory, or scriptural exposition of our religion. Indeed,\nI did this myself as often as I was able, though it tried the [84]\nreligious prejudices of some of my people, and my own too, about what a\nsermon should be. I discussed the morals of trade, political morality,\ncivic duty, that of voters, jurymen, etc., social questions, peace and\nwar, and the problem of the human life and condition. Some portions\nof these last were incorporated into the course of Lowell Lectures on\nthis subject, which I afterwards published. And it is high time to take\nthis matter into serious consideration; for in all churches where the\nhearing of two or three sermons on Sunday is not held to be a positive\nreligious duty, the second service is falling away into a thin and\nspectral shadow of public worship, discouraging to the attendants upon\nit, and dishonoring to religion itself.\n\nThe pastor of a large congregation in the city of New York has no\nsinecure. The sermons to be written, the parochial visiting, once a\nyear, at least, to each family, and weekly or daily to the sick and\nafflicted, my walks commonly extended to from four to seven miles a\nday, the calls of the poor and distressed, laboring under every kind\nof difficulty, the charities to be distributed, I was in part the\nalmoner of the congregation, the public meetings, the committees to\nbe attended, the constantly widening circle of social relations and\nengagements, the pressure, in fine, of all sorts of claims upon time\nand thought, all this made a very laborious life for me. Yet it was\npleasant, and very interesting. I thought when I [85]first went to the\ngreat city, when I first found myself among those busy throngs, none\nof whom knew me, beside those ranges of houses, none of which had any\nassociation for me, that I should never feel at home in New York. But\nit became very home-like to me. The walls became familiar to my eye;\nthe pavement grew soft to my foot. I built me a house, that first\nrequisite for feeling at home. I chanced to see a spot that I fancied:\nit was in Mercer Street, between Waverley Place and Eighth Street, just\nin the centre of everything, a step from Broadway and my church, just\nout of the noise of everything; there we passed many happy days. I have\nbeen quite a builder of houses in my life. I built one in New Bedford.\nMy study had the loveliest outlook upon Buzzard's Bay and the Elizabeth\nIslands, I shall never have such a study again. Oh, the joy of that sea\nview! When I came to it again, after a vacation's absence, it moved me\nlike the sight of an old friend. And I have built about the old home in\nSheffield, till it is almost a new erection.\n\nBut to return to New York: I was very happy there. I had a\ncongregation, I believe, that was interested in me. I made friends that\nwere and are dear to me. When I first went to New York, I was elected\na member of the Artists' Club, or Club of the Twenty-one, as it was\ncalled; by what good fortune or favor I know not, for I was the first\nclergyman that had ever been a member of it. It consisted of artists\nand other gentlemen, [86] an equal number of each. Cole and Durand\nand Ingham and Inman and Chapman and Bryant and Verplanck and Charles\nHoffman were in it when I first became acquainted with it; and younger\nartists have been brought into it since, Gray and Huntingdon and\nKensett, and other non-professional gentlemen interested in art, and\nthe meetings have been always pleasant. It was a kind of heart's home\nto me while I lived in New York, and I always resort to it now when I\ngo there, sure of welcome and kindly greeting.{8}\n\n    {FN 8: The well-known Century Club of New York is the modern\n    development of what was first known as the Sketch Club, or the\n    XXI. M. E. D.}\n\nThen, again, I had in William Ware, the pastor of the First Church,\na friend and fellow-laborer, than whom, if I were to seek the world\nover, I could not find one more to my liking. Our friendship was as\nintimate as I ever had with any man, and our constant intercourse,\nto enter his house as freely as my own, his coming to mine was as\na sunbeam, as cheering and undisturbing, I thought I could not get\nalong without it. But I was obliged to do so. He had often talked of\nresigning his situation, and I had obtained from him a promise that\nhe would never do it without consulting me. Great was my surprise,\nthen, to learn, one day while in the country, that he had sent in his\nresignation. My first word to him on going to town was, \"What is this?\nYou have broken your promise.\" \"I did not consult even [87] my father\nor my brothers,\" was his reply. I could say nothing. The truth was,\nthat things had come to that pass in his mind that the case was beyond\nconsultation. He considered himself as having made a fatal mistake in\nhis choice of a profession. I have some very touching letters from him,\nin which he dwells upon it as his \"mistake for a life.\" His nature was\nessentially artistic; he would have made a fine painter. He could have\nworked between silent walls. He could write admirably, as all the world\nknows; I need only mention \"Zenobia\" and \"Aurelian\" and \"Probus.\" But\nthere was a certain delicacy and shrinking in his nature that made it\ndifficult for him to pour himself out freely in the presence of an\naudience. And yet a congregation, consisting in part of some of the\nmost cultivated persons in New York, held him, as preacher and pastor,\nin an esteem and affection that any man might have envied.\n\nAnd to repair the circle of my happy social relations, broken by Ware's\ndeparture, came Bellows to fill his place. I gave him the right hand of\nfellowship at his ordination; and I remember saying in it, that I would\nnot have believed it possible for me to welcome anybody to the place of\nhis predecessor with the pleasure with which I welcomed him. The augury\nof that hour has been fulfilled in most delightful intercourse with one\nof the noblest and most generous men I ever knew. With a singularly\nclear insight and penetration [88] into the deepest things of our\nspiritual nature, with an earnestness and fearlessness breaking through\nall technical rules and theories, with a buoyancy and cheerfulness that\nnothing can dampen, with a fitness and readiness for all occasions, his\npower as a preacher and his pleasantness as a companion have made him\none of the most marked men of his day.\n\nAs to my general intercourse with society, whether in New York or\nelsewhere, I have always felt that its freedom lay under disagreeable\nrestrictions, if not under a lay-interdict; and when travelling as\na stranger I have always chosen not to be known as a clergyman, and\ncommonly was not. I once had a curious and striking illustration of\nthe feeling about clergymen to which I am alluding. I was invited by\nMr. Prescott Hall, the eminent lawyer, to meet the Kent Club at his\nhouse, a law club then just formed. As I arrived a little before the\ncompany, I said to him: \"Mr. Hall, I am sorry you have formed this kind\nof club, a club exclusively of lawyers. In Boston they have one of long\nstanding, consisting of our professions, and four members of each, that\nis of lawyers, doctors, clergymen, and merchants.\" \"To tell you the\ntruth,\" he answered, \"I don't like the clergy.\" I said that I could\nconceive of reasons, but I should like to hear him state them. \"Why,\"\nsaid, he, \"they come over me; they don't put themselves on a level\nwith me; they talk [89] ex cathedra.\" I was obliged to bow my head in\nacquiescence; but I did say, \"I think I know a class of clergymen of\nwhom that is not true; and, besides, if I could bring all the clergy of\nthis city into clubs of the Boston description, I believe those habits\nwould be broken up in a single year.\"\n\nThere were two men who came to our church whose coming seemed to be by\nchance, but was of great interest to me, for I valued them greatly.\nThey were Peter Cooper and Joseph Curtis. Neither of them, then,\nbelonged to any religious society, or regularly attended upon any\nchurch. They happened to be walking down Broadway one Sunday evening\nas the congregation were altering Stuyvesant Hall, where we then\ntemporarily worshipped, and they said, \"Let us go in were, and see\nwhat this is.\" When they came out, is they both told me, they said to\none another, \"This is the place for us\" And they immediately connected\nthemselves with the congregation, to be among its most valued members.\n\nPeter Cooper was even then meditating that plan of a grand Educational\nInstitute which he afterwards carried out. He was engaged in a large\nand successful business, and his one idea which he often discussed with\nme was to obtain the means of building that Institute. A man of the\ngentlest nature and the simplest habits; yet his religious nature was\nhis most remarkable quality. It seemed to breathe through his life as\n[90] fresh and tender as if it were in some holy retreat, instead of\na life of business. Mr. Cooper has become a distinguished man, much\nengaged in public affairs, and much in society. I have seen him but\nlittle of late years; but I trust he has not lost that which is worth\nmore than all the distinctions and riches in the world.\n\nJoseph Curtis was a man much less known generally, and yet, in one\nrespect, much more, and that was in the sphere of the public schools.\nHe did more, I think, than any man to bring up the free schools of New\nYork to such a point as compelled our Boston visitors to confess that\nthey were not a whit inferior to their own. And his were voluntary and\nunpaid services, though his means were always moderate. He neither had,\nnor made, nor cared to make, a fortune. He cared for the schools as\nfor nothing else; and there is no wiser or nobler care. For more than\ntwenty years he spent half of his time in the schools, walking among\nthem with such intelligent and gentle oversight as to win universal\nconfidence and affection, so that he was commonly called, by teachers\nand pupils, \"Father Curtis.\"\n\nAt the same time, his hand and heart were open to every call of\ncharity. I remember once making him umpire between me and Horace\nGreeley, the only time that I ever met the latter in company. He was\nsaying, after his fashion in the \"Tribune,\"--he was from nature and\ntraining a Democrat, and had no natural right ever to be in [91] the\nWhig party, he was saying that the miseries of the poor in New York\nwere all owing to the rich; when I said, \"Mr. Greeley, here sits Mr.\nJoseph Curtis, who has walked the streets of New York for more years\nthan you and I have been here, and I propose that we listen to him.\" He\ncould not refuse to make the appeal, and so I put a series of questions\nupon the point to Mr. Curtis. The answers did not please Mr. Greeley.\nHe broke in once or twice, saying, \"Am not I to have a chance to speak?\n\". But I persisted and said, \"Nay, but we have agreed to listen to Mr.\nCurtis.\" The upshot was, that, in his opinion, the miseries of the poor\nin New York were not owing to the rich, but mainly to themselves; that\nthere was ordinarily remunerative labor enough for them; and that,\nbut in exceptional cases of sickness and especial misfortune, those\nwho fell into utter destitution and beggary came to that pass through\ntheir idleness, their recklessness, or their vices. That was always\nmy opinion. They besieged our door from morning till night, and I was\nobliged to help them, to look after them, to go to their houses; my\nfamily was worn out with these offices. But I looked upon beggary as,\nin all ordinary cases, prima facie evidence that there was something\nwrong behind it.\n\nThe great evil and mischief lay in indiscriminate charity. Many were\nthe walks we took to avoid this, and often with little satisfaction. I\nhave walked across the whole breadth of the city, [92] on a winter's\nday, to find a man dressed better than I was, with blue broadcloth\nand metal buttons and new boots, and just sitting down to a very\ncomfortable dinner. The wife was rather taken aback by my entrance, it\nwas she who had come to me, and the man, of course, must say something\nfor himself, and this it was: He \"had fallen behind of late, in\nconsequence of not receiving his rents from England. He was the owner\nof two houses in Sheffield.\" \"Well,\" I said, \"If that is so, you are\nbetter off than I am;\" and I took a not very courteous leave of them.\n\nTo give help in a better way, an Employment Society was formed in\nour church to cut out and prepare garments for poor women to sew,\nand be paid for it. A salesroom was opened in Amity Street, to sell\nthe articles made up, at a trifling addition to their cost. The\nladies of the congregation were in attendance at the church, in a\nlarge ante-room, to prepare the garments and give them out, and a\nhundred or more poor women came every Thursday to bring their work and\nreceive more; and they have been coming to this day. It was thought\nan excellent plan, and was adopted by other churches. The ladies of\nAll Souls joined in it, and the institution is now transferred to that\nchurch.\n\nOne day, in the winter I think of 1837, I heard of an association of\ngentlemen formed to investigate this terrible subject of mendacity in\nour city, and to find some way of methodizing our chari-[93] ties and\nprotecting them from abuse. I went down immediately to Robert Minturn,\nwho, I was told, took a leading part in this movement, and told him\nthat I had come post-haste to inquire what he and his friends were\ndoing, for that nothing in our city life pressed upon my mind like\nthis. I used, indeed, to feel at times and Bellows had the same feeling\nas if I would fain fling up my regular professional duties, and plunge\ninto this great sea of city pauperism and misery.\n\nMr. Minturn told me that he, with four or five others, had taken up\nthis subject; that, for more than a year past, they had met together\none evening in the week to confer with one another upon it; that they\nhad opened a correspondence with all our great cities, and with some in\nEurope; and sometimes had sent out agents to inquire into the methods\nthat had been adopted to stem these enormous city evils. Mr. Minturn\nwished me to join them, and I expected to be formally invited to do\nso; but I was not, nor to a great public meeting called soon after,\nunder their auspices. I suppose there was no personal feeling against\nme, only an Orthodox one. Well, no matter. It was a noble enterprise,\nbetter than any sectarianism ever suggested, and worthy of record,\nespecially considering its spontaneity, labor, and expense.\n\nTheir plan, when matured, was this: to district the city; to appoint\none person in each district to receive all applications for aid; to\nsell tickets [94] of various values, which we could buy and give the\napplicant at our doors, to be taken to the agent, who would render the\nneeded help, according to his judgment. Of course the beggars did not\nlike it. I found that, half the time, they would not take the tickets.\nIt would give them some trouble, but the special trouble, doubtless,\nwith the reckless and dishonest among them, was that it would prevent\nthem from availing themselves of the aid of twenty families, all acting\nin ignorance of what each was doing.\n\nJonathan Goodhue was a man whom nobody that knew him can ever forget.\nTall and fine-looking in person, simple and earnest in manners, with\nsuch a warmth in his accost that to shake hands with him was to feel\nhappier for it all the day after. I remember passing down Wall Street\none day when old Robert Lenox was standing by his side. After one of\nthose warm greetings, I passed on, and Mr. Lenox said, \"Who is that?\"\n\"Mr. Dewey, a clergyman of a church in the city.\" \"Of which church?\"\nsaid Mr. Lenox. \"Of the Unitarian church.\" \"The Lord have mercy upon\nhim!\" said the old man. It was a good prayer, and I have no doubt it\nwas kindly made.\n\nAlas! What I am writing is a necrology: they are all gone of whom I\nspeak. George Curtis, too; he died before I left the Church of the\nMessiah, died in his prime. George William Curtis is [95] his son,\nwell known as one of our most graceful writers and eloquent men:\nsomething hereditary in that, for his father had one of the clearest\nheads I knew, and a gifted tongue, though he was too modest to be a\ngreat talker. He could make a good speech, and once he made one that\nwas more effective than I could have wished. The question was about\nelecting Thomas Starr King to be my colleague. The congregation was\nimmensely taken with him; but Mr. Curtis opposed on the ground that\nKing was a Universalist, and he carried everything before him. He\nsaid, as it was reported to me, \"I was born a Unitarian; I have lived\na Unitarian; and, if God please, I mean to die a Unitarian!\" He had\nthe old-fashioned, and indeed well-founded, dislike of Universalism.\nBut all that is changed now, was changing then; for the Universalists\nhave given up their preaching of no retribution hereafter. They are in\nother respects, also, Unitarians, and the two bodies affiliate and are\nfriends.\n\nMoses Grinnell was a marked man in New York. A successful and popular\nmerchant, his generosity was ample as his means; and I have known him\nin circumstances that required a higher generosity than that of giving\nmoney, and he stood the test perfectly. His mind, too, grew with his\nrise in the world. He was sent to Congress, and his acquaintance from\nthat time with many distinguished men gave a new turn to his thoughts\nand a higher tone to his character and [96] conversation. At his house,\nwhere I was often a guest, I used to meet Washington Irving, whose\nniece he married. Of course everybody knows of Washington Irving; but\nthere are one or two anecdotes, of which I doubt whether they appear\nin his biography, and which I am tempted to relate. He told me that\nhe once went to a theatre in London to hear some music. (They use\ntheatres in London as music-halls, and I went to one myself, once, to\nhear Paganini, and enjoyed an evening that I can never forget. His one\nstring for he broke all the others was a heart-string.) Mr. Irving\nsaid that on entering the theatre he found in the pit only three or\nfour English gentleman, who had evidently come early, as he had, to\nfind a good place. Accordingly, he took his seat near them, when one\nof them rather loftily said, \"That seat is engaged, sir.\" He got up\nand took a seat a little farther off, when they said, \"That, too, is\nengaged.\" Again he meekly rose, and took another place. Pretty soon one\nof the party said, \"Do you remember Washington Irving's description of\na band of music?\" (It is indeed a most amusing caricature. One of the\nperformers had blown his visnomy to a point. Another blew as if he were\nblowing his whole estate, real and personal, through his instrument.\nI quote from memory.) Mr. Irving said they went over with the whole\ndescription, with much entertainment and laughter. They little knew\nthat they had thrust aside [97] the author of their pleasure, who sat\nthere, like the great Caliph, incognito, and they would have paid him\nhomage enough if they had known him.\n\nMrs. S. told me that one evening he strolled up to their piazza, they\nlived near to one another in the country, and fell into one of those\neasy and unpremeditated talks, in which, to be sure, he was always most\npleasant, when he said, among other things, \"Don't be anxious about the\neducation of your daughters: they will do very well; don't teach them\nso many things,--teach them one thing.\" \"What is that, Mr. Irving?\" she\nasked. \"Teach them,\" he said, \"to be easily pleased.\"\n\nBryant, too, everybody knows of. Now he is chiefly known as poet; but\nwhen I went to New York-people thought most about him as editor of the\n\"Evening Post,\" and that with little enough complacency in the circles\nwhere I moved. How many a fight I had for him with my Whig friends! For\nhe was my parishioner, and it was known that we were much together. The\n\"Evening Post\" was a thorn in their sides, and every now and then, when\nsome keen editorial appeared in it, they used to say, \"There! What do\nyou say of that?\" I always said the same thing: Whether you and I like\nwhat he says or not, whether we think it fair or not, of one thing be\nsure, he is a man of perfect integrity; he is so almost to a fault, if\nthat be possible, regarding [98] neither feelings nor friendships, nor\nanything else, when justice and truth are in question.\n\nSpeaking of Bryant brings to mind Audubon, the celebrated naturalist. I\nbecame acquainted with him through his family's attending our church,\nand one day proposed to Mr. Bryant to go with me to see him. Seating\nhimself before the poet, Audubon quietly said, \"You are our flower,\"--a\nvery pretty compliment, I thought, from a man of the woods.\n\nI happened to fall in with Mr. Audubon one day in the cars going to\nPhiladelphia, when he was setting out, I think, on his last great tour\nacross the American wilderness. He described to me his outfit, to be\nassumed when he arrived at the point of departure, a suit of dressed\ndeerskin, his only apparel. In this he was to thread the forest and\nswim the rivers; with his rifle, of course, and powder and shot; a\ntin case to hold his drawing-paper and pencils, and a blanket. Meat,\nthe produce of the chase, was to be his only food, and the earth his\nbed, for two or three months. I said, shrinking from such hardship, \"I\ncould n't stand that.\"--\"If you were to go with me,\" he replied, \"I\nwould bring you out on the other side a new man.\" He broke down under\nit, however, rather prematurely; for in that condition I saw him once\nmore,--his health and faculties shattered,--near the end of his life.\n\n[99] But to return,--turning and returning upon one's self must be the\ncourse of an autobiography, my health having a second time completely\nfailed, I determined again to go abroad; and to make the measure of\nrelief more complete, I determined to go for two years, and to take my\nfamily with me. The sea was a horror to me, but beyond it lay pleasant\nlands that I wanted to look upon once more, galleries of art by which\nI wished to sit down and study at my leisure, and, above all, rest: I\nwanted to be where no one could call on me to preach or lecture, to do\nthis or do that.\n\nWe sailed for Havre in October, 1841, passed the winter in Paris,\nthe summer following in Switzerland, the next winter in Italy, and,\nreturning through Germany, spent two months in England, and came home\nin August, 1843.\n\nWhile in Geneva I was induced for my health to make trial of the\n\"water-cure,\" and first to try what they call the \"Arve bath.\" The\nCampagne at Champel, where we were passing the summer, is washed for\nhalf a mile by the Arve. In hot August days I walked slowly by the\nriver-bank, with cloak on, till a moderate perspiration was induced,\nthen jumped in,--and out as quick! for the river, though it had run\nsixty miles from its source, seemed as cold as when it left the glacier\nof the Arveiron at Chamouni. Experiencing no ill effect, however, I\ndetermined to try the regular water-cure, and for this purpose, in\n[100] our travel through Switzerland, stopped at Meyringen in the Vale\nof Hasli. I was \"packed,\"-bundled up in bed blankets every morning at\ndaybreak, went through the consequent furnace of heat and drench of\nperspiration for two or three hours,--then was taken by a servant on\nhis back, me and my wrappages, the whole bundle, and carried down to\nthe great bath, only 6 of Reaumur above ice (45 degrees Fahrenheit),\nplunged in, got out again in no deliberate way, was pushed under a\nshower-bath of the same glacier water, fought my way out of that, at\narm's end with the attendant, when he enveloped me in warm, dry sheets,\nand made me comfortable in one minute. It was of no use, however. My\nbrain grew more nervous, the doctor agreed that it did not suit me, and\nshortly I gave it up.\n\nAt Rome we were introduced with a small American party to the Pope,\nGregory XVI. It was just after the Carnival and just before Lent. The\nold man expressed his pleasure that the people had enjoyed themselves\nin Carnival, \"But now,\" said he, \"I suppose a great many of them will\nfind themselves out of health in Lent, and will want indulgences.\" I\ncould not help thinking how much that last was like a Puritan divine.\n\nWhat a life is life in Rome!--not common, not like any other, but as\nif the pressure of stupendous and crowding histories were upon every\nday. A presence haunts you that is more than all you see. We Americans,\nwith some invited [101] guests, celebrated Washington's birthday by a\ndinner. In a speech I said, \"I was asked the other day, what struck\nme most in Rome, and I answered,--To think that this is Rome!\" Lucien\nBonaparte, who sat opposite me at table, bowed his head with emphasis,\nas if he said, \"That is true.\" He was entitled to know what great\nhistoric memories are; and those of his family, criticise them as we\nmay,--and I am not one of their admirers,--do not, perhaps, fall below\nmuch of the Roman imperial grandeur.\n\nOn coming to England from the Continent, among many things to admire,\nthere were two things we were especially thankful for,--comfort\nand hospitality. We had not been in London half a day before I had\nrented a furnished house, and we were established in it. That is,\nthe owner, occupying the basement, gave us the parlors above and\nample sleeping-rooms, and the use of her servants,-we defraying the\nexpense of our table,--for so much a month. We took possession of our\napartments an hour after we had engaged them, and had nothing to do but\norder our dinner and walk out; and all this for less, I think, than it\nwould have cost us to live at a good boarding-house in Broadway.\n\nWe visited various parts of England,--Warwick, Kenilworth, Oxford,\nBirmingham, and Liverpool, and made acquaintance with persons whom\nto know was worth going far, and whom [102] to remember has been a\nconstant pleasure ever since.\n\nWell, we came back in August, 1843, in the steamer \"Hibernia.\" What\na joy to return home! We landed in Boston. The railroad across\nMassachusetts had been completed during our absence, and brought us to\nSheffield in six or seven hours; it had always been a weary journey\nbefore, of three days by coach, or a week with our own horse. A few\ndays' rest, and then six or eight hours more took us to New York, where\nwe found the water fountains opened; the Croton had been brought in\nthat summer. Did it not seem all very fit and festal to us? For we had\ncome home!\n\nMy health, however, was only partially reestablished, and the\nrecruiting which had got me for constant service in my church but three\nyears more. The winter of 1846-47 I passed in Washington, serving the\nlittle church there. En the spring I returned to New York, struggled\non with my duties in the church for another year; in the spring of\n1848 sold my house, and retired to the Sheffield home, continuing to\npreach occasionally in New York for a number of months longer, when,\nearly in 1849, my connection with the Church of the Messiah was finally\ndissolved. I would willingly have remained with it on condition of\ndischarging a partial service, with a colleague to assist me: it\nwas the only chance I saw [103] of continuing in my profession. The\ncongregation, at my instance, had sought for a colleague, both during\nmy absence in Europe and in the later years of my continuance with it,\nbut had failed,--there appearing to be some singular reluctance in our\nyoung preachers to enter into that relation,--and there seemed nothing\nfor the church to do but to inaugurate a new ministration.\n\nIt was in this crisis of my worldly affairs, so trying to a clergyman\nwho is dependent on his salary, that I experienced the benefit of a\nrule that early in life I prescribed to myself; and that was, always to\nlay up for a future day some portion of my annual income. I insisted\nupon it that, with as much foresight as the ant or the bee, I might\nbe allowed without question so to use the salary appointed to me as\nto make some provision for the winter-day of life, or for the spring\nthat would come after, and might be to others bleak and cold and\ndesolate without it. So often have I witnessed this, that I am most\nheartily thankful that, on leaving New York, I was not reduced to\nutter destitution, and that with some moderate exertion I am able to\nprovide for our modest wants. At the same time I do not feel obliged to\nconceal the conviction, and never did, that the service of religion in\nour churches meets with no just remuneration. One may suffer martyrdom\nand not complain; but I do not think one is bound to say that it is\na reasonable or pleasant thing. [104] Another thing I will be so\nfrank as to say on leaving New York, and that is, that it was a great\nmoral relief to me to lay down the burden of the parochial charge. I\nregretted to leave New York; I could have wished to live and die among\nthe friends I had there; I should make it my plan now to spend my\nwinters there, if I could afford it: but that particular relation to\nsociety,--no man, it seems to me, can heartily enter into it without\nfeeling it to weigh heavily upon him. Sympathy with affliction is the\ntrial-point of the clergyman's office. In the natural and ordinary\nrelations of life every man has enough of it. But to take into one's\nheart, more or less, the personal and domestic sorrows of two or three\nhundred families, is a burden which no man who has not borne it can\nconceive of. I sometimes doubt whether it was ever meant that any man,\nor at least any profession of men, should bear it; whether the general\nministrations of the pulpit to affliction should not suffice, leaving\nthe application to the hearer in this case as in other cases; whether\nthe clergyman's relations to distress and suffering should not be\nlike every other man's,--general with his acquaintance, intimate with\nhis friends; whether, if there were nothing conventional or customary\nabout this matter, most families would not prefer to be left to\nthemselves, without a professional call from their minister. Suppose\nthat there were no rule with regard to it; that the clergyman, like\nevery [105] other man, went where his feelings carried him, or his\nrelations warranted; that it was no more expected of him, as a matter\nof course, to call upon a bereaved family, than of any other of their\nacquaintance,--would not that be a better state of things? I am sure I\nshould prefer it, if I were a parishioner. When, indeed, the minister\nof religion wishes to turn to wise account the suffering of sickness\nor of bereavement, let him choose the proper time: reflection best\ncomes after; it is not in the midst of groans and agonies, of sobs and\nlamentations, that deep religious impressions are usually made.\n\nI have a suspicion withal, that there is something semi-barbaric in\nthese immediate and urgent ministrations to affliction, something of\nthe Indian or Oriental fashion, or something derived from the elder\ntime, when the priest was wise and the people rude. For ignorant\npeople, who have no resources nor reflections of their own, such\nministrations may be proper and needful now. I may be in the wrong\nabout all this. Perhaps I ought to suspect it. There is more that is\nhereditary in us all, I suppose, than we know. My father never could\nbear the sight of sickness or distress: it made him faint. There is a\nfirmness, doubtless, that is better than this; but I have it not. Very\nlikely I am wrong. My friend Putnam{8} lately tried to convince me of\nit, in a conversation we had; maintaining that the [106] parochial\nrelation ought not to be, and need not be, that burden upon the mind\nwhich I found it. And I really feel bound on such a point, rather than\nmyself, to trust him, one of the most finely balanced natures I ever\nknew. Why, then, do I say all these things? Because, in giving an\naccount of myself, I suppose I ought to say and confess what a jumble\nof pros and cons I am.\n\n    {FN 8: Rev. George Putnam, D. D., of Roxbury, Mass.--M. E. D.}\n\nHeaven knows I have tried hard to keep right; and if I am not as\nfull as I can hold of one-sided and erratic opinions, I think it\nsome praise. . . . I do strive to keep in my mind a whole rounded\ncircle of truth and opinion. It would be pleasant to let every mental\ntendency run its length; but I could not do so. It may be pride or\nnarrowness; but I must keep on some terms with myself. I cannot find my\nunderstanding falling into contradiction with the judgments it formed\nlast month or last year, without suspecting not only that there was\nsomething wrong then, but that there is something wrong now, to be\nresisted. That \"there is a mean in things\" is held, I believe, to be\nbut a mean apothegm now-a-days; but I do not hold it to be such. All\nmy life I have endeavored to hold a balance against the swayings of my\nmind to the one side and the other of every question. I suppose this\nappears in my course, such as it has been, in religion, in politics, on\nthe subject of slavery, of peace, of temperance, etc. It may appear to\nbe dulness or tameness or time-serving or cowardice [107] or folly, but\nI simply do not believe it to be either.\n\nBut to return: we were now once more in Sheffield, and I was without\nemployment,--a condition always most irksome to me. Hard work, I am\npersuaded, is the highest pleasure in the world, and, from the day when\nI was in college, vacations have always proved to me the most tedious\ntimes in my life.\n\nI determined, therefore, to pursue some study as far as I could, and my\nsubject,--the choice of years before,--was the philosophy of history\nand humanity. While thus engaged, I received an invitation from Mr.\nJohn A. Lowell, trustee of the Lowell Institute, to deliver one of its\nannual popular courses of lectures in Boston. This immediately gave a\ndirection to my thoughts, and by the winter of 1850-51 I was prepared\nto write the lectures, which I ventured to denominate, \"Lectures on\nthe Problem of Human Destiny,\" and I gave them in the autumn of 1851.\nMy reason for adopting such a title I gave in the first lecture, and\nI might add that, with my qualifications, I was ashamed to put at the\nhead of my humble work such great words as \"Philosophy of History and\nHumanity,\"--the title of Herder's celebrated treatise. The truth was,\nI had, or thought I had, something to say upon the philosophy of the\nhuman condition,--upon the end for man, and upon the only way in which\nit could be [108] achieved,--upon the terrible problem of sin and\nsuffering in this world,--and I tried to say it. I so far succeeded\nwith my audience in Boston, that, either from report of that, or from\nthe intrinsic interest of the subject, I was invited to repeat the\nlectures in various parts of the country; and during the four or five\nyears following I repeated them fifteen times,--in New Bedford, New\nYork, Brooklyn, Washington, Baltimore, St. Louis, Louisville, Madison,\nCincinnati, Nashville, Sheffield, Worcester, Charleston, S. C., New\nOrleans, and Savannah in part, and the second time also, I gave them,\nby Mr. Lowell's request, in the Boston Institute. At the same time,\nI was not idle as a preacher, having preached every Sunday in the\nplaces where I lectured, besides serving the church in Washington two\nlong winters. I also wrote another course of lectures for the Lowell\nInstitute, on the \"Education of the Human Race,\" and repeated it in\nseveral places.\n\nAt the time that I was invited to Washington, I received, in February,\n1851, a document from the Government, which took me so much by surprise\nthat I supposed it must be a mistake. It was no other than a commission\nas chaplain in the Navy. I wrote to a gentleman in Washington, asking\nhim to make inquiry for me, and ascertain what it meant. He replied\nthat there was no mistake about it, and that it was intended for\nme. I then concluded, as there was a Navy Yard in Washington, and\nas the President, Mr.[109] Fillmore, attended the church to which I\nwas invited, that he intended by the appointment to help both the\nchurch and me, and I accepted it. On going to Washington I found that\nthere was a chaplain already connected with the Navy Yard, and on his\nretirement some months later, and my offering to perform any duties\nrequired there, being answered that there was really nothing to be\ndone, I resigned the commission.\n\nLife in Washington was not agreeable to me, and yet I felt a\nsingular attachment to the people there. This mixture of repulsion\nand attraction I could not understand at the time, or rather,-as is\nusually the case with our experience while passing,--did not try to;\nbut walking those streets two or three years later, when experience\nhad become history, I could read it. In London or Paris the presence\nof the government is hardly felt; the action of public affairs is\nmerged and lost in the life of a great city; but in Washington it is\nthe one, all-absorbing business of the place. Now, whether it be pride\nor sympathy, one does not enjoy a great movement of things going on\naround him in which he has no part, and the thoughts and aims of a\nretired and studious man, especially, sever him from the views and\ninterests of public men. But, on the other hand, this very pressure\nof an all-surrounding public life brings private men closer together.\nThere they stand, while the tides of successive Administrations sweep\nby them, and their relation be-[110] comes constantly more interesting\nfrom the fluctuation of everything else. It is really curious to see\nhow the private and resident society of Washington breathes freer, and\nprepares to enjoy itself when Congress is about to rise and leave it to\nitself.\n\nAmong the remarkable persons with whom I became acquainted in\nWashington, at this or a-former time, was John C. Calhoun. I had with\nhim three interviews of considerable length, and remember each of\nthem, the more distinctly from the remarkable habit he had of talking\nTon subjects,--not upon the general occurences of the day, but upon\nsome particular topic. The first two were at an earlier period than\nthat to which this part of my narrative creates; it was when he was\nVice-President of the United States, under the administration of John\nQuincy Adams. I went to his room in the Capitol to present my letter of\nintroduction; it was just before the assembling of the Senate, and I\nsaid, of course, that I would not intrude upon his time at that moment,\nand was about to withdraw; but he kindly detained me, saying, \"No: it\nwill >e twenty minutes before I go to the Senate; sit down.\" And then,\nin two minutes, I found him talking upon a purely literary point,--I\nam sure do not know how he got to it; but it was this, hat the first\nor second book of every author, so le maintained, was always his best.\nHe cited a [111] number of instances in support of his position. I\ndo not remember what they were; but it occurred to me in reflecting\nupon it afterwards, that, in purely literary composition, there were\nsome reasons why it might be true. An author writes his first books\nwith the greatest care; he naturally puts into them his best and most\noriginal thoughts, which he cannot use again; and if he succeeds, and\ngains reputation, he is liable to grow both careless and confident,--to\nthink that the things which people admire are his peculiarities, and\nnot his general merits, and so to fall into mannerism and repetition.\nI remember Mrs. George Lee, of Boston, a sagacious woman, saying to\nme one day, when I told her I was going to write a second sermon on a\ncertain subject,--she had praised the first,--\"I have observed that\nthe second sermon, on any subject, is never so good as the first; even\nChanning's are not.\"\n\nMr. Calhoun, on my leaving him, invited me to pass the evening with\nhim at his house in Georgetown. I went, expecting to meet company, but\nfound myself alone with him, and then the subject of conversation was\nthe advantage and necessity of an Opposition in Government. He was\nhimself then, of course, in the Opposition, and he was very candid: he\nsaid he did not question the motives of the Administration, while he\nfelt bound to oppose it. I was struck with his candor,--a thing I did\nnot look for in a political [112] opponent,--but especially with what\nhe said about the benefit of an Opposition; both were rather new to me.\n\nMy third interview with him was at a later period, when his discourse\nturned upon this question: What is the greatest thing that a man can\ndo? His answer was characteristic of the statesman. \"It is,\" he said,\n\"to speak the true and saving word in a great national emergency.\nFor it implies,\" he continued, \"the fullest knowledge of the past,\nthe largest comprehension of the present, and the clearest foresight\nof the future.\" He might have added, to complete the idea, that this\nword was sometimes to be spoken when it involved the greatest peril\nto the position and prospects of the speaker. But how much moral\nconsiderations were apt to be present to his mind, I do not know. He\nwas mostly known--so we of the North thought--as an impracticable\nreasoner. Miss Martineau said, \"He was like a cast-iron man on a\nrailroad.\"\n\nI was introduced to Mr. Adams, but saw him little, and heard him less,\nas I will relate. Mr. Reed, of Barnstable, introduced me,--\"Father\nReed,\" as they used to call him, from his having been longer a member\nof Congress than any other man in the House,--and I said to him, as we\nwere entering the White House, \"Now tell Mr. Adams who I am and where\nfrom; for I think he must be puzzled what to talk about, with so many\nstrangers coming to him.\" Well, I was intro-[113]duced accordingly, and\nMr. Reed retired. I was offered a seat, and took it. I was a young man,\nand felt that it did not become me to open a conversation. And there\nwe sat, five minutes, with>tit a word being spoken by either of us! I\nrose, took my leave, and went away, I don't know whether more angered\nor astonished. I once, by the by, visited his father, old John Adams,\nthen lying in retirement at Quincy. Mr. Josiah Quincy took me to see\nhim. He was not silent, but talked, I remember, full ten minutes--for\nye did not interrupt him--about Machiavelli and in language so well\nchosen that I thought it night have been printed.\n\nBut the most interesting person, as statesman, hat I saw in Washington,\nwas Thomas Corwin, of Ohio, commonly called Tom Corwin. This was a\nlater period.\n\nCircumstances, or the chances of conversation, sometimes lead to\nacquaintance and friendship, which years of ordinary intercourse fail\nto bring about. It happened, the first time I saw Mr. Corwin, that some\nobservation I made upon political normality seemed to strike him as a\nnew thought; suppose it was a topic seldom touched upon in Washington\nsociety. It led to a good deal of conversation, then and afterwards;\nand I must say that a more high-principled and religiously minded\nstatesman I have never met with than Mr. Corwin.\n\nWhen he was preparing to deliver his celebrated [114] speech in the\nSenate against the war with Mexico, he told me what he was going to\nsay, and asked me if I thought he could say it and not be politically\nruined by it. I answered that I did not know; but that I would say it\nif it did ruin me.\n\nThe day came for his speech, and I never saw the Senate Chamber so\ndensely packed as it was to hear him. He told me that he should not\nspeak; more than half an hour; but he did speak three hours, not only\nagainst the Mexican war, but against the system of slavery, in the\nbitterest language. His friends in Ohio told me, years after, that it\ndid ruin him. But for that, they said, he would have been President of\nthe United States.\n\nThackeray came to Washington while I was here. He gave his course of\nlectures on \"the English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century.\" His\nstyle, especially in his earlier writings, had one quality which the\ncritics did not seem to notice; it was not conventional, but spun out\nof the brain. With the power of thought to take hold of the mind, and\na rich, deep, melodius voice, he contrived, without one gesture, or my\napparent emotion in his delivery, to charm away an hour as pleasantly\nas I have ever felt it in a lecture. What he told me of his way of\ncomposing confirms me in my criticism on his style.-He did not dash his\npen on paper, like Walter Scott, and write off twenty pages without\nstop-[115] ping, but, dictating to an amanuensis,--a plan which leaves\nthe brain to work undisturbed by the pen-labor,--dictating from his\nchair, and often from his bed, he gave out sentence by sentence,\nslowly, as they were moulded in his mind.\n\nThackeray was sensitive about public opinion; no writer, I imagine,\nwas ever otherwise. I remember, one morning, he was sitting in our\nparlor, when letters from the mail came in. They were received with\nsome eagerness, of course, and he said, \"You seem to be pleased to\nhave letters; I am not.\"--\"No?\" we said.--\"No. I have had letters from\nEngland this morning, and they tell me that 'Henry Esmond' is not\nliked.\"\n\nThis led to some conversation on novels and novel-writing, and I\nventured to say: \"How is it that not one of the English novelists\nhas ever drawn any high or adequate character of the clergyman?\nWalter Scott never gave us anything beyond the respectable official.\nGoldsmith's Dr. Primrose is a good man, the best we have in your\nEnglish fiction, but odd and amusing rather than otherwise. Then\nDickens has given us Chadband and Stiggins, and you Charles Honeyman.\nCan you not conceive,\" I went on to say, \"that a man, without any\nchance of worldly profit, for a bare stipend, giving his life to\npromote what you must know are the highest interests of mankind, is\nengaged in a noble calling, worthy of being nobly described? Or have\nyou no examples in England to draw from?\" [116] This last sentence\ntouched him, and I meant it should.\n\nWith considerable excitement he said, \"I delivered a lecture the other\nevening in your church in New York, for the Employment Society; would\nyou let me read to you a passage from it?\" Of course I said I should\nbe very glad to hear it, and added, \"I thank you for doing that.\"--\"I\ndon't know why you should thank me,\" he said; \"it cost me but an hour's\nreading, and I got $1,500 for them. I thought I was the party obliged.\nBut I did tell them they should have a dozen shirts made up for me,\nand they did it.\" He then went and brought his lecture, and read the\npassage, which told of a curate's taking him to visit a poor family in\nLondon, where he witnessed a scene of distress and of disinterestedness\nvery striking and beautiful to see. It was a very touching description,\nand Thackeray nearly broke sown in reading it.\n\nA part of the winter of 1856-57 I passed with my family at Charleston,\nS. C. I went to preach in Dr. Gilman's pulpit, and to lecture. I had\nbeen there the spring before, and made very agreeable acquaintance\nwith the people. My reception, both in public and in private, was as\nkindly and hospitable as I could desire. I was much interested in\nsociety there, and strongly attached to it. But in August following,\nin an address under our Old Elm-tree in Sheffield,[117] I made some\nobservations upon the threatened extension of the slave-system, that\ndashed nearly all my agreeable relations with Charleston. I am not a\nperson to regard such a breach with indifference: it pained me deeply.\nMy only comfort was, that what I said was honestly said; that no\nhonorable man can desire to be respected or loved through ignorance\nof his character or opinions; and that the ground then recently taken\nat the South--that the institution of human slavery is intrinsically\nright, just, and good--seems to me to involve such a wrong to humanity,\nsuch evil to the South, and such peril to the Union of the States, that\nit was a proper occasion for speaking earnestly and decidedly.\n\nI was altogether unprepared for the treatment I received. One year\nbefore, I had been in the great Charleston Club, when the question of\nthe perpetuity of the slave-system was discussed; when, indeed, an\nelaborate essay was read by one of the members, in which the ground was\ntaken, that the dark cloud would sink away to the southwest, to Central\nAmerica perhaps, from whence the slave population would find an exodus\nacross the water to Africa; and of twenty members present, seventeen\nagreed with the essayist.\n\nAnd I take occasion here to say, that this position of the seventeen\nwas mainly satisfactory to me. I would, indeed, have had the South go\nfarther. I would have had it take in hand the business of putting an\nend to slavery, by laws [118] providing for its gradual abolition, and\nby preparing the slaves for it; but I did not believe then, and do not\nnow,{9} that immediate emancipation was theoretically the best plan.\nIt was forced upon us by the exigencies of the war. And, independently\nof that, such was the infatuation of the Southern mind on the subject\nthat there seemed to be no prospect of its ever being brought to\ntake that view of it which was prevailing through the civilized and\nChristian world. But if it had taken that view, and had gone about the\nbusiness of preparing for emancipation, I think the general public\nsentiment would have been satisfied; and I believe the result would\nhave been better for the slaves, and better for the country. To be\nsure, things are working better perhaps now than could have been\nexpected, and it may turn out that instant emancipation was the best\nthing. But the results of great social changes do not immediately\nreveal themselves. We are feeling, for instance, the pressure and peril\nof the free system in government more than we did fifty years ago, and\nmay have to feel and fear it more than we do now. The freedmen are, at\npresent, upon their good behavior, and are acting under the influence\nof a previous condition. But when I look to the future, and see them\nrising to wealth, culture, and refinement, and, as human beings,\nentitled to consideration as much as any other, [119] and yet forbidden\nintermarriage with the whites, as they should be for physiological\nreasons,-when, in fine, they see that they have not any fair and just\nposition in American society and government,--they may be sorry that\nthey were not gradually emancipated, and colonized to their own native\ncountry; and for ourselves-for our own country--the seeds may be\nsowing, in the dark bosom of the future, which may spring up in civil\nwars more terrible than ever were seen before.\n\n    {FN 9: The date of this passage must be in or about 1868.-M. E.\n    D.}\n\nSuch speculations and opinions, I am sensible, would meet with no\nfavor among us now. The espousal of the slave-man's cause among our\nNorthern people is so humane and hearty that they can stop nowhere,\nfor any consideration of expediency, in doing him justice, after\nall his wrongs; and I honor their feeling, go to what lengths it\nwill. Nevertheless, I put down these my thoughts, for my children to\nunderstand, regard them as they may.\n\nBut what it is in my style or manner of writing that has called forth\nsuch a hard feeling towards me, from extremists both North and South,\nupon this slavery question, I cannot understand. In every instance\nin which I have spoken of it, I have been drawn out by a sense of\nduty,-there certainly was no pleasure in it. I have never assailed the\nmotives of any man or party; I have spoken in no feeling of unkindness\nto anybody; there can have been no bitterness in my speech. [120] And\nyet something, I suppose, there must have been in my way of expressing\nmyself, to offend. It may have been a fault, it may have been a merit\nfor aught I know; for truly I do not know what it was.\n\nAfter all, how little does any man know of his own personality,--of\nhis personality in action? He may study himself; he may find out what\nhis faculties, what his traits of character are, in the abstract as it\nwere; but what they are in action, in movement,--how they appear to\nothers,--he cannot know. The eye that looks around upon a landscape\nsees everything but itself. It is just as a man may look in the glass\nand see himself there every day; but he sees only the framework, only\nthe \"still life\" in his face; he does not see it in the free play of\nexpression,--in the strong workings of thought and feeling. I was one\nday sitting with Robert Walsh in Paris, and there was a large mirror\nbehind him. Suddenly he said, \"Ah, what a vain fellow you are!\"-\"How\nso?\" I asked.--\"Why,\" said he, \"you are not looking at me as you talk,\nbut you are looking at yourself in the glass.\"--\"It is a fact!\" I\nexclaimed, \"I never saw myself talking before,--never saw the play of\nmy own features in conversation.\" Had the mind a glass thus to look in,\nit would see things, see wonders, it knows nothing of now. It might see\nworse things, it might see better things, than it expected. And yet\nI have been endeavoring in these pages [121] to give some account of\nmyself, while, after all, I am obliged to say that it is little more\nthan a post mortem examination. If I had been dealing with the living\nsubject, I suppose I could not have dealt so freely with myself. The\nlast thing which I ever thought of doing is this which I have now done.\nAutobiographies are often pleasant reading; but I confess that I have\nalways had a kind of prejudice against them. They have seemed to me to\nimply something of vanity, or a want of dignified reserve. The apology\nlies, perhaps, in the writer's ignorance, after all, of his own and\nvery self. He has only told the story of a life. He has not come much\nnearer to himself than statistics come to the life of a people.\n\nAll that I know is, that I have lived a life mainly happy in its\nexperience, not merely according to the average, not merely as things\ngo in this world, but far more than that; which I should be willing\nto live again for the happiness that has blessed it, yet more for the\ninterests which have animated it, and which has always been growing\nhappier from the beginning. I have lived a life mainly fortunate in\nits circumstances both of early nurture and active pursuit; marred by\nno vice,--I do not remember even ever to have told a lie,--stained by\nno dishonor; laborious, but enjoying labor, especially in the sphere\nto which my life has been devoted; suffering from no pressing want,\nthough moderate in means, and successful in every way, as much as I\nhad any [122] right or reason to expect. I have been happy (the word\nis weak to express it) in my domestic relations, happy in the dearest\nand holiest friendships, and happy in the respect of society. And I\nhave had a happiness (I dread the appearance of profession in saying\nit) in things divinest, in religion, in God,-in associating with him\nall the beauty of nature and the blessedness of life, beyond all\nother possible joy. And, therefore, notwithstanding all that I have\nsuffered, notwithstanding all the pain and weariness and anxiety and\nsorrow that necessarily enter into life, and the inward errings that\nare worse than all, I would end my record with a devout thanksgiving\nto the great Author of my being. For more and more am I unwilling to\nmake my gratitude to him what is commonly called \"a thanksgiving for\nmercies,\"--for any benefits or blessings that are peculiar to myself,\nor my friends, or indeed to any man. Instead of this, I would have it\nto be gratitude for all that belongs to my life and being,--for joy and\nsorrow, for health and sickness, for success and disappointment, for\nvirtue and for temptation, for life and death; because I believe that\nall is meant for good.\n\nSomething of what I here say seems to require another word or two\nto be added, and perhaps it is not unmeet for me to subjoin, as the\nconclusion of the whole matter, my theory and view and summing up of\nwhat life is; for on it, to my apprehension, the virtue and happiness\nof life [123] mainly repose. It revealed itself dimly in my earlier, it\nhas become clearer to me in my later, years; and the best legacy, as I\nconceive, that I could leave to my children would be this view of life.\n\nI know that we are not, all the while, thinking of any theory of life.\nSo neither are we all the while thinking of the laws of nature; the\nattraction of gravitation, for instance. But unless there were some\nultimate reference to laws, both material and moral, our minds would\nlose their balance and security. If I believed that the hill by my\nside, or the house I live in, were liable any moment to be unseated and\nhurled through the air by centrifugal force, I should be ill at ease.\nAnd if I believed that the world was made by a malignant Power, or that\nthe fortunes of men were the sport of a doubtful conflict between good\nand evil deities or principles, my life, like that of the ancients,\nwould be filled with superstitions and painful fears. The foundation of\nall rational human tranquillity, cheerfulness, and courage, whether we\nare distinctly conscious of it or not, lies in the ultimate conviction,\nthat God is good,--that his providence, his order of things in the\nworld, is good; and theology, in the largest sense of the term, is as\nvital to us as the air we breathe.\n\nIf, then, I thought that this world were a castoff, or a wrecked and\nruined, world; if I thought that the human generations had come out\nfrom the dark eclipse of some pre-existent state, or [124] from the\ndark shadow of Adam's fall, broken, blighted, accursed, propense\nto all evil, and disabled for all good; and if, in consequence, I\nbelieved that unnumbered millions of ignorant heathens, and thousands\naround me,--children but a day old in their conscious moral probation,\nand men, untaught, nay, ill-taught, misled and blind,--were doomed,\nas the result of this life-experiment, to intense, to unending, to\ninfinite pain and anguish,--most certainly I should be miserable in\nsuch a state, and nothing could make life tolerable to me. Most of all\nshould I detest myself, if the idea that I was to escape that doom\ncould assuage and soothe in my breast the bitter pain of all generous\nhumanity and sympathy for the woes and horrors of such a widespread and\noverwhelming catastrophe.\n\nWhat, then, do I say and think? I say, and I maintain, that the\nconstitution of the world is good, and that the constitution of human\nnature is good; that the laws of nature and the laws of life are\nordained for good. I believe that man was made and destined by his\nCreator ultimately to be an adoring, holy, and happy being; that his\nspiritual and physical constitution was designed to lead to that end;\nbut that end, it is manifest from the very nature of the case, can be\nattained only by a free struggle; and this free struggle, with its\nmingled success and failure, is the very story of the world. A sublime\nstory it is, therefore. The life of men and nations has not been [125]\na floundering on through useless disorder and confusion, trial and\nstrife, war and bloodshed; but it has been a struggling onward to an\nend.\n\nThis, I believe, has been the story of the world from the beginning.\nBefore the Christian, before the Hebrew, system appeared, there was\nreligion, worship, faith, morality, in the world, and however erring,\nyet always improving from age to age. Those systems are great steps in\nthe human progress; but they are not the only steps. Moses is venerable\nto me. The name of Jesus is \"above every name;\" but my reverence\nfor him does not require me to lose all interest in Confucius and\nZoroaster, in Socrates and Plato.\n\nIn short, the world is a school; men are pupils in this school; God\nis its builder and ordainer. And he has raised up for its instruction\nsages and seers, teachers and guides; ay, martyred lives, and\nsacrificial toils and tears and blood, have been poured out for\nit. The greatest teaching, the greatest life, the most affecting,\nheart-regenerating sacrifice, was that of the Christ. From him I have\na clearer guidance, and a more encouraging reliance upon the help and\nmercy of God, than from all else. I do not say the only reliance, but\nthe greatest.\n\nThis school of life I regard as the infant-school of eternity. The\npupils, I believe, will go on forever learning. There is solemn\nretribution in this system,--the future must forever answer for the\npast; I would not have it otherwise. I must fight [126] the battle,\nif I would win the prize; and for all failure, for all cowardice, for\nall turning aside after ease and indulgence in preference to virtue\nand sanctity, I must suffer; I would not have it otherwise. There is\nhelp divine offered to me, there is encouragement wise and gracious; I\nwelcome it. There is a blessed hereafter opened to prayer and penitence\nand faith; I lift my hopes to that immortal life. This view of the\nsystem of things spreads for me a new light over the heavens and the\nearth. It is a foundation of peace and strength and happiness more to\nbe valued, in my account, than the title-deed of all the world.\n\n\n\n\n[127] LETTERS.\n\n\nTHE foregoing pages, selected from many written at intervals between\n1857 and 1870, tell nearly all of their writer's story which it can be\nof interest to the public to know; and although I have been tempted\nhere and there to add some explanatory remarks, I have thought it best\non the whole to leave them in their original and sometimes abrupt\nsimplicity. The author did not intend them for publication, but for\nhis family alone; and in sharing a part with a larger audience than he\ncontemplated, we count upon a measure of that responsive sympathy with\nwhich we ourselves read frequently between the Lines, and enter into\nhis meaning without many words.\n\nBut there is one point I cannot leave untouched. There is one subject\non which some of those who nevertheless honor him have scarcely\nunderstood his position.\n\nTwenty-five years ago slavery was a question upon which feeling was\nnot only strong, but roused, stung, and goaded to a height of passion\n[128] where all argument was swept away by the common emotion as\nfutile, if not base. My father, thinking the system hateful in itself\nand productive of nearly unmingled evil, held nevertheless that, like\nall great and established wrongs, it must be met with wise and patient\ncounsel; and that in the highest interest of the slave, of the white\nrace, of the country, and of constitutional liberty, its abolition\nmust be gradual. To the uncompromising Abolitionists such views were\nintolerable; and by some of those who demanded immediate emancipation,\neven at the cost of the Union and all that its destruction involved,\nit was said that he was influenced by a mean spirit of expediency and\na base truckling to the rank and wealth which sustained this insult to\nhumanity.\n\nThey little knew him. The man who at twenty-five had torn himself from\nthe associations and friendships of his youth, and, moved solely by\nlove of truth, had imperilled all his worldly hopes by joining himself\nto a small religious body, despised and hated as heretics by most of\nthose whom he had been trained to love and respect, was not the man\nat fifty to blanch from the expression of any honest conviction; and,\nto sum up all in one word, he held his views upon this subject, as\nupon all others, bravely and honestly, and stated them clearly and\npositively, when he felt it his duty to speak, although evasion or\nsilence would have been the more comfortable alternative. \"I doubt,\"\nsays Mr. [129]Chadwick,{10} \"if Garrison or Parker had a keener\nsense than his of the enormity of human slavery. Before the first\nAbolitionist Society had been organized, he was one of the organizers\nof a committee for the discussion and advancement of emancipation. I\nhave read all of his principal writings upon slavery, and it would be\nhard to find more terrible indictments of its wickedness. He stated its\ndefence in terms that Foote and Yancey might have made their own, only\nto sweep it all away with the blazing ubiquity that the negro was a man\nand an immortal soul. Yet when the miserable days of fugitive-slave\nrendition were upon us, he was with Gannett in the sad conviction that\nthe law must be obeyed. We could not see it then; but we can see to-day\nthat it was possible for men as good and true as any men alive to take\nthis stand. And nothing else brings out the nobleness of Dewey into\nsuch bold relief as the fact, that the immeasurable torrent of abuse\nthat greeted his expressed opinion did not in any least degree avail\nto make him one of the pro-slavery faction. The concession of 1850 was\none which he would not have made, and it must be the last. Welcome to\nhim the iron flail of war, whose tribulation saved the immortal wheat\nof justice and purged away the chaff of wrong to perish in unquenchable\nfire!\"\n\n    {FN 10: The Rev. John W. Chadwick, of Brooklyn, N. Y., In a\n    sermon preached after Dr. Dewey's death.}\n\nHis feelings retained their early sensitiveness [130] in a somewhat\nremarkable degree. In a letter written when he was near seventy he\nsays, \"I do believe there never was a man into whose manhood and\nlater life so much of his foolish boyhood flowed as into mine. I am\nas anxious to go home, I shall be all the way to-morrow as eager and\nrestless, and all the while thinking of the end of my journey, as if\nI were a boy going from school, or a young lover six weeks after his\nwedding-day. Shall I ever learn to be an old man?\"\n\nBut it was this very simplicity and tenderness that gave such a charm\nto his personal intercourse. His emotions, like his thoughts, had a\nplain directness about them which assured you of their honesty. With a\nprofound love of justice, he had an eminently judicial mind, and could\nnot be content without viewing a subject from every side, and casting\nlight upon all its points. The light was simple sunshine, untinged by\nartificial mixtures; the views were direct and straightforward, with\nno subtle slants of odd or recondite position; and in his feelings,\nalso, there was the same large and natural simplicity. You felt\nthe ground-swell of humanity in them, and it was this breadth and\ngenuineness which laid the foundation of his power as a preacher,\nmaking him strike unerringly those master chords that are common and\nuniversal in every audience. Gifts of oratory he had, both natural and\nacquired,--a full, melodious voice, so sympathetic in modulation and so\nattuned to [131] reverence that I have heard more than one person say\nthat his first few words in the pulpit did more towards lifting them to\na truly religious frame of mind than the whole service from any other\nlips,--a fine dramatic power, enough to have given him distinction\nas an actor, had that been the profession of his choice,--a striking\ndignity of presence, and an easy and appropriate gesticulation. But\nthese, as well as his strong common sense, that balance-wheel of\ncharacter, were brought into the service of his earnest convictions.\nWhat he had to say, he put into the simplest form; and if his love of\nart and beauty, and his imaginative faculty, gave wealth and ornament\nto his style, he never sacrificed a particle of direct force for any\nrhetorical advantage. His function in life--he felt it to his inmost\nsoul--was to present to human hearts and minds the essential verities\nof their existence in such a manner that they could not choose but\nbelieve in them. His strength was in his reverent perception of the\nmajesty of Right as accordant with the Divine and Eternal Will; his\npower over men was in the sublimity of his appeal to an answering faith\nin themselves.\n\nHe was greatest as a preacher, and it is as a preacher that he will be\nbest remembered by the public. The printed page, though far inferior to\nthe fervid eloquence of the same words when spoken, will corroborate\nby its beauty, its pathos, and its logical force, the traditions that\nstill linger [132] of his deep impressiveness in the pulpit. In making\nthe following selections from his letters, I have been influenced by\nthe desire to let them show him in his daily and familiar life, with\nthe easy gayety and love of humor which was as natural to him as the\ndeep and solemn meditations which absorbed the larger part of his mind.\nThey are very far from elaborate compositions, being rather relaxations\nfrom labor, and he thought very slightly of them himself; yet I think\nthey will present the real man as nothing but such careless and\nconversational writing can.\n\nNo letters of his boyhood have been preserved, and very few of his\nyouth. This, to Dr. Channing, was probably written at Plymouth, while\nthere on an exchange of pulpits, soon after his ordination at New\nBedford:--\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ellery Charming, D.D.\n\nPLYMOUTH, Dec. 27, 1823.\n\nDEAR SIR,--I was scarcely disappointed at your not coming to my\nordination, and indeed I have felt all along that, if you could not\npreach, I had much rather see you at a more quiet and leisurely time.\nI thank you for the hope you have given me of this in the suggestion\nyou made to Mr. Tuckerman. When the warm season comes, I pray you to\ngive Mrs. Dewey and me the pleasure of trying what we can do to promote\nyour comfort and health, and of enjoying your society for a week.\n[133] Our ordination was indeed very pleasant, and our prospects are\nbecoming every day more encouraging. The services of that occasion were\nattended with the most gratifying and useful impression. Our friend,\nMr. Tuckerman, preached more powerfully, and produced a neater effect,\nthan I had supposed he ever did. I must remind you, however, that his\nsermon, like every good sermon, had its day when it was delivered. We\ncannot print the pathos, nor you read the fervor, with which it was\nspoken.\n\nI have had no opportunity to express to you the very peculiar and high\ngratification with which I have received the late expression of the\nliberality and kindness of your society, nor can it be necessary. I\ncannot fail to add, however, that the pleasure is greatly enhanced by\nthe knowledge that I owe the occasion of it to your suggestion.\n\nI hope to visit Boston this winter, or early in the spring. I often\nfeel as if I had a burden of questions which I wish to propose to you\nfor conversation. The want of this resource and satisfaction is one of\nthe principal reasons that make me regret my distance from Boston. I\nshall always remember the weeks I spent with you, two years ago, with\nmore interest than I shall ever feel it proper to express to you. It is\none of my most joyful hopes of heaven, that such intercourse shall be\nrenewed, and exalted and perpetuated forever.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW BEDFORD, Sept. 21, 1824.\n\nDEAR SIR,--I thank you for your letter and invitation [See p. 50] . . .\n. The result of your going to Boston is what I [134] feared, and it\nseems too nearly settled that nothing will give you health, but a\ndifferent mind, or a different mode of life.\n\nQuintilian advises the orator to retire before he is spent, and says\nthat he can still advance the object of his more active and laborious\npursuits by conversing, by publishing, and by teaching others, youths,\nto follow in his steps. I do not quote this advice to recommend it, if\nit were proper for me to recommend anything. But I have often revolved\nthe courses that might preserve your life, and make it at once happy\nto yourself and useful to us, for many years to come. I cannot admit\nany plan that would dismiss you altogether from the pulpit, nor do I\nbelieve that any such could favor your happiness or your health. But\ncould you not limit yourself to preaching, say ten times in a year\n(provided one of them be in New Bedford)? and will you permit me to\nask, nor question my modesty in doing so, if you could not spend a part\nof the year in a leisurely preparation of something for the press? I\nfear that your MSS., and I mean your sermons now, would suffer by any\nother revisal and publication than your own. With regard to the last\nsuggestion of Quintilian's, I have supposed that it has been fairly\nbefore you; but perhaps I have already said more than becomes me. If\nso, I am confident at least that I deserve your pardon for my good\nintentions; and with these, I am, dear sir, most truly as well as\n\nRespectfully your friend,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\nI am tempted to introduce here a sketch of my father as he appeared\nin those early days, writ-en by Rev. W. H. Channing, for \"the London\nEnquirer\" of April 13, 1882:\n\n[135] \"It so happened then to me, while a youth of twelve or fifteen\nyears in training at the Boston Latin School for Harvard University,\nthat Dr. Dewey became a familiar guest in my mother's hospitable\nhouse. He was at this period the temporary minister of Federal Street\nChurch, while Dr. Channing was seeking to renew his wasted energies,\nfor better work, in Europe. And on Mondays--after his exhausting\noutpourings of Sunday--he was wont to 'drop in, while passing,' to\ntalk over the themes of his discourse, or for friendly interchange of\nthought and sympathy. A special attraction was that the Misses Cabot,\nthe elder of whom became a few years later Mrs. Charles Follen (both\nof whom will be remembered by English friends), made a common home\nwith my mother; and the radiant intelligence, glowing enthusiasm,\nhearty affectionateness, and genial merriment of these bright-witted\nsisters charmed him. Sometimes they probed with penetrating questions\nthe mystical metaphysics of the preceding day's sermon. Then, deeply\nstirred, and all on fire with truths dawning on his vision, he would\nrise from his chair and slowly pace the room, in a half soliloquy,\nhalf rejoinder. At these times of high-wrought emotion his aspect was\ncommanding. His head was rounded like a dome, and he bore it erect, as\nif its weight was a burden; his eyes, blue-gray in tint, were gentle,\nwhile gleaming with inner light; the nostrils were outspread, as if\nbreathing in mountain-top air; and the mobile lips, the lower of which\nprotruded, apparently measured his deliberately accented words as if\nthey were coins stamped in the mint. It was intense delight for a boy\nto listen to these luminous self-unfoldings, embodied in rhythmic\nspeech. They moved me more profoundly even than the suppressed feeling\nof his awe-struck prayers, [136] or the fluent fervor of his pulpit\naddresses; for they raised the veil, and admitted one into his Holy\nof holies. At other times, literary or artistic themes, the newest\npoem, novel, picture, concert, came up for discussion; and as these\nladies were verse-writers, essayists, critics, and lovers of beauty in\nall forms, the conversations called out the rich genius and complex\ntendencies and aptitudes of Dr. Dewey in stimulating suggestions, which\nwere refreshing as spring breezes. His mind gave hospitable welcome\nto each new fact disclosed by science, to all generous hopes for\nhuman refinement and ennobling ideals, while his discernment was keen\nto detect false sentiment or flashy sophisms. Again, some startling\nevent would bring conventional customs and maxims to the judgment-bar\nof pure Christian ethics, when his moral indignation blazed forth\nwith impartial equity against all degrading views of human nature,\ndebasing prejudices, and distrust of national progress,--sparing no\ntyrant, however wealthy or high in station; pleading for the downcast,\nhowever lowly; hoping for the fallen, however scorned. Thanks to this\nclear-sighted moralist, he gave me, in his own example, a standard\nof generous Optimism too sun-bright ever to be eclipsed. Let it not\nbe inferred from these hasty outlines, however, that Dr. Dewey was\nhabitually grave, or intent on serious topics solely, in social\nintercourse So far from this, he continually startled one by his swift\ntransitions from solemn discourse to humorous descriptions of persons,\nplaces, experiences. And as the Misses Cabot and my mother alike\nregarded healthful laughter, cheery sallies, and childlike gayety as a\nwise relief for overwrought brains or high-strung sensibilities, our\nfireside sparkled with brilliant repartees and scintillating mirth. It\nis [137] pleasantly remembered that, in such by-play, Dr. Dewey, while\noften satirical, and prone to good-tempered banter, was never cynical,\nand was intolerant of personal gossip or he intrusion of mean slander.\nAnd to close the chapter of boyhood's acquaintance, it is gratefully\nrecalled how cordially sympathetic this earnest apostle was with my\nyouthful studies, trials, aspirations. All recollections, indeed, of\nmy uncle's curate--whom, as is well-known, le wished to become his\ncolleague--are charming; and before my matriculation at Harvard, one of\nmy most trusted religious guides was Orville Dewey.\" The Wares, both\nHenry and William, were among my father's dearest friends at this time,\nand the intimacy was interrupted only by death.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry Ware.\n\nNEW BEDFORD, Feb. 2, 1824. MY DEAR FRIEND,\n\nThere is a great cause committed to us,--not that of a party, but that\nof principles. A contest as important as that of the Reformation is to\npass here, and I trust,-though with trembling,--I trust in God that\nit is to be maintained with a better spirit. I cannot help feeling\nthat generations as boundless as shall spread from the Atlantic to\nthe Pacific shores wait for the result. The importance of everything\nthat is doing for the improvement of this country is fast swelling to\ninfinitude. These, dear sir, are some of my dreams, I fear I must call\nthem, rather than waking thoughts. It seems to me not a little to know\nthe age and country we live in. I think, and think, and think that\nsomething must be done, and often [138] I feel, and feel, and feel that\nI do nothing. What can we do to make ourselves and others aware of our\nChristian duties and of the signs of this time?\n\nThere is one comfort,--Unitarianism will succeed just as far as it\nis worthy of it,--and there are some forms of practical Unitarianism\nthat ought not to meet with any favor in the world. If the whole\nmass becomes of this character, let it go down, till another wave of\nprovidence shall bring it up again.\n\nBut enough of this preaching: you think of all these things, and a\nthousand more, better than I can say them. I turn to your letter. Elder\nH., for whom you ask, is a very good man,-very friendly to me; but le\nis a terrible fanatic. He has Unitarian revivals that might match with\nany of them. It is a curious fact that the Christians, as they call\nthemselves, Unitarian as they ire, form the most extravagant, fiery,\nfanatical sect in this country.\n\nMrs. Dewey desires very friendly regards to Mrs. Ware, of whose\ncontinued illness we are concerned to lean Let my kind remembrance be\njoined with my wife's, and believe me very truly,\n\nYour friend and brother,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW BEDFORD, Feb. 14, 1824.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot repress the inclination to offer you my\nsympathy.{11} I have often thought with[139] pain of what was coming\nupon you; and I fear, though long threatening, it has come at last with\na weight which you could hardly have anticipated. May God sustain and\ncomfort you! You are supported, I well know, while you are afflicted,\nin every recollection of what you lave lost. Surely the greatness of\nyour trial argues the Kindness of Heaven, for it proves the greatness\nof the blessing you have enjoyed.\n\n    {FN 11: Mrs. Ware died in the interval between those two\n    letters she was the daughter of Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse, of\n    Cambridge, Mass. In 1827 Mr. Ware was again married to Miss\n    Mary Lovell Pickard.}\n\nBut, my dear sir, I will not urge upon you words which are but words,\nand touch not the terrible reality that occupies your mind. You\nwant not the poor and old sayings of one who knows not--who cannot\nknow--what you suffer. You need not the aids of reflection from me. But\nyou need what, in common with your hands, I would invoke for you,--the\naid, the consolation that is divine. God grant it to you,--all that\naffection can ask,--all that affliction can need,--prays\n\nYour friend and brother,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Dr. Channing.\n\nNEW BEDFORD, Oct. 16, 1827.\n\nMY DEAR AND REVERED FRIEND,--Excuse me for calling you so; may the\nformalities and the English reserves excuse me too.\n\nI have had two letters from New York, one from Mr. Sewall, and the\nother from Mr. Ware, which are so pressing as really to give me\nsome trouble. Do say something to me on this subject, if you have\nanything to say. There certainly are many reasons, and strong as\nnumerous, why I should not at present leave New Bedford,-why I should\nnot take such a post. I cannot say I am made to doubt what I ought\nto do; but I have a fear lest [140] I should not do right, lest I\nshould love my ease too well, lest it should be said to me in the\nother world, \"A great opportunity, a glorious field was opened to\nyou, and you did not improve it,\"--lest, in other words, I should\nnot act upon considerations sufficiently high, comprehensive, and\ndisinterested,--fit, in short, for contemplation from the future world\nas well as from the present.\n\nI do not write asking you to reply; for I do not suppose you have\nanything to say which you would not have suggested when I was with you.\nIndeed, I believe I write, as much as for anything, because I want to\ncommunicate with you about something, and this is uppermost in my mind.\n\nPresent my affectionate regards to Mrs. Channing and the children, and\nto Miss Gibbs.\n\nYours most affectionately,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry Ware.\n\nNEW BEDFORD, March 29, 1829.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot let you go off without my blessing. I did\nnot know of your purpose till last evening, or I should not have left\nmyself to write to you in the haste of a few minutes snatched on Sunday\nevening, to say nothing of the aching nerves' and the misled hand that\nusually come along with it. By the by, I have a good mind to desire\nyou to propose a year's exchange [for me] to somebody in England. If\nyou meet with a man who is neither too good nor too bad, suppose you\nsuggest it to him,--not as from me, however.\n\nI should think that a man, in going to England, would feel the evil\nof belonging to a sect, unless that sect [141] embraced all the good\nand wise and gifted,--which can be said of no sect. The sectarianism\nof sects, however, is the bad thing. These are necessary; that is not\nnecessary, but to human weakness. But fie upon discoursing to a man who\nis just stepping on shipboard! May it bear you safely! May it tread\nthe mountain wave \"as a steed that knows its rider,\" and is conscious\nof what it bears from us! My heart will go with you in a double sense;\nfor I want to see England,--I want to see Italy, and the Alps, and the\nsouth of France. I don't know whether you intend to do all this; and\nI am very certain not to do any of it. I know that yours will not be\na travelled heart, any more than Goldsmith's. Let me lay in my claim\nfor as many of its kind thoughts as belong to me. But yet more, let me\nassure you, as the exigency demands, that for every one you have thus\nto render, I have five to give in return.\n\nI believe you will not be sorry, at this time, that my lines and words\nare few and far between; for your leisure cannot serve to read many.\n\nMrs. D. desires her best wishes to you. We do not know whether Mrs.\nWare goes with you, but hope she does.\n\nI took my pen feeling as if I had not a word to say, but--God bless\nyou! and that I say with all my heart. Write me from abroad if you can,\nbut make no exertion to do so.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW BEDFORD, Sep. 14, 1830,\n\nDEAR WARE,--I write down the good old compellation here, not because\nI have anything in particular to say [142] to you, but just to assure\nmyself in the agreeable conviction that you are again within sixty\nmiles of me. When you get a little quiet, when matters have taken some\nform with you, when you have seen some hundreds of people, and answered\nsome thousands of questions, then take your pen for the space of ten\nminutes, and tell me of your \"whereabouts,\" and how your strength and\nspirits hold out, and what is the prospect.\n\nI hope you will not disappoint me of the visit this autumn, for I want\nto talk the sun down and the stars up with you. I suppose you have\ntales enough for \"a thousand and one nights.\" You have made friends\nhere, moreover, even in Rome,--some by hearsay, and others who will\nbe here probably in a fortnight or three weeks. Kind Mrs. Ware has\nadmirers here. Think of that, sir! That while Mr. W. is spoken of only\nwith a kind of reverence, the lady carries off all the charms and\nfascinations of epithet. But alas! Such is the hard fate of us of the\nwiser sex. There are other senses than Saint Paul's in which we may\nsay, \"Where I am weak, there am I strong.\"\n\nPray excuse the levity (specific) of this letter, on two\nrounds,--first, that I am very heavy, and should sink in any other\nvessel; and, secondly, that I cannot take in any of the weighty\nmatters, because I have no room for them.\n\nMrs. Dewey joins me in the regards to you and Mrs. Ware, with which I\nam,\n\nMost truly yours,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\nIn less than three years from this time the nervous suffering from\noverwork became so intense that Mr. Dewey was advised to go abroad\n[143] to obtain the absolute rest from labor that was impossible here.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, May 2, 1833.\n\nMy DEAR FRIEND,--I am about to go abroad. I have made up my mind to\nthat huge, half pleasurable, half painful undertaking; or shall I say,\nrather, that both the pleasure and the pain come by wholes, and not by\nhalves? The latter I feel as a domestic man, for I must go alone; the\nformer I feel as a civilized man. Civilized, I say, for who that has\nthe lowest measure of educated intelligence and sensibility can expect\nto tread all the classic lands of the world, Greece only excepted,\nwithout a thrill of delight?\n\nIf you should think that I had written thus much as claiming your\nsympathy in what so much interests me, and if you should think\nthis without accusing me of presumption, I should be tempted, were\nI assured of the fact, to stop here, and to leave the matter on a\nfooting so gratifying to my feelings. But I must not venture to take so\nconsiderable a risk, and must therefore hasten to tell you that what I\nhave said is only a vestibule to something further.\n\nNor is the vestibule at all too large or imposing for the object, as\nI conceive it, to which it is to open the way; for I am about to ask\nthrough you, if you will consent and condescend to be the medium, a\nvery considerable favor of a very distinguished man. Among many letters\nof introduction which I have received, it so happens, as they say in\nParliament, that I can obtain none to certain persons that I want to\nsee quite as much as any others [144] in Europe. None of our Boston\ngentlemen that I can find are acquainted with Professor Wilson, or Miss\nFerrier, the author of \"Inheritance,\" or Thomas Moore, or Campbell,\nor Bulwer. The \"Noctes Ambrosianx,\" with other things, have made me a\ngreat admirer of Wilson; and Miss Ferriers (I don't know whether her\nname ends with s or not) I had rather see than any woman in Europe.\nShe comes nearer to Sir Walter, I think, than any writer of fiction\nabroad, and in depth of religious sentiment goes very far beyond him.\nNow, I presume that Washington Irving is acquainted with all these\nindividuals; and what I venture to ask is, whether, through your\nintervention, letters can be obtained from him to any of them, and\nespecially to the two first.\n\nNow I must make you comprehend how little I wish you to go out of your\nway, or to put any constraint on yourself in the matter. I have none\nof the passion for seeing celebrated men, merely as such. Those whose\nwritings have interested me, I do, of course, wish to see; but I am to\nbe too hasty a traveller to make it a great object to see them, or to\ngo very much out of my way for it. Above all, if you have the least\nreluctance to ask this of Mr. Irving, you must allow me to impose\nit as a condition of my request that you will not do it; or if Mr.\nIrving is reluctant to give the letters, do not undertake to tell me\nso with any circumlocution, for I understand all about the delicacy of\nthese Transatlantic connections. I only fear that the very length of\nthis letter will convey to you an undue impression of the importance\nwhich I give to the subject of it. Pray construe it not so, but set it\ndown as one of the involuntary consequences of the pleasure I have in\nconversing with you.\n\nVery truly your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[145] The letters, and every other advantage that the kindness of\nfriends could provide, were given him, and the mingled anticipations\nwith which he entered on his year of solitary exile were all fulfilled.\nHis enjoyment in the wonders of nature and of art, in society, and in\nthe charm of historical and romantic association which is the peculiar\npleasure to an American of travel in the Old World, was very great,\nand the relief to his brain from the weekly pressure of original\nproduction gave him ease for the present and hope for the future. But\nthe year was darkened for him by the death of his youngest sister,\nwho had been married the previous summer to Mr. Andrew L. Russell, of\nPlymouth, and of his wife's brother, John Hay Farnham, of Indiana; and\nwhen he returned home, three months' work convinced him that arduous\nand prolonged mental labor was henceforth impossible for him. With deep\ndisappointment and sorrow, he resigned his charge at New Bedford, and\nleft the place and people which had been and always remained very dear\nto him.\n\nFew are left of those who heard his first preaching there. One of his\nsisters says: \"To me, brought up on the Orthodoxy of Berkshire, it was\nlike a revelation, and I think it was much the same to the Quakers.\nThose views of life and human nature and its responsibilities that are\ncommon now, were new then, and the effect produced upon us all was most\nthrilling and solemn; and [146] when, service over, we passed out of\nthe church, I remember there were very few words spoken,-a contrast\nto the custom nowadays of chatting and laughing at the door.\" I have\nheard others speak of the overwhelming pathos of his manner, and I\nasked the Rev. Dr. Morison, who came to New Bedford as a young man\nduring the last years of our stay there, to put some of his personal\nremembrances on paper. In a note from him, dated Toth January, 1883,\nhe says: \"I have not forgotten my promise to send you some little\naccount of your father's preaching in New Bedford. He was so great a\nman, uttering himself in his preaching, the sources of his power lay so\ndeep, his words came to us so vitally connected with the most subtle\nand effective forces of the moral and spiritual universe, that I can no\nmore describe him than I could a June day, in all its glory and beauty\nand its boundless resources of joy and life, to one who had never known\nit.\"\n\nThe following pages, which Dr. Morison was nevertheless kind enough to\nsend, have touching value and beauty:\n\n\"More than half a century ago, in March, 1832, I went to New Bedford,\nand, for nearly a year, was a constant attendant at Mr. Dewey's church.\nDuring that year he preached most of the sermons contained in the first\nvolume that he published. As we read them, they are among the ablest\nand most impressive sermons in the language. But when read now they\ngive only a slight idea of what they were as they came to us then,\nall [147] glowing and alive with the emotions of the preacher. When\nhe walked through the church to the pulpit, his head swaying backward\nand forward as if too heavily freighted, his whole bearing was that\nof one weighed down by the thoughts in which he was absorbed and the\nsolemn message which he had come to deliver. The old prophetic 'burden\nof the Lord' had evidently been laid upon him. Some hymn marked by its\ndepth of religious feeling was read. This was followed by a prayer,\nwhich was not the spontaneous, easy outflowing of calmly reverential\nfeelings, but the labored utterance of a soul overawed and overburdened\nby emotions too strong for utterance. There was sometimes an appearance\nalmost of distress in this exercise, so utterly inadequate, as it\nseemed to him, were any words of his to express what lay deepest in\nhis mind, when thus brought face to face with God. 'I do not shrink,'\nhe said, 'from speaking to man.' But, except in his rarest and best\nmoments, he was oppressed by a sense of the poverty of any language of\nthanksgiving or supplication that he could use in his intercourse with\nGod.\"\n\n\"His manner in preaching was marked by great depth and strength\nof feeling, but always subdued. He spoke on great subjects. He\nentered profoundly into them, and treated them with extraordinary\nintellectual ability and clearness. They who were seeking for light\nfound it in his preaching. But more than any intellectual precision\nor clearness of thought was to be gained from him in his treatment of\nthe momentous questions which present themselves, sooner or later, to\nevery thoughtful mind. Behind these questions, more important than\nany one or all of them intellectually considered, was the realm of\nthought, emotion, aspiration, out of which [148] religious ideas are\nformed, and in which the highest faculties of our nature are to find\ntheir appropriate nourishment and exercise. He spoke to us as one who\nbelonged to this higher world. The realm in which he lived, and which\nseemed never absent from his mind, impressed itself as he spoke, and\ngave a deeper solemnity and attractiveness to his words than could be\ngiven by any specific and clearly-defined ideas. A sense of mystery and\nawe pervaded his teachings, and infused into his utterances a sentiment\nof divine sacredness and authority. He preached as I never, before or\nsince, have heard any one else, on human nature, on retribution, on the\npower of kindness, on life and death, in their relations to man and\nto what is divine. He stood before us compassed about by a religious\natmosphere which penetrated his inmost nature, and gave its tone and\ncoloring to all he said. For he spoke as one who saw rising visibly\nbefore him the issues of life and of death.\"\n\n\"He was gifted with a rare dramatic talent. But it was a gift, not an\nart, and showed itself in voice and gesture as by the natural impulse\nof a great nature profoundly moved, and in its extremest manifestations\nso subdued as to leave the impression of a vast underlying reserved\nforce. His action, so full of meaning and so effective, was no studied\nor superficial movement of hand and voice, but the action of the whole\nman, body and soul, all powerfully quickened and moved from within by\nthe living thoughts and emotions to which he was giving utterance.\"\n\n\"I have heard many of the greatest orators of our time. But, with the\nexception of Daniel Webster and Dr. Channing in their highest moments,\nMr. Dewey was the most [149] eloquent man among them all, and that not\nonce or twice, on great occasions, but Sunday after Sunday, forenoon\nand afternoon, for months together.\"\n\n\"Some allowance should perhaps be made for the state of mind and the\nperiod of life in which I heard him. I had just come from college,\nwhere the intellect had been cultivated in advance of the moral and\nreligious faculties. The equilibrium which belongs to a perfectly\nhealthy and harmonious nature was disturbed, and, as a necessary\nconsequence of this unbalanced and distempered condition, there was\na deep inward unrest, and a craving for something,--the greatest of\nall,--which had not yet been attained. Mr. Dewey's preaching came in\njust at this critical time, and it was to me the opening into a new\nworld. The hymn, the prayer, the Scripture reading, usually brought\nme into a reverent and plastic state of mind, ready to receive and\nbe moulded by the deepest and loftiest Christian truths. From the\nbeginning to the end of the sermon I was under the spell which he had\nthrown over me, and unconscious of everything else. Very seldom during\nmy life, and then only for a few minutes at a time, has any one, by his\neloquence, exercised this absorbing and commanding influence over me.\nOnce or twice in hearing Dr. Channing I felt as I suppose the prophet\nmay have felt when he heard 'the still small voice,' at which 'he\nwrapped his face in his mantle,' and listened as to the voice of God.\nA few such experiences I have had with other men; but with Mr. Dewey\nmore than with all others. And when the benediction was pronounced,\nI wished to go away and be by myself in the new world of spiritual\nideas and emotions into which I had been drawn. Those were to me great\nexperiences, [150] inwrought into the inmost fibres of my nature, and\nalways associated in my mind with Mr. Dewey's preaching.\"\n\n\"Nor were these experiences peculiar to any one person. The audience as\na whole were affected in a similar manner. A deep solemnity pervaded\nthe place. There was not merely silence, but the spell of absorbed\nattention that makes itself felt, and spreads itself as by a general\nsympathy through a congregation profoundly moved by great thoughts\nfilled out and made alive by deep and uplifting emotions. The exercises\nin the church were often followed by lasting convictions. The Sunday's\nsermon was the topic, not of curious discussion or indiscriminate\neulogy, but of serious conversation among the young, who looked\nforward to the coming Sunday as offering privileges which it would be\na misfortune to lose. The services of the church were remembered and\nanticipated as the most interesting and important event of the week.\"\n\n\"I shall never cease to think with gratitude of Mr. Dewey's preaching.\nIn common with other great preachers of our denomination,--Dr.\nChanning, for example, Dr. Nichols, and Dr. Walker,--he spoke as one\nstanding within the all-encompassing and divine presence. He awakened\nin us a sense of that august and indefinable influence from which all\nthat is holiest and best must come. He brought us into communication\nwith that Light of life. He showed us how our lives, our thoughts,\nand even our every-day acts, may be sanctified and inspired by it, as\nevery plant and tree is not only illuminated by the sun but vitally\nassociated with it.\"\n\n\"If, in the light of later experience, I were to criticise [151] the\npreaching I then heard, I should say that it was too intense. The\nwriting and the delivery of such sermons subjected the preacher to too\nsevere a strain both of body and mind. No man could go on preaching in\nthat way, from month to month, without breaking down in health. And\nit may be questioned whether a mind acting under so high a pressure\nis in the best condition to take just views, to preserve its proper\nequipoise, or to impart wise and healthful instruction. The stimulus\ngiven may be too strong for the best activity of those who receive\nit. They whose sensitive natures are most deeply affected by such\nan example may, under its influence, unconsciously form an ideal of\nintellectual attainments too exacting, and therefore to them a source\nof weakness rather than of strength.\"\n\n\"The danger lies in these directions. But Mr. Dewey's breadth of\napprehension, his steadfast loyalty and devotion to the truth,\nthe judicial impartiality with which he examined the whole field\nbefore making up his mind, saved him from one-sided or ill-balanced\nconclusions. And the intense action of all the faculties not only\nenables a man of extraordinary intellectual powers to impress his\nthought on others and infuse his very soul into theirs; but it also, as\nwe see in the best work of Channing, Dewey, and Emerson, opens to them\nrealms of thought which otherwise might never have been reached, and\ngives to them glimpses of a divine love and splendor never granted to a\nless earnest and passionate devotion.\"\n\nIn the autumn of 1835 Mr. Dewey was settled over the Second Unitarian\nChurch in New York, trusting to his stock of already written discourses\n[152] to save him from a stress of intellectual labor too severe for\nhis suffering brain, which was never again to allow him uninterrupted\nactivity in study. When his life-work is viewed, it should always be\nremembered under what difficulties it was carried on. It was work that\ntaxed every faculty to the uttermost, while the physical organ of\nthought had been so strained by over-exertion at the beginning of his\nprofessional career, owing to a general ignorance of the bodily laws\neven greater then than it is now, that the use of it during the rest of\nhis life was like that which a man has of a sprained foot; causing pain\nin the present exercise, and threatening far worse consequences, if\nthe effort is continued. Fortunately, his health in all other respects\nwas excellent, and his spirits and courage seldom flagged. I remember\nhim as lying much on the sofa in those days, and liking to have his\nhead \"scratched\" by the hour together, with a sharp-pointed comb, to\nrelieve by external irritation the distressing sensation's, which he\ncompared to those made, sometimes by a tightening ring, sometimes by\na leaden cap, and sometimes (but this was in later life) by a dull\nboring instrument. Yet he was the centre of the family life, and of its\nmerriment as well; and his strong social instincts and lively animal\nspirits made him full of animation and vivacity in society, although he\nwas soon tired, and with a nervous restlessness undoubtedly the effect\nof disease, never wanted to stay long in any company. [153] He preached\na sermon after the great fire in New York, in December, 1835, which\ndrew forth the following letter from Mr. Henry Ware:--\n\nCAMBRIDGE, Jan. 15, 1836.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I must acknowledge your sermon,-you made me most happy\nby it. It was so true, so right, so strongly and movingly put; it was\nthe word that ought to be said, the word in season. My feeling was: God\nAlmighty be praised for sending that man there to speak to that great\nand mighty city, and to interpret to it his providence. You cannot\nbut feel gratitude in being appointed to be such an instrument; and I\ntrust that you are to be used much and long, and for great good. Keep\nyourself well and strong; look on yourself as having a message and a\nmission, and live for nothing else but to perform it.\n\nI happen to have found out, very accidentally, what is always the most\nsecret of undiscoverable secrets,--that you are asked to preach the\nDudleian Lecture. Do not let anything hinder you. We want you: you must\ncome; do not hesitate; and, mind, I speak first, to have you come and\nhouse it with me while you are in Cambridge. Pray, deny me not.\n\nShall I tell you? Your sermon made me cry so that I could not finish\nreading it, but was obliged to lay it down. Not from its pathos,--but\nfrom a stronger, higher, deeper, holier something which it stirred up.\nI am almost afraid for you when I think what a responsibility lies on\nyou for the use of such powers. May He that gave them give you grace\nwith them! Love to you and yours, and all peace be with you. Yours ever,\n\nH. WARE, JR.\n\n\n[154] In the same year he addressed a letter to Emerson, who, as\na cousin of his wife, was well known to him from the first. The\nfamiliarity of the opening recalls what he said in writing of him many\nyears after: \"Waldo, we always called him in those days, though now all\nadjuncts have dropped away from the shining name of Emerson.\"\n\n\nTo Ralph Waldo Emerson.\n\nBOSTON, May 13, 1836.\n\nDEAR WALDO,--I felt much disappointed when, on going to Hancock Place\nthe third time, I found that you had gone to Concord; for I was drawn\nto you as by a kind of spell. I wanted to see you, though it seemed to\nme that I could not speak to you one word. I can do no more now,--I am\ndumb with amazement and sorrow;{12} and yet I must write to you, were\nit only to drop a tear on the page I send. Your poor mother! I did\nnot know she had come with you. Miss Hoar{13} I do not know, and will\nintrude no message; but I think of her more than many messages could\nexpress. My dear friend, I am as much concerned for you as for any one.\nGod give you strength to comfort others! Alas! we all make too much\nof death. Like a vase of crystal that fair form was shattered,--in a\nmoment shattered! Can such an event be the catastrophe we make it?\n\n    {FN 12: This letter was called forth by the sudden death of\n    Charles Chauncey Emerson, a younger brother of Ralph Waldo\n    Emerson, and one of the noblest young men of America.}\n\n    {FN 13: Miss Hoar was betrothed to Charles Emerson.}\n\n[155] I preached to-day at Chauncey Place{14}. I will copy a passage.\n(I have not space to give the connection.)\n\n\"There stood once where now I stand, a father,--I knew him not, but to\nsome of you he was known,--who, ere his children were twined up for\nlife, was called to leave them, but whose fair example and fervent\nprayer visited them, and dwelt among them, and helped, with much kindly\nnurture, to form them to learning, virtue, honor, and to present\nthem to the world a goodly band of brothers. And say not, because\none and another has fallen on the threshold of life,--fallen amidst\nthe brightest visions and most brilliant promises of youth,--that it\nis all in vain; that parental toils and cares and prayers are all in\nvain. There is another life, where every exalted power trained here\nshall find expansion, improvement, and felicity. [Those sons of the\nmorning, who stand for a moment upon the verge of this earthly horizon\namidst the first splendors of day, and then vanish away into heaven,\nas if translated, not deceased, seem to teach us, almost by a sensible\nmanifestation, how short is the step and how natural is the passage\nfrom earth to heaven.]{15} They almost open heaven to us, and they help\nour languid efforts to reach it, by the most powerful of all earthly\naids,--the memory of admired and loved virtues. Yes, the mingled sorrow\nand affection which have swelled many hearts among us within the last\nweek, tell me that the excellence we have lost has not lived in vain.\nPrecious memory of early [156] virtue and piety! and such memories, and\nmore than one such, there are among you. Hold these bright companions\never dear, my young friends; embalm their memory in the fragrant breath\nof your love; follow them with the generous emulation of virtue; let\nthe seal which death has set upon excellence stamp it with a character\nof new sanctity and authority; let not virtue die and friendship mourn\nin vain!\"\n\n    {FN 14: The church formerly ministered to by the Rev. William\n    Emerson, the father of these rare sons.}\n\n    {FN 15: This letter is taken from a copy, not the original; and\n    the meaning of the brackets is uncertain. Probably, however,\n    the passage which they enclose is a quotation.}\n\nRemember me with most affectionate sympathy to your mother, and Aunt\nMary, and to Dr. Ripley.\n\nWith my kind regards to your wife, I am, dear Waldo, in love and\nprayer, yours,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\nEverybody mourns with you. Dr. Channing said yesterday, \"I think\nMassachusetts could not have met with a greater loss than of that young\nman.\"\n\n\nMr. Emerson's letter in reply is beautiful in itself, and has the added\ninterest attaching now to every word of his:--\n\nCONCORD, May 23, 1836,\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--I received the last week your kind letter, and the copy\nof your affectionate notice of Charles A Chauncey Place. I remember\nhow little while ago you consoled us by your sympathy at Edward's\ndeparture,--a kind, elevating letter, which I have never acknowledged.\nI feel as if it was kind, even compassionate, to remember me now that\nthese my claims of remembrance are gone.\n\nCharles's mind was healthy, and had opened steadily with a growth that\nnever ceased from month to month [157] under favorable circumstances.\nHis critical eye was so acute, his rest on himself so absolute, and\nhis power of illustrating his thought by an endless procession of fine\nimages so excellent, that his conversation came to be depended on at\nhome as daily bread, and made a very large part of the value of life\nto me. His standard of action was heroic,--I believe he never had even\ntemptations to anything mean or gross. With great value for the opinion\nof plain men, whose habits of life precluded compliment and made their\nverdict unquestionable, he held perhaps at too low a rate the praise\nof fashionable people,--so that he steadily withdrew from display, and\nI felt as if nobody knew my treasure. Meantime, like Aaron, \"he could\nspeak well.\" He had every gift for public debate, and I thought we had\nan orator in training for the necessities of the country, who should\ndeserve the name and the rewards of eloquence. But it has pleased God\nnot to use him here. The Commonwealth, if it be a loser, knows it not;\nbut I feel as if bereaved of so much of my sight and hearing.\n\nHis judgment of men, his views of society, of politics, of religion, of\nbooks, of manners, were so original and wise and progressive, that I\nfeel--of course nobody can think as I do--as if an oracle were silent.\n\nI am very sorry that I cannot see you,--did not when we were both in\nBoston. My mother and brother rejoice in your success in New York, and\nI with them. They have had their part in the benefit. I hear nothing of\nthe aching head, and hope it does not ache. . . . Cannot I see you in\nConcord during some of your Boston visits? I will lay by every curious\nbook or letter that I can think might interest you. My cousin Louisa, I\nknow, would be glad to see this old town, and the old [158] man at the\nparsonage whilst he is yet alive. My mother joins me in sending love to\nher.\n\nYours affectionately,\n\nR. WALDO EMERSON.\n\n\nMr. Dewey's mind was too logical in its methods for entire intellectual\nsympathy with Mr. Emerson; but that he thoroughly appreciated his\nspiritual insight is shown by the following passage from a manuscript\nsermon on Law, preached 13th August, 1868, on the occasion of the\nearthquake of that year in South America: \"But the law [of retribution]\ndoes stand fast. Nothing ever did, ever shall, ever can escape it. Take\nany essence-drop or particle of evil into your heart and life, and you\nshall pay for it in the loss, if not of gold or of honor, yet of the\nfinest sense and the finest enjoyment of all things divinest, most\nbeautiful and most blessed in your being. I know of no writer among\nus who has emphasized this fact, this law, more sharply than Waldo\nEmerson, and I commend his pages to you in this view. Freed from all\nconventionalism, whether religious or Scriptural, though he has left\nthe ranks of our faith, yet he has gone, better than any of us, to the\nvery depth of things in this matter.\"\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nNEW YORK, Nov. 7, 1836.\n\nMY DEAR WARE,--Shall I brood over my regrets in secret, or shall I tell\nyou of them? I sometimes do not care whether any human being knows\nwhat is passing in [159] me; and then again my feelings are all up in\narms for sympathy, as if they would take it by storm. I declare I have\na good deal of liking for that other,--that sullenness, or sadness,\nor what you will; it is calmer and more independent. So I shall say\nnothing, only that I miss you even more than I expected.{16} Never, in\nall this great city, will a face come through my door that I shall like\nto see better than yours,--I doubt if so well.\n\n    {FN 16: See p. 86.}\n\nThe next nearest thing to you is Furness's book. Have you got it? Is\nit not charming? It is a book of beauty and life. Spots there are upon\nit,--they say there are upon the sun. Certes, there are tendencies to\nnaturalism in Furness's mind which I do not like,--do not think the\ntrue philosophy; but it is full of beauty, and hath much wisdom in it\ntoo.\n\nI write on the gallop. My dinner is coming in three minutes, and a\nwagon is coming after that to carry me to Berkshire, that is, by\nsteamboat to Hudson as usual. But I am going to send this, though it be\nworth nothing but to get a letter from you.\n\nIf letters, like dreams, came from the multitude of business, I should\nwrite of nothing but that tragedy extempore,-for I am sure it was\ngot up in a minute,-the argument whereof was your running away. It\npositively is the staple of conversation. And I think it is rather hard\nupon me, too. I am here; but that seems to go for nothing. All their\ntalk is of your going away,--running away, I say,--desertion,--and help\nyourself if you can. . . .\n\nMy love to Henry Ware, and the love of me and mine to you and yours.\n\nYours ever,\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\n[160] To the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, Dec. 1, 1836.\n\nMY DEAR SIR WILLIAM,--For a prince you are in letter-writing, and\nyou can call me Lord Orville, for I have a birthright claim to that\ntitle.{17} Excuse this capricole of my pen; it has been drawing hard\nenough at a sermon all the morning, and can't help cutting a caper\nwhen it is let out. You won't get the due return for your good long\nletter this time, nor ever, I think. I am taking comfort in the good\nlong letters that are going with mine, and of whose sending by this\nconveyance I am the cause.\n\n    {FN 17: He was named after Lord Orville, the hero of Miss\n    Burney's \"Evelina,\" which his mother had read with delight\n    shortly before his birth.}\n\nThis conveyance is Miss Searle; and if you and Mrs. Ware don't\ncultivate her, or let her cultivate you, your folly will be\ninconceivable.\n\nMrs. Jameson I have missed two or three chances of seeing,--very\nbright sometimes, and very foolish others; but who shall resist such\nintoxicating draughts as have for some years been offered to her! She\nset off for Canada yesterday, going for her husband, since he could n't\nor would n't come for her.\n\nIngham has just finished one of the most exquisite portraits of Miss\nSedgwick that eye ever saw. Did you see anything of it before you went?\n\nFurness ['s book] is selling much, and I hear nothing but admiration,\nsave the usual quaver in the song about the part on miracles.\nApropos, . . . I think that the explication of the miracles must be\na moot and not a test point, and I would not break with the [161]\n\"Christian Examiner\" upon it; and yet I think the heterodox opinions of\nRipley should have come into it in the shape of a letter, and not of a\nreview. It is rather absurd to say \"We\" with such confidence, and that\nfor opinions in conflict with the whole course of the \"Examiner\" and\nthe known opinions of almost all its supporters. . . .\n\nYours forever and a day,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, May. 2, 1837.\n\n. . . A WEEK ago to-day I sat down at my desk, spread before me a sheet\nof paper, grasped my pen energetically, and had almost committed myself\nfor a letter to you, when suddenly it occurred to me that Mrs. Schuyler\nwas in Boston, and would have told you just what it was my special\ndesign to write; that is, all about the congregation of the faithful\nin Chambers Street. Well, I suppose she has; but I shall have my say.\nThe congregation has certainly not improved, as you seem, in your\npreposterous modesty, to suppose, but suffered by your leaving it. The\nattendance, I should think, is about the same. . . . But I am afraid\nthat the society is gradually losing strength.\n\nI have been preaching some Sunday-evening sermons to the merchants.\nHave n't you heard of them? And if you have n't, do you pretend that\nBrookline is a place? Take my word, Sir, that it is not to be found on\nthe map of the world,--not known either to the ancients or the moderns.\nYou are not in existence, Sir, take my word [162] for it, if you have\nnot heard of these crowded, listening, etc. assemblies at the Mercer\nStreet Church. Well, really, I have seen a packed audience there, and\neven the galleries pretty well filled. I have thoughts of publishing\nthe discourses (only three, more than an hour long, however), and if I\ncould only write three more, I would; but my brain got into a pretty\nbad condition by the third week, and I don't know whether I can go On\nat present.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, March 27, 1837.\n\nMY DEAR WARE,--I should like to know what you mean by not letting me\nhear from you these three months. Do you not know that you are in my\ndebt for a letter at least twenty lines long, which it took me three\nminutes to write? And three minutes and twenty lines, in this Babel,\nare equal to one hour and two sheets in Brookline. Do you not know\nthat everybody is saying, \"When have you heard from Mr. Ware?\" Do you\nnot know that ugly and choking weeds will spring up on the desolation\nyou have made here if you do not scatter some flower-seeds upon it?\nConsider and tremble. Or, respect this and repent, as the Chinese say.\n\nWell, Dr. Follen is to be here for a twelvemonth, and we shall not get\nyou back again,--oh me!\n\nDr. Follen has quite filled the church at some evening lectures on\nUnitarianism. Good! and everything about him is good, but that he comes\nafter you. [163]\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, July 10, 1837.\n\nMY DEAR WARE,--I can scarcely moderate my expressions to the tone of\nwisdom in telling you how much pleasure I have had in reading your\nbook,--how much I am delighted with you and for you. There is no\nperson to whom I would more gladly have had the honor fall of writing\nthe \"Letters from Palmyra.\" And it is a distinction that places your\nname among the highest in our--good-for-nothing--literature, as\nthe Martineau considers it. By the bye, you need n't think you are\na-going to stand at the head of everything, as she will have it. Have\nnot I written a book too, to say nothing of the names less known of\nChanning, Irving, Bryant, etc.? And, by the bye, again, speaking of\nthe Martineau, she is a woman of one idea,--takes one view, that is,\nand knows nothing of qualification,--and hence is opinionated and\nconfident to a degree that I think I never saw equalled. Julia, Fausta,\nnay, Zenobia, for me, rather. How beautifully have you shown them up!\nAnd Gracchus and Longinus as nobly. What things is literature doing to\ngratify ambition,--things beyond its proudest hope! How little thought\nZenobia that her character, two thousand years after she lived, would\nbe illustrated by the genius of a clime that she dreamed not of!\n\nMy love and congratulations to your wife; my love and envy to you.\n\nO. DEWEY.\n\n\n[164] To the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, May 13, 1838.\n\nMY DEAR WARE,--Brother Pierpont has preached finely for me this\nmorning, and is to do so again this evening; and for this I find myself\nindirectly indebted to you. But you are one of those to whom I can't\nfeel much obligation--for the love I bear you.\n\nI wrote to you three weeks ago. I hope Mrs. Ware is patient and\nsustained. Of you I expect it. But, O heaven! what a world of thought\ndoes it take even to look on calamity!\n\nYour name is abroad in the world as it should be. I rejoice. Pierpont\nis now sitting by me, reading the London and Westminster article on\n\"Zenobia, or the Fall of Palmyra.\" I am glad you have altered the\ntitle. We are looking for the sequel.\n\nThe next letter describes some of the difficulties of a journey\nfrom Berkshire to New York forty years ago. The route by Hartford\nwas probably chosen instead of the ordinary one by Hudson, to take\nadvantage of the new railroad between that city and New Haven.\n\n\nTo his W.\n\nNEW YORK, February 5, 1841.\n\nI PRAY you to admire my style of writing February. Began to write\nJuly, but the truth is, I nearly lost my wits on my journey. Twelve\nor thirteen mortal hours in getting to Hartford.{18} After two or\nthree hours, called [165] up, just when the sleep had become so\nprofound that on being waked I could not, for some seconds, settle\nit on what hemisphere, continent, country, or spot of the creation I\nwas, nor why I was there at all. Then whisked away in the dark to the\nscience-lighted domes of New Haven, but did n't see them--for why? I\nwas asleep as I went through to the wharf. From the wharf, pitched into\nthe steamboat, not having the points of compass, nor the time of day,\nnor the zenith and nadir of my own person. After two previous months of\nquiet, the whirl-about made me feel very \"like an ocean weed uptorn And\nloose along the world of waters borne.\" If not a foundered weed, a very\ndumfoundered one at least.\n\n    {FN 18: Fifty miles}\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 15, 1841.\n\nHow glad I am you wrote to me, my dear W. Is n't that a queer\nbeginning? But there are people who say that everything natural is\nbeautiful, and I am sure that first line was as natural as the gushing\nout of a fountain; for the very sight of your handwriting was as a\nsunbeam in a winter's day. By the bye, speaking of sunbeams, they\ncertainly do wonders in winter weather. Have you ever seen such blue\ndepths, or depths of blue, in the mountains, that it seemed as if\nthe very azure of the sky had fallen and lodged in their clefts and\nleafless trees? Yesterday I was looking towards our barn roofs covered\nwith snow,--and you know they are but six rods off,--and so deep was\nthe color that I thought for the moment it was the blue of the distant\nhorizon. [166] Our friend Catherine Sedgwick, writing to me a day or\ntwo ago, speaks in raptures of it. She says it is like the haze over\nSoracte or Capri.\n\nSo you see my paragraph has led me from winter to summer. Summer is\ngone to New York a week since. No doubt it will produce beautiful\nflowers in due time, many of them culled from far distant lands, but\nmost of them native, I ween. Foreign seeds, you know, can do nothing\nwithout a good soil. In truth, I am looking with great interest for\nCatherine Sedgwick's book.\n\n\"Hard work to write.\" Yes, terribly hard it has been for me these\ntwo years past; but when I am vigorous, I like it. However, the pen\nis ever, doubtless, a manacle to the thought; draws it out, if you\nplease, but makes a dragging business of it. By the bye, is your\nlaziness making an apology for not finishing \"Scenes in Judea \"? Hear a\ncompliment of my mother's for your encouragement. \"I should think the\nman that could write the Letters from Palmyra,'--anything so beautiful\nand so powerful too\" (her very words),--\"could write anything.\"\n\nI am delighted to hear of Mr. Farrar's being better. Give my love to\nthem, and tell him I know of nothing in the world I could near with\nmore pleasure than of his improvement. What a beautiful, gentle,\nprecious spirit he is!\n\nYes, I grant you all about Cambridge; and if I don't go abroad, perhaps\nwe will come and live with you a year or two. Something I must do; I\nget no better.\n\nI can't guess your plaguy charade. I never thought of one a minute\nbefore, and I have ruminated upon yours an hour. [167] Oh that you were\nmy colleague, or I yours, as you please!\n\nWith our love to your wife and children,\n\nI am as ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Dr. Channing.\n\nNEW YORK, Sept. 30, 1841.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--I cannot go away for two years without taking leave of\nyou. I wish I could do so by going to see you. But my decision to go\nis not more than three weeks old, and the intervening time has been\noverwhelmed with cares. Among other things, I have been occupied with\nprinting a volume of sermons. I feel as if it were a foolish thing to\nconfess, but I imagined that I had something to say about \"human life\"\n(that is my subject), though I warrant you will find it little enough.\nBut then, you are accustomed to say so much better things than the rest\nof us, that you ought to distrust your judgment.\n\nI sail for Havre on the 8th October with my family.\n\nI am extremely glad to learn from Mrs. G. that your health is so\ngood, and that you pass some time every day with your pen in hand.\nThe world, I believe, is to want for its guidance more powerful\nwriting, during twenty years to come, than it has ever wanted before,\nor will again, and I hope you will be able to do your part. Perhaps\nthis is speaking more oracularly than becomes my ignorance; but it\ndoes appear to me that the civilized world is on the eve of a change\nand a progress, putting all past data at fault, and outstripping all\npresent imagination. What questions are to arise and to be [168] hotly\nagitated about human rights, social position, lawful government, and\nthe laws that are to press man down or to help him up? What Brownsons\nand Lamennais' and Strauss' are to come upon the stage, and to be\nconfronted with sober and earnest reasoning?\n\nBut I did not think to put my slender finger into such great matters,\nbut only to say adieu! If you would write me while abroad, you know it\nwould give me great pleasure.\n\nWith my most kind and affectionate regards to Mrs. Channing, and my\nvery heart's good wishes and felicitations to M., I am as ever,\n\nVery truly your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nPARIS, Dec. 25, 1841.\n\nMY DEAR FELLOW,--You see how I begin; truth is, I feel more like\nwriting a love-letter to you than a letter about affairs, or matters,\nor things; for have you not been my fellow more than anybody else has\nbeen? Have we not lived and labored together, have I not been in your\nhouse as if it were my own, and have you not come into my study many\na time and oft, as little disturbing my thought, and seeming as much\nto belong there, as any sunbeam that glided into it? And furthermore,\nis not this anniversary time not only a fellowship season for all\nChristian souls, but especially a reminder to those who have walked to\nthe house of God in company?\n\nStill, however, it is of affairs that I have felt pressed to write you\never since I left home,--indeed, ever since I received your letter from\nMontreal. I have felt [169] that I ought at least to tell you that I\nsee no prospect of doing anything that you desire of me. When I shall\nbe able to address myself to any considerable task again, I know not.\nAt present I am lying quite perdu. I have lost all faculty, but to read\nFrench histories, memoirs, novels, periodicals, etc., and to run after\nthis great show-world of Paris,--Louvre, gallery, opera, what not. I am\nlonging to get behind these visible curtains, and to know the spirit,\ncharacter, manner of being, of this French people. At present all is\nproblem to me. No Sunday, literally no cessation of labor, no sanctity\nof domestic ties with multitudes, no honesty or truth (it is commonly\nreported), but courtesy, kindness, it seems, and a sort of conventional\nfidelity,--for instance, no stealing; a million of people here, but\nwithout either manufactures or commerce on a great scale; petit\nmanufacture, petit trade, petit menage, petit prudence unexampled, and\nthe grandest tableaux of royal magnificence in public works and public\ngrounds to be seen in the world; the rez-au-chaussee (ground floor) of\nParis, a shop; all the stories above, to be let; a million of people,\nand nobody at home, in our American sense of the word; an infinite\nboutiquerie, an infinite bonbonnerie, an infinite stir and movement,\nand no deep moral impulse that I can see; a strange melange of the most\nshallow levity in society, the most atrocious license in literature,\nand the most savage liberalism in politics,--on the whole, what sort of\npeople is it?\n\nHe bien!-to come down from my high horse before I break my neck,--here\nwe are, at honest housekeeping; for we hope to pay the bills. Hope to\npay, did I say? We pay as we go; that is the only way here; no stores,\nno larder, no bins, no garners,--the shops of [170] Paris are all\nthis to every family. Our greatest good-fortune here is in having the\nWalshes for our next-door neighbors; and who should I find in Mrs.\nW. but a very loving cousin and hearty admirer of yours? She wishes\nto write a P. S. in my letter, and I am so happy to come to you in\nsuch good company, as well as to enhance the value of my letter with\nsomething better than I can write, that I very gladly give the space to\nher. I am only sorry and ashamed that it is so little. And so, with all\nour love to you all,\n\nI am as ever yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nCHAMPEL, NEAR GENEVA, July 18, 1842.\n\nMY DEAR FELLOW AND FRIEND,--At the hour of midnight, with the moon\nshining in at my open window, the sound of the rushing Arve in my\nears,--around me, a fine table of land a hundred feet above the stream\nthat washes its base, and covered with a hundred noble chestnuts, and\nlaid out with beautiful walks,--thus \"being and situate,\" I take in\nhand this abominable steel pen to write you. Envy me not, William Ware!\nLet no man, that is well, envy him that is sick. If I were \"lying and\nbeing and situate,\" as the deeds have it, and as I ought to have it, I\nshould think myself an object of envy, that is, supposing I thought at\nall. No; in this charmed land, and in every land where I go, I bear a\nburden of diseased nerves which I might well exchange for the privilege\nof living on the Isle of Shoals, could I but have the constitution of\nsome of its pechereux (by contraction, pesky) inhabitants.\n\n. . . There has come a new day, and I have got a new [171] pen. Last\nnight I was too much awake; I got up from my bed and wrote in my\ndressing-gown; to-day I am too much asleep. But allons, and see what\nwill come of it.\n\nThis morning we walked into Geneva to church, the air so clear that\nit seemed as if we could count every tile on the houses. The chimneys\nare crowned with a forest of tin pipes, twisted in every direction\nto carry off smoke. At dusky eve, in a superstitious time, a man,\ncoming suddenly upon the town, might think that an army of goblins had\njust alighted upon its roofs. . . . What stupendous things do ages\naccumulate upon every spot where they have passed! Every time we go\ninto town we pass by the very place where Servetus was burned. And\nGeneva is old enough to have seen Julius Caesar!\n\n. . . Here's another new day, William; and I wish I were a new man. But\nthe heavens are bright, and the air so clear that I can define every\nman's patch of vineyard and farm on the Jura, ten miles off; every\nfissure and seam on Saleve, two miles back of us; and through a gap in\nthe Saleve, I do not doubt, were I to go out on the grounds, I could\nsee the top of Mont Blanc. And yet lay one or two ounces' weight on a\nman's brain, and a tackle, standing on the Jura, Saleve, and Mont Blanc\ntogether, can't lift him up. You see, I am resolved you shan't envy\nme. However, not to be too lugubrious, I am improving; that is, the\nparoxysms of this trouble are less severe, though I am far from being\nrelieved of the burden.\n\nBut it is time I turn to your letter, which I received here with\nHenry's, on the 12th June. Thank him, for I cannot write you both now.\nMuch news he gave me; [172] but how much that was distressing, and that\nconcerning himself most of all. What is to become of our churches? And\nwhat is he to do? It relieves me very much to hear that Gannett's case\nis no worse. My love and sympathy to him when you see him. Is he not\none of our noblest and most disinterested, as well as ablest men,--nay,\nas an extemporaneous speaker, unrivalled among us? . . .\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.\n\nCHAMPEL, NEAR GENEVA, July 13, 1842.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,-The public prints have doubtless relieved me from what\nI should consider a most painful duty,--that of announcing to you the\ndeath of your friend Sismondi! He died on the 25th of last month. I saw\nMme. Sismondi yesterday, and she desired me to tell you particularly\nthat she must defer writing to you some little time; that she did not\nfeel that she could write now, especially in a way to give you any\ncomfort. She thought it was better that I should announce it to you,\nnot seeming to be aware that the death of her husband is one of the\nevents that the newspapers soon carry through the world. Indeed, the\nmodesty of Sismondi and his wife is one of the things in them that has\nmost struck me. Mme. S. said yesterday, in speaking of the commencement\nof your friendship, that \"Sismondi was so grateful to her for finding\nhim out.\" And Sismondi, when I saw him on my arrival, in expressing\nto me his regret and concern that it was so long since he had heard\nfrom you, said he knew that you had many letters to write, etc.; as if\nthat could be the reason why you did not write to him! Well, there is\nmore modesty in the world than we think, I verily believe. [173]. . .\nSpeaking of her husband, Mme. S. said: \"Of his acquisitions and powers,\nI say nothing; but it was such a heart,--there never was such a heart!\"\n\nI ought to add, while speaking of Mme. S., since we owe it all to you,\nthat her reception of us was the kindest possible. She brought us all,\nchildren and all, to her house immediately to pass an evening, and\nindeed took all our hearts by storm,--if that can be said of a creature\nso gentle and modest. . . .\n\nI wrote the foregoing this morning. At dinner-time your letter of June\n12 came, which, with several others, has so turned my head, that I\ndon't know whether it is morning or afternoon. We are conscious, \"at\neach remove,\" of dragging \"the lengthening chain,\" but we do not know\nexactly how heavy or how strong it is, till some one lays a hand on the\nother end. The lightest pressure there!--you know how it is when some\none steps on the end of a long string which a boy draws after him. God\nbless you!--it was in my heart to say no less,--for thinking it is a\nlong time. . . . We read and walk and talk and laugh, and sometimes\nsigh. Switzerland has no remedy against that. Of myself I have nothing\nto say that is worth the saying. I am improving somewhat, but I am\nsuffering much and almost continually, and as yet I recover no energy\nfor work.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W Bellows.\n\nFLORENCE, ITALY, Nov. 24, 1842.\n\n. . . It is now a fortnight or more since the overwhelming news came to\nus of the death of Channing. During this time my mind has been passing\nthrough steps of gradual approximation to the reality, but never did\nit [174] find, or else voluntarily interpose, so many barriers between\nitself and reality as in this most deplorable event. There are losses\nwhich I should more acutely feel than the loss of Channing; because\nfriendship with him lacked, I imagine, in all who enjoyed it, those\nlittle familiarities, those fonder leanings, which leave us, as it\nwere, bewildered and utterly prostrate when the beloved object is\ngone. But there is here a sense of general and irreparable loss, such\nas the people of a realm might be supposed to feel when its cherished\nhead is suddenly taken away. For I suppose that no person sustained so\nmany and such vital relations to the whole republic of thought, to the\nwhole realm of moral feeling among us, as this, our venerated teacher\nand friend. To call him \"that great and good man,\" does not meet the\nfeeling we have about him. Familiar to almost nobody, he was near to\neverybody. His very personality seems to have been half lost in the\nsense of general benefit. He was one of those great gifts of God, like\nsunlight or the beauty of nature, which we scarcely know how to live\nwithout, or in the loss of which, at least, life is sadly changed, and\nthe world itself is mournfully bereft.\n\nBut a letter affords no scope for such a theme; and besides, painful\nas it is to pass to common topics, they claim their dues. Life, ay,\ncommon life, must go on as it ever did, and nothing shall tear that\ninfinite web of mystery in which it walks enveloped. Ours, however,\nin these days, is rather a shaded life. Absence from home, a strange\nland, a land, too, that sits in mourning over the great relics of the\npast,--all this tends to make it so. More material still is what passes\nwithin the microcosm, and I am not yet well. Not that I am worse, for\nI am continually better. But--but, in short, not to [175] speak too\ngravely, if a man feels as if one of the snakes of Medusa's head were\ncertainly in his brain,--I have seen a horrible picture of the Medusa\nto-day by Leonardo da Vinci,--he cannot be very happy, you know. And if\nthose around him be of such as \"bear one another's burdens,\" then you\nsee how the general conscience follows.\n\nBut let me not make the picture too dark, for the sake of truth and\ngratitude. Pleasantly situated we are, in his fair Florence, which\ngrows fairer to my eye the more I see it. Our rooms look to the south,\nand down from a balcony upon a garden full of orange-trees, and roses\nEnd chrysanthemums in full bloom. . . . Then we have reading and\nmusic in-doors, and churches and palaces and galleries out-doors. And\nsuch galleries they grow upon me daily; the more ordinary paintings,\nor those hat seemed such at first, reveal something new on very new\nperusal. It is great reading with such walls or pages. Still there is a\nlonging, almost a sick pining, or home at times. . .\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nNEW YORK, Sept. 26, 1843.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--Why have I not written to you, before? Every day for\nthe last three weeks I have thought of it. I have been with you in\nthought, and with him, your dear brother,--my dear friend! If he should\nhave known me and conversed with me, I could lot have refrained from\nmaking the journey to see him. How easy his converse ever was, how\nnatural, how sensible [176] and humorous by turns, but especially so\nunforced that for me it always had a charm by itself. The words seemed\nto drop from our lips almost without our will, and yet with nobody\ncould I get through so much conversation in so little time. Neither\nof us seemed to want much explanation from the other; I think we\nunderstood one another well.\n\nWhere is he now? With whom talks he now? Perhaps with Channing and\nGreenwood! Oh! are not the best of us gone; and all in one year! Was\nthere ever such a year?\n\nMy dear William Ware, we must hold on to the ties of life as we may,\nand especially to such as unite you and me. But are you not getting a\nstrange feeling of nonchalance about everything,--life, death, and the\ntime of death, what matters it? I rather think it is natural for the\nlove of life to grow stronger as we advance in life and yet it is so\nterribly shaken by the experience of life, and one is so burdened at\ntimes by the all-surrounding and overwhelming mystery and darkness,\nthat one is willing to escape any way and on any terms.\n\nI have your few kind words. I hope I shall have such oftener than once\nor twice a year. I will try to take care of myself, and to live. . . .\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, Oct. 17, 1844.\n\nMY DEAR WARE,--I ought not--I must not--I cannot--I dare not,--at least\nnot at present. When the present stress is over. I may feel better. The\nfact is, at present I am scarcely fit to take care of my parish, and it\nwould be madness to take upon myself any new [177] burden. See there\na fine fellow I should be to have charge of the \"Examiner,\" who have\nwritten present three times in as many lines! However, I am writing\nnow in terrible haste, on the spur of an instant determination; for I\nmust and will put this thing off from my mind. I have kept it there for\na fortnight. I have wished to do this. First, because you wished it;\nsecondly, because others wish it; and, thirdly, I had a leaning to it.\nIn case of a colleagueship, and that must come, I might be glad of it.\nBellows, too, would help me,--would take charge with me,--and that may\nbe, if the thing is open by and by, but not now; I must not think of it\nany more now. I have not slept a wink all night for thinking of this\nand other things.\n\nAll this, my dear fellow, is somewhat confidential. I do not wish to\nbe considered a good-for-nothing. Perhaps I shall rally. I was doing\nvery well when I left the Continent. England overwhelmed me with\nengagements, and so it is here. With our love to your love and the\nchildren,\n\nYours as ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, Jan. 6, 1845.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I shall make no clue return for your good long letter;\nI have none of the Lambent light which plays around your pen wherewith\nto illuminate my page, and indeed am in these days, I am sorry to say,\nsomething more dark than usual. However, if wishes be such good things\nas you ingeniously represent, [178] I judge that attempts are worth\nsomething. Ergo, Q. S., which means good sequitur; it can hardly be a\nnon sequitur, if nothing follows.\n\nThere! I have just touched all the points of your letter, I think. I\nhave sent my light comment-stone skittering over your full smooth lake.\n\nWell, I see you on the bank of your literal lake, your beautiful\nMenotomy,--beautiful as Windermere, only not so big; and I see the\nspring coming to cover that bank with verdure, and I long for both;\nthat is, for spring and you. I always long for you, and for spring, I\nthink I long for it more than I ever did It must be that I am growing\nold. Shall we ever meet, my friend, if not by Menotomy, by those\nfountains where Christ leads his flock in the immortal clime, and\nrejoin our beloved Henry, and Greenwood, and Channing? I am not sad,\nbut my thoughts this winter are far more of death than of life. Ought\none to part with his friends so? No; happy New Year to you. Hail the\nexpected years, and the years of eternity! God bless you.\n\nAs ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 18, 1845.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,-. . . The whole previous page is to no purpose but to\nlet you know that I have thought about you incessantly; for you know\nthat I have a sympathy not only with your heart, but with your head,\nif that be again, as I suppose it is, the seat of your trouble. Heads\ncertainly can bear a great deal. Mine has; and [179] I am now reading\nthe work, in six volumes, of a man who was out of his head for years\nfrom hard study; and yet these volumes are full of thought, full of\nminute and endless explications on the greatest of subjects. It is\nthe work of Auguste Comte on the \"Philosophie Positive,\" essentially\nan attempt at a philosophic appreciation of the whole course of human\nthought and history. With an awfully involved style, with a great\nover-valuation of his own labor, he seems to me to have done a great\ndeal. I have met with nothing on the philosophy of history to compare\nwith it, as philosophy, though I have read Vico and Herder.\n\nI shall not be easy till I know something about your health and\nplans. My vacation is nearly ended. I go down to New York the 1st of\nSeptember. . . .\n\nAs ever yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 25, 1845.\n\nDEAR BELLOWS,--I thought to answer you in your own vein, but I am made\nvery serious just now by reading the first five chapters of Matthew.\nHow many things to think of! Does no doubt arise concerning those\nintroductory chapters? And then what heart-penetrating, what tremendous\nteaching is that of the Sermon on the Mount!\n\nIn fact, though jests have flown pretty freely about the house, and\nhearty laughter is likely to be where the Deweys muster in much\nstrength, yet I have had a pretty serious vacation. I set for my stent,\nto read the [180] New Testament, or the Gospels at least, in Greek,\nand to master the great work of Auguste Comte, and to write one or\ntwo sermons. With the philosopher I have spent the most time. Morning\nafter morning, with none to annoy or make me afraid, I have gone out\non the green grass under the trees, and, seated in the bosom of the\nworld, I have striven with the great problem of the world. The account\nlooks fanciful, perhaps, but the matter is not so; for amidst this\nsolitude and silence, and this infinitude which nature opens to me as\nthe city never does, I find the most serious and terrible business of\nmy existence. I do not mean terrible in a bad sense; I have courage and\nfaith, but I can gain no approach towards philosophical apathy.\n\nWe are well, and expect to go down on Wednesday next, and we too begin\nto feel a longing for New York and you. With our love to E.\n\nAs ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mrs. Ephraim Peabody.\n\nNEW YORK, Oct. 24, 1845.\n\nMY DEAR MRS. PEABODY,--Do not regret that you have let us have your\nhusband a few days. He has done us much good; unless I am to put in the\nopposite scale his having stolen away the hearts of my children.\n\nIf you had heard him last evening, I think you would have been\nsatisfied, though wives are hard to please. It was a majestical and\ntouching ministration; I have never felt anything from the pulpit to be\nmore so. The hearty, honest, terrible tears it wrung from me were [181]\nsuch as I have given to no sermon this many a day, I think, never. I\nhope you are better; and with all other good wishes, I am, Yours very\ntruly,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nNEW YORK, Jan. 27, 1846.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--This week is a little breathing-time, the first I have\nallowed myself for five months; and my old pile of sermons shows such\na sprinkling of new ones as it has not in any equal time these ten\nyears. Sometimes I have thought I might get my head strong and clear\nagain, and good as anybody's; but this last week has brought me to a\nstand, and made me think of that monitory prediction of yours when I\ncame home, two years ago. . . . To be sure, I do not usually think\nof any retreat that will separate me entirely from New York. I have\nexpected to live and die in connection with this church; but I have\nhad a feeling this winter as if a new voice might be better for them;\nand any way it may be better for them to have one man than two; that\nis, myself and a colleague. Somewhere, indeed, I expect to preach as\nlong as I can do anything, for I suppose this is my vocation, if I have\nany, poorly as it is discharged. Poorly; alas! how does this eternal\nideal fly before us, and leave us ever restless and unsatisfied!\nHow much Henry felt it! more, indeed, than I had thought, well as I\nknew his humility. And indeed I cannot help thinking that he did not\nsufficiently distinguish between outward and inward defect. I can very\nwell understand how, in any right mind, the latter should give deep\npain. But for Henry Ware to charge himself with indolence [182] and\nidleness,--with not doing enough! Why, he was ever doing more than his\nhealth would bear. The Memoir, I hardly need say, is read here with\ndeep interest. Tell your brother, with my regards and thanks to him,\nthat it appears to me a perfect biography in this,--that it placed me\nin the very presence of my friend, and made me feel, all the while I\nwas reading it, as if he were with me. I laid it down, however, I may\nconfess to you, with one sad feeling beyond that of the general loss;\nand that was that nowhere throughout was there one recognition of the\nfriendship that bound me and Henry Ware together. It is nobody's fault,\nunless it be mine. And I am led sometimes to query whether there be\nnot something strange about me in my friendly relations; some apparent\nrepulsion, or some want of visible kindliness. One thing I do know;\nthat we are all crushed down under this great wheel of modern life and\nlabor, and friendships seem to have but poor chance of culture and\nexpression.\n\nTo pass on; with regard to our New York churches, we have more visible\nactivity this winter than usual. I hold a weekly evening meeting in\nthe library of our church; Mr. Bellows also. Our Sunday school is\nreorganized, being divided into two, and the numbers are more than\ndoubled; and we have formed a Unitarian Association for the State of\nNew York, with headquarters in the hall over the entrance to the Church\nof the Divine Unity.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, May 4, 1846.\n\nMY DEAR not \"rugged and dangerous,\" but gentle and good-natured,--I\nforesee a biography (far be the [183] day when it shall be required!)\nin which it is not difficult to anticipate a passage running somewhat\nas follows: \"He seemed to possess every attribute of genius but\nself-reliance. From this cause, doubtless, he failed to some extent of\nwhat he might otherwise have accomplished. He himself thought that the\nchoice of his profession was the fatal mistake of his life; and perhaps\nhe might have found a more congenial sphere. But it may be doubted\nwhether his self-distrust might not have prevented him from putting\nforth his full strength, or rather, perhaps, from giving full play to\nhis mind in any walk of literature or art. Even in those beautiful\nOriental and Roman fictions there is a certain staidness, a measured\nstep, from which he never departs. Even in some of those chapters\nof Zenobia, which a critic of the day pronounced to be `absolute\ninspiration,' the light glows through the smooth and polished sentences\nas through the crevices of plated armor. In fact, it was only in his\nfamiliar letters that his genius seemed to break out into perfect\nfreedom. In these he approached the letters of Charles Lamb nearer than\nany writer of his day.\n\n\"There is a curious and really amusing specimen of his modesty in\na letter of his to a friend of the name of Dewey,--if we read the\nname rightly in his somewhat illegible manuscripts. This Dewey, it\nseems, had published some sermons, or volumes of sermons, we know not\nwhich,--for they are long since swept down beneath the flood of time\nto that oblivion to which many cart-loads of such things are worthily\ndestined,--and the author of Zenobia really addresses this forgotten\npreacher as his superior in strength, in power, and, it would seem,\neven in the felicities of style. We hope [184] the good man had too\nmuch sense, or humility at least, to have his head turned by such\ninexplicable fatuity.\"\n\nNow I will thank you to preserve this letter among your papers, that\nthe biographer may light upon some evidence of \"the good man's\" sanity.\n\n. . . I do not think I shall go to the great May meetings in Boston.\nI am afraid I am not made for them. It wants a man, at any rate, with\nall his faculties about him, ready and apt and in full vigor; and mine\nare not,--certainly not now-a-days, if they ever are. The condition of\nmy brain at present makes quiet necessary to me. Every exertion is now\nsomething too much.\n\nI have addressed the trustees of the church to-day, to express my\nconviction to them that, by next autumn, some material change must be\nmade. By that time all my sermons will be preached to death, and I\nshall have no power to make new ones. The church must determine whether\nit will relinquish my services entirely, or have them one quarter or\none third of the time.\n\nThe thought of having soon to be clone with time and life has almost\noppressed me for the year past, so constantly has it been with me.\nAnd indeed I have felt that there may be too much of this for the\nvigor, not to say the needful buoyancy, of life. Earth is our school,\nour sphere; and I more than doubt whether the anchorite's dreaming of\nheaven, or the spirit of the \"Saints' Rest,\" is the true spiritual\ncondition. I have long wanted to review Baxter's work, in this and\nother views.\n\nWith my love to your wife and children,--I mean, by your leave, your\nwife especially,--I am, as ever, Yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[185] To the Same.\n\nNEW YORK, July 10, 1846.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--If from this awful heat (90 degrees in my study)\nwhere I am busy, I were not going to an equally awful country heat\nwhere I shall be lazy, I would put off writing a few days. . . . My\nprincipal--no, I won't say that--my most painful business is hunting\nup sermons fit to be preached. The game grows scarce, and my greatest\nvexation is that every now and then, when I think I have got a fox or a\nbeaver, it turns out to be a woodchuck or a muskrat.\n\nFrom the tenor of some of our late letters, I believe we should be\nthought to belong to the \"Mutual Admiration Society.\" I deny that of\nus both, though appearances are rather against us. I will have done,\nat any rate, for your last has quite knocked me down, or rather so\noutrageously set me up, as I was never before.\n\nWith regard to my plans, I myself prefer four months in the pulpit\nhere, and that was what I proposed; but something had been said by me,\nabout three months in a different connection, and the congregation, I\nam told, thought that in naming three they were conforming precisely\nto my wishes. But that will be arranged satisfactorily. I am to go\nout of town, of course; I cannot live here upon a quarter or third\nof a salary. I have something of my own, this house and a little\nmore,--twelve thousand dollars, perhaps, in all; so far I have carried\nout the plan you speak of. I have had reasons more than most others\nfor attending to the means, for I am the only surviving male member of\nmy family. I have had the satisfaction of doing something for them all\nalong, and shall have that of leaving to my mother [186] and sisters a\nhouse to cover them, and forty acres of land. . . .\n\nYours as ever, only more than ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nWASHINGTON, Nov. 2, 1846.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--Suppose I take my pen and write just what comes into\nmy head. Did you expect things coming from anywhere else, I would like\nto know? It's a pretty serious condition, however. Conceive--I am to\nwrite in total forgetfulness that I am a Dr., and without any fear\nbefore my eyes of having it printed in a biography. Bah! if anybody\never did write letters that never could be printed anywhere, I am that\nperson. What the reason is precisely, I do not know, but I always\nfancied it was because I had no time and no superfluous energies to\nthrow away upon letters, any pore than upon conundrums. And I have\nfancied, too that when the blessed leisure days should come in the\nquiet country,--not only the otium cum dignitate, but he silence and\nthe meditation,--that then I should pour myself out in letters. But the\ntime has n't come yet. Consider that my leisure as yet extends to only\nabout (I've pulled out my watch to see) three hours and twenty minutes.\nIt is now Monday, 11: 20 A.M., and we did not arrive here till Saturday\nevening.\n\nLet me hear from you as soon as ten thousand things will let you. You\nwill easily see that there is no good reason why I have written this\nletter but this,--that have left the greater part of my heart in New\nYork and naturally turn back to find it. Remind your three [187] houses\nof the stock they have in it, bad as it is; and, to be most sadly\nserious, remember my very affectionate regards to Mrs. Kirkland, and\ngive my love to the -s and -s, and believe me,\n\nEver your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nWASHINGTON, Dec. 10, 1846.\n\n. . . FOR am I not through the one third of the second of the five\nmonths, and am I not very glad of it? And yet I am very glad I came\naway. You have no idea how I am relieved, and I shall not go back\nempty-handed. But the relief I feel admonishes me never to return to\nthe full charge. How little do people know or conceive what it is!\nOne case, like what I fear Mrs.-'s is, of slow decline,-one such case\nweighs upon the mind and heart for months. If you could go and make the\ncall, without any sad anticipation or afterthought; but you cannot.\nAnd then, when it is not one case that draws upon your sympathies, but\nseveral, and you are made the confidant of many sorrows besides, and\nyou are anxious for many minds; and when, moreover, your studies are\nnot of the habitudes of bees, and the length of butterflies' wings, but\nwasting thoughts of human souls in sorrow and peril, and your Sundays\nrack your sinews with pain,--I declare I wonder that men live through\nit at all.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nWASHINGTON, Feb. 7, 1847.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--I consider it a mercy to you to put some interval\nbetween my letters; indeed, I do [188] not know how you write any,\never; besides, I feel all the while as if some of your burdens were to\nbe laid at the door of my delinquencies. . . . Indeed, I rejoice in you\nalways. I never hear of you but to hear good of you; and it is often\nthat I hear. . . .\n\nAs to the sermons I have been writing here, I consider your suggestion\nthat you might read since you will not hear them such an enormous\ncompliment, such a reckless piece of goodness, that all your duties in\nregard to them are fully discharged in the bare proposition. And I am\nnot going to have you canonized and sent down to all ages as the most\nsuffering saint in the nineteenth century, for having read twelve of\nDewey's manuscript sermons. I have preached one of them this evening,\nand it made so much impression (upon, me) that I was quite taken by\nsurprise. The title is \"Nature.\". . . Last week I wrote the most\nconsiderable lucubration of the winter, on the darkest problem in the\nphilosophy of life and history, \"the ministry of error and evil in the\nworld,\" to wit, Polytheism, Despotism, War, and Slavery. . . . Always\nmy poor mind and heart are struggling with one subject, and that is the\ngreat world-question.\n\nYou speak of my opportunities here. Perhaps I have not improved them\nvery well. I am not very enterprising in the social relations, and\nhalf of the winter I have not cared for Washington, nor anything else\nbut what was passing in my own mind. . . . I have met some admirable\npersons here, of those I did not know before. Crittenden and Corwin and\nJudge McLean have interested me most; men they seem to me of as fine\nand beautiful natures as one can well meet. I have had two interviews\nwith Calhoun that interested me much; [189] and the other evening I met\nSoule, the Louisiana senator, and had a long conversation with him,\nchiefly about slavery,--a very remarkable person. There is no face in\nthe Senate, besides Webster's, so lashed up with the strong lines of\nintellect; and his smile shines out as brightly and beautifully from\nthe dark cloud of his features.\n\n\nTo his Daughter Mary.\n\nNEW YORK, May 23, 1847.\n\nDEAR MOLLY,--I thought M. E. D. made you m-a-d; but you shall have\nit hereafter, if it makes you \"demnition\" mad; no appreciation of\nmy delicacy in leaving out the E,--which stands for error, egotism,\neggnog, epsom-salts, and every erroneous entity extant. Yes, the\nE,--have it, with all its compounds. The fact is, I suppose, that when\npeople retire up into the country, they grow monstrous avaricious, and\nexact everything that belongs to them; lay up their best clothes and\ngo slip-shod. I'm preparing for that condition, mentally and bodily.\nYou see I begin to slip already in language. Your mother is trying\nto persuade me to buy a dressing-gown. A dressing-gown! when I don't\nexpect to dress at all. As if a beggar who never expects to dine were\nto buy a service of plate, or a starving man should have his picture\ntaken, and give a hundred dollars for famine in effigy. I have ordered\na suit of summer clothes, to be sure, because I feel very thin, and\nexpect to feel very light some five weeks hence. I shall get some\ncigars by the same token, because all things with me are vanishing into\nsmoke. And if thin clothes can't live, can't be distended, filled out,\nand look respectable, upon smoke, let 'em die, and be crushed before\nthe moth.\n\n[190] Monday morning. These tantrums, dear Molly, were--what? cut\nup?-last night after preaching, and mortal tired I was too. I do not\nknow how it is, but it seems to me that every sermon I take now, every\npoor, little, innocent sermon comes bouncing out in the pulpit like a\nBrobdingnag.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 22, 1847.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I don't like Commencements. I hate travelling. And just\nnow I hate my pen so much that I can scarce muster patience to tell you\nso.\n\nI have been reading Prescott's \"Peru.\" What a fine accomplishment there\nis about it! And yet there is something wanting to me in the moral\nnerve. History should teach men how to estimate characters. It should\nbe a teacher of morals. And I think it should make us shudder at the\nnames of Cortez and Pizarro. But Prescott's does not. He seems to have\na kind of sympathy with these inhuman and perfidious adventurers, as if\nthey were his heroes. It is too bad to talk of them as the soldiers of\nChrist. If it were said of the Devil, they would have better fitted the\ncharacter.\n\nMonday morning. The shadows of the lilac fall upon my page, checkered\nwith the slant rays of the morning light; there is a slope of green\ngrass under the window; here is quiet all around; I wish you were here.\n\nMy love to your wife and children.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[191]To the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Sept. 30, 1847.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I should have answered your letter of the 6th before,\nbut sermons have been in hand or the first and second Sundays of\nOctober in New York, and my hand is commonly too weary, when engaged in\nsuch tasks, to turn to anything else.\n\nI sent the late edition of my--things (works, they call 'em) to the\nHarvard College Library, and if you will take the second volume, you\nwill see, in a sermon \"On the Slavery Question,\" how entirely I agree\nwith you hat this is the great trial question of the country. And I\nthink it will press upon the country this coming winter is it never\nhas before. It certainly will if the Californias are ceded to us, and\nthe Wilmot Proviso is brought before Congress, not for hypothetical,\nbut for practical, actual decision. If it should be, I entertain the\nmost painful apprehensions for the result. We have lost a host by the\ndeath of Silas Wright. A sagacious politician said to a friend of mine\nthe other day, \"It is a special providence, for it has saved us from a\ndissolution of the Union.\" His opinion was that Silas Wright, if he lad\nlived, would have been President; and you know that he would have taken\nhis stand on the Proviso.\n\nThe judgment of the individual to whom I have just referred presents\nthe true issue. It is Policy against Right. I suppose there is not a\nman in New England who does not wish for the extinction of Slavery. I\nsuppose there is hardly a man at the North who does not feel that the\nsystem is wrong, that it ought to be abolished, and must eventually be\nabolished; and that the only question about its abolition is a question\nof time. [192] But here is the peril,--that a good many persons in\nCongress and out of Congress will falter in their conviction before the\ndetermined stand of the South,--the determination, that is to say, to\nbreak off from the Union rather than submit to the Wilmot Proviso. And\nI do most seriously fear, for my part, that they would hold to that\ndetermination. But I am prepared, for myself, to say that, rather than\nyield the national sanction to this huge and monstrous wrong, I would\ntake the risk of any consequences whatever. I reason for the nation\nas I would for myself. I say, rather than tell a lie, I would die.\nI cannot deliberately do wrong, and I cannot consent that my people\nshall. I would rather consent to the dismemberment of my right hand\nthan to lay it in solemn mockery on the altar of injustice. As I have\nsaid in the sermon to which I have referred you, suppose that we were\ncalled upon to legalize polygamy or no marriage in California; would we\ndo it? Certainly we would not, though all the Southern States should\nthreaten to break off from us for our refusal, and should actually do\nit. I asked a similar question with regard to legalizing theft, in my\nsermon on the Annexation of Texas; and one of the stanchest opposers of\nthe Wilmot Proviso once told me that that was the hardest instance he\nhad ever been called upon to answer.\n\nBut though he felt the force of the moral parallel, still policy was\ncarrying it with him over the right; or rather I should say, perhaps,\nthat he resolved the right' of the matter into temporary expediency. He\ndid not mean to cross the line of conscience, but he thought it should\nsway to this great emergency.\n\nThis, I say, is the great peril; and he who would raise up this nation\nto the height of this great argument, must [193] lift it to the\ndetermination to do no wrong,--must lift it high enough, in fact, to\nsee that the right is the only true policy.\n\nWho shall do it? You exhort me to write. I shall do so as I am able,\nand see occasion, as I have done. I shall scarcely refrain, I suppose,\nfrom writing this winter. But alas! I am broken in health, and am\ntotally unable fairly and fully to grapple with any great subject. I\nhave more than I can well, or, I fear, safely do to meet the ordinary\ncalls of my pulpit.\n\nIn fact I am a good deal discouraged about my ability to do good in any\nway, unless it be by quiet study, and such fruits as may come of it. I\nhave encountered so much misconstruction within a year past, or rather\nhave come to the knowledge of so much, that I am seriously tempted, at\ntimes, to retire from the pulpit, from the church, from the open field\nof controversy in every form, and to spend the remainder of my days in\nstudies, which, if they last long enough, may produce a book or two\nthat will not subject me to that sort of personal inquisition which I\nfind has beset me hitherto.\n\nYou may be surprised at my saying this, and may ask if I have not had\nas much honor and praise as I deserve. I do not deny it. But still\nthere is, unless I am mistaken, a sort of question about me as a\nprofessional person,--about my professional sanctity, or strictness, or\npeculiarity, that moves my indignation, I must say, but (what is more\nserious) that makes me doubt whether, as a clergyman, I am doing any\ngood that is proportionate to my endeavors, and inclines me to retreat\nfrom this ground altogether. How, for instance, if I have any desirable\nplace in one denomination, could the \"Christian World\" venture to say\nthat I had done more hurt [194] by my observation about teetotalism\nin my Washington discourse than all the grog-shops in the land! How\ncould a clerical brother of mine seriously propose, as if he spoke the\nsense of many, to have me admonished about my habits of living,--of\neating, he said, but perhaps he meant drinking, too,--my habits, who am\na remarkably simple and small eater; and, as to wine, do not taste it\none day in twenty! Yet this person actually attributed my ill-health\nto luxurious living. I live as list; I feast as other men feast, when\nI am at a feast, which is very rarely; I laugh as other men laugh; I\nwill not have any clerical peculiarity in my manners; and if his cannot\nbe understood, I will retire from the profession, for I will be a man\nmore than a minister. I came unto the profession from the simplest\npossible impulse,--from a religious impulse; I have spoken in it as I\nwould,--with earnestness, if nothing else,--and I cannot throw away\nthis earnestness upon a distrusting community. Besides, I confess that\nI am peculiarly sensitive to personal wrong. I do not suppose that this\nblackguardism of the Abolition press would have found anywhere a more\nsensitive subject than I am. It fills me with horror,--as if I had been\nstruck with a blow and beaten into the mire and dust in the very street.\n\nI must have some great faults,--that is my conclusion,--and such\nfaults, perhaps, as unfit me for doing much good. I open my heart to\nyou. God bless you and yours.\n\nYour assured friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[195]To Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Oct. 19, 1847.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot feel easy without knowing how little C. is\ngetting along. I pray you to take your pen, if you are not too busy, or\nshe too ill, and tell me how she is.\n\nAnd now, having my pen in hand, I could and should go on and write\na letter to you, were it not that all ingenuity, fancy, liberty of\nwriting, is put to a complete nonplus by the uncertainty in what state\nof mind my writing will find you. I must not write merrily, I would not\nwrite sadly. I hope all is well, I fear all is not, and I know not how\nto blend the two moods, though an apostle has said, \"As sorrowful, yet\nalways rejoicing.\" But apostolic states of mind somehow seem to me too\ngreat to enter into letters, and there is nothing to me more surprising\nthan to find in biography--Foster's, for instance--long letters\noccupied with the profoundest questions in religion. If I were not\nhabitually engaged in the contemplation of such subjects, if I had not\nanother and appropriate vehicle for them, and if they did not always\nseem to me too vast for a sheet or two of paper, I suppose that my\nletters, too, might be wise and weighty. As it is, they are always mere\nrelaxations, or mere chip-pings and parings from the greater themes, at\nthe most. So you see that neither you nor the public lose anything by\nmy being a negligent and reluctant letter-writer.\n\nWell, I shall make a serious letter, if I do not mind, about nothing,\nand so doubly disprove all I have been saying. I trust C. is getting\nwell, but I am always anxious about that fever. Pray write a word to\nrelieve my [196] solicitude, which my wife shares with me, as in the\naffectionate regard with which I am,\n\nEver yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\nOur kind remembrances to Mr. Lane. We are busy, as city people cannot\nconceive of, in getting the indoors and outdoors to rights.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Nov. 26, 1847. MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have thought much of what\nyou said the other morning; and though I expect to see you gain in a\nfortnight, I cannot let the interval pass without a few words. The new\ninterest in your mind, as far is it is spiritual, and the new measures\nyou propose to adopt in your church, so far as I understand them,\nhave my entire sympathy. But I demur to your manner of stating the\nspeculative grounds of this change in your feeling and view. Certainly\nmy mind is, and has been or a long time, running in a direction\ncontrary to your present leanings. I cannot think that human nature\nis o low and helpless as you seem to think, nor that the gospel is so\nentirely the one and exclusive remedy. And yet I agree, too, with much\n(in its practical bearing) of what you say, in the direction that your\nmind is taking. I have often insisted in the pulpit that the people\ndo not yet understand Christianity; its spiritual nature, however,\nrather than its positive facts, its simple love and disinterestedness\nrather than its supernaturalism, were to me the points where they\nhave failed. . . . fully admit, too, the need of progress in our\ndenomination, but I do not believe in any grand new era to be [197]\nintroduced into its history by the views you urge, or any other views.\nAll good progress must be gradual. If there is a revolution in your\nmind, does it follow that that must be the measure for others, for your\nbrethren, for the denomination, in past or present time?\n\nYour sympathies are wide; the tendency to outward action is strong in\nyou; your generous nature opens the doors of your mind to light from\nevery quarter; need is, to carry on a strong discriminating work in a\nmind like yours. With your nature, so utterly opposed to everything\nsluggish and narrow, you have need of a large and well-considered\nphilosophy, \"looking before and after,\" and settling all things in\ntheir right places, and questioning every new-coming thought with\nsingular caution, lest it push you from your propriety or consistency.\nIn truth, you quite mistake me when you say that I have not studied\nyour mind. I have watched its workings with the greatest interest,\noften with admiration, and sometimes--may I say?--with anxiety. There\nwas a time when I greatly feared that you would go the lengths of\nParker. The turn in your mind to what I deem healthier views took place\nabout the time I went abroad; and the relief your letters gave me\nwhile I was in Europe, you can hardly have suspected. Now, it seems to\nme, you are liable to go to the opposite extreme. The truth is, your\nintellectual insight seems to me greater than your breadth of view,\nyour penetration greater than your comprehension; and the consequence\nhas been a course of thought, as I believe you are aware, somewhat\nzigzag.\n\nHave I not thought of you, my dear fellow? I guess I have; and among\nother things I have so thought of you that I now entirely confide in\nthe magnanimity of [198] your mind to receive with candor all this, and\nmore if I should say it,--saying it, as I do, in the truest love and\ncherishing of you.\n\nMy love to E. and all the phalanstery.\n\nAs ever, yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\nP. S. I read this letter to my wife last evening, and I told her\nof your criticism on the sermon at Providence. She made the very\nrejoinder that I made to you,--\"The power to cast one's self on the\ngreat Christian resource, to put one's self in relation with God the\nFather and with spiritual help, is the very power which he denies to\nhuman nature, and the very thing that Mr. H. contended for.\" Nor yet\ndo I like your mode of statement, for Christianity does not represent\nitself to me as a sort of Noah's Ark, and human nature as in stormy\nwaters,--to be saved if it can get its foot on that plank, and not\notherwise. I prefer my figure of the shower specially sent on the\nfeeble and half-withered plant. All the divines of every school have\nalways said that there is light enough in nature, if with true docility\nand love men would follow it. Christ came to shed more light on our\npath, not the only light; to lift up the lame man, not to create limbs\nfor him or to be limbs for him.\n\nAnd I confess, too, that I do not like another aspect in the state of\nyour mind; and that is, that your newly wakened zeal should fasten,\nas it seems to do, upon the positive facts and the supernaturalism of\nChristianity. Not, as I think, that I undervalue them. I do not know if\nany rational and thinking man that lays more stress on them in their\nplace than I do. But certainly there is something beyond to which they\npoint; and that is, the [199] deep spiritualism of the Gospel, the deep\nheart's repose and sufficiency in things divine and infinite. If your\nmind had fastened upon this as the newly found treasure in the Gospel,\nI should have been better satisfied. I am writing very frankly to you,\nas you are wont to write to me (and I believe that you and I can bear\nthese terms, and bless them too), and therefore I will add that my\ngreatest distrust of your spiritual nature turns to this very point:\nwhether you have, in the same measure as you have other things, that\ndeep heart's rest, that quiet, profound, all-sufficing satisfaction\nin the infinite resource, in the all-enbosoming love of the All-Good,\nin silent and solitary communion with God, settling and sinking the\nsoul, as into the still waters and the ocean depths. Your nature runs\nto social communions, to visible movements, to outwardness, in short,\nmore than to the central depths within. The defects in your preaching,\nwhich I have heard pointed out by the discerning, are the want of\nconsistency,--of one six months with another six months,--and the want\nof spiritual depth and vitality; of that calm, deep tone of thought and\nfeeling that goes to the depths of the heart.\n\nGod knows that I do very humbly attempt to criticise another's religion\nand preaching, being inexpressibly concerned about the defects of my\nown. And, dear friend, I speak to you as modestly as I do frankly. I\nmay be wrong, or I may be only partly right. But in this crisis I think\nthat I ought to say plainly what I feel and fear. I cannot bear, for\nevery reason,--for your sake and for the sake of the church, in which,\nfor your age, you are rooting yourself so deeply,--that you should make\nany misstep on the ground upon which you seem to be entering.\n\n\n[200] To Rev. William Ware.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 6, 1847.\n\nMY DEAR WARE,--I think my pen will run on, with such words to start\nfrom, though it have spent itself on the weary \"Sermons.\" This is\nMonday morning, and I am not quite ready in mind to begin on a new\none. The readiness, with me, is nine tenths of the battle. I never, or\nalmost never, write a sermon unless it be upon a. subject that I want\nto write upon. I never cast about for a subject; I do not find the\ntheme, but the theme finds me. Last week I departed from my way, and\ndid lot make good progress. The text, \"What shall it profit t man?\"\nstruck upon my heart as I sat down on Monday Horning, and I wrote it\nat the head of my usual seven sheets of white paper, and went on. But\nthe awfulness if the text impressed me all the while with the sense of\nallure, and though the sermon was finished, I mainly felt at the end\nthat I had lost my week.\n\nOne thing I find in my preaching, more and more, and hat is that the\nsimplest things become more and more weighty to me, so that a sermon\ndoes not require to be my thing remarkable to interest me deeply.\nEverything hat I say in the pulpit, I think, is taking stronger and\nstronger hold upon me, and that which might have been lull in my\nutterance ten years ago, is not so now. I say his to you, because it\nhas some bearing on one of the natters discussed in our last letters;\nthat is, whether I should leave the pulpit. If I leave it, it will\nbe with a fresher life in it, I think, than has stirred in me at any\nprevious part of my course. And certainly I have long believed that\nit was my vocation to preach, above all things,--more than to visit\nparishioners, though I always [201] visit every one of them once a\nyear,--more than to write, though you say I have written to some\npurpose (and your opinion is a great comfort to me). Certainly, then,\nI shall not retire from the pulpit, but upon the maturest reflection\nand for what shall seem to be the weightiest reasons. And I did not\nmean that the things I referred to should be prima facie reasons for\nretirement; but the question with me was whether my unprofessional way\nof thinking and acting were not so misconstrued as to lessen my power\nto do good; whether the good I do is in any proportion to the strength\nI lay out.\n\nBut enough of myself, when I am much more concerned about you. I see\nplainly enough how intense is your desire to go to Rome. I see how all\nyour culture and taste and feeling urge you to go, and yet more what a\nreason in many ways your health supplies. And I declare the author of\nZenobia and Probus and Julian ought to go to Rome! There is a fitness\nin it, and I trust it will come to pass. But you should not go alone.\nEvery one wants company in such a tour,--that I know full well; but\nyour health demands it. You must not be subject to sudden seizures in a\nstrange city,--a stranger, alone. Your family never will consent to it,\nand I think never ought to. Do give up that idea entirely,--of going\nalone. Have patience. There will be somebody to go with next spring, or\nnext summer. I would that I could go with you where you go, and lodge\nwith you where you lodge. But somebody will go. Something better will\nturn up, at any rate, than to go alone. There are young men every year\nwho want to go abroad in quest of art and beauty and culture, and to\nwhom your company would be invaluable. I do not forget the difficulty\nabout expense. But there are those who, like you, would be [202] glad\nto go directly by Marseilles or Leghorn. It is quite true that movement\nis the mischief with the purse.-Abiding in Rome or Florence, you can\nlive for a dollar a day. A room, or two rooms (parlor and little\nsleeping-room), say near the Piazza di Spagna, or the Propaganda just\nby, can be hired, with bed, etc., all to be kept in order, for three\nor four pauls (thirty or forty cents, you know) a day. And you can\nbreakfast at a colt; any time you fancy, while wandering about, for two\npauls, and dine at a trattoria for from two to four pauls. I have more\nthan once dined on a bowl of soup and bread and butter for two pauls. I\nhate heavy dinners. In Rome, one should always take a room in which the\nsun lies. \"Where the sun comes, the doctor does n't,\" they say there.\nBut you won't go before I come and see you and talk it all over with\nyou. Don't fail to let me know if you set seriously about it, for I\nshall certainly come. The truth is, Airs. Ware should go with you. It\nis true the women are very precious when it comes to casting them up\nin a bill of expense, as in all things else. Does not that last clause\nsave me, madam? And, madam dear, I want to talk with you about this\nproject of William's, as much as I want to hear what he says.\n\nAbout the war, dear Gulielmus, and slavery, and almost everything else\nunder heaven, I verily believe I think just as you do; so I need not\nwrite. And my hand is very tired. With ten thousand blessings on you,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[203]To his Daughter Mary.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 13, 1848.\n\nDEAR MOLLY,--You're an awful miss when you're not here; what will you\nbe, then, when you descend upon us from the heights of Lenox,--from\nthe schools of wisdom, from fiction and fine writing, from tragedy and\ncomedy, from mountain mirrors reflecting all-surrounding beauty, down\nto plain, prosaic still-life in Sheffield? I look with anxiety and\nterror for the time; and, to keep you within the sphere of familiarity\nas much as possible, I think it best to write sometimes; and, to adopt\nthe converse of the Western man's calling his bill \"William,\" I call my\nWilliam, bill,--my Mary, Molly, thereby softening, mollifying (as I may\nsay) the case as much as possible.\n\nOne thing I must desire of you. You are on an experiment.{19} Now be\nhonest. Don't bring any \"sneeshin\" down here to throw dust in our\npoor, simple eyes in the valley. Much as ever we can see anything for\nfogs. Mind ye, I shall be sharp, though. If you fall into any of those\npractices, I shall say you brought the trick from Lenox. You may say\n\"I-ketch-you\" as much as you please, but you won't ketch me.\n\n    {FN 19: To try whether the air of Lenox, on the hills, would\n    have any effect in averting an annual attack of hay-fever.}\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 19, 1848.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--Now shall I heap coals of fire on your head. You\nought to have written to me forty days ago. Your letter bears date\nof yesterday. I [204] received it this afternoon. I am replying this\nevening. How does your brain-pan feel, with this coal upon it? \"How has\nit happened that there has been no communication?\" Why, it has happened\nfrom your being the most unapprehensive mortal that ever lived, or from\nyour having your wits whirled out of you by that everlasting New York\ntornado. As to letters, I wrote the two last, though the latter was a\nbit of one. As to the circumstances, my withdrawal from your society\nwas involuntary, and painful to me. You should have written at once to\nyour emeritus coadjutor, your senior friend. I have been half vexed\nwith you, my people quite.\n\nThere! I love you too much not to say all that. But I am not an\nexacting or punctilious person, and that is one reason why we have got\nalong so well together 3 as well as that you are one whom nobody can\nknow without taking a plaguy kindness and respect for, and can't help\nit. And all that you say about our past relation and intercourse I\nheartily reciprocate, excepting that which does you less than justice,\nand me more. As to deep talks, I really believe there is no chance for\nthem in Gotham. And this reminds me that my wife has just been in my\nstudy to desire me to send a most earnest invitation to you and E. to\ncome up here this winter and pass a few days with us. It will be easier\nthan you may think at first. The New York and New Haven Railroad will\nbe open in a few days, and then you can be here in seven or eight hours\nfrom your own door. Do think of it,--and more than think of it.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nARE n't you a pretty fellow,--worse than Procrustes,--to go about\nthe world, measuring people's talent and [205] promise by their\nnoses? . . . Why, man, Claude Lorraine and Boccaccio and Burke had\n\"small noses;\" and Kosciusko and George Buchanan had theirs turned up,\nand could n't help it. It reminds me of what a woman of our town said,\nwho had married a very heinous-looking blacksmith. Some companions\nof our \"smithess\" saw him coming along in the street one day, and\nunwittingly exclaimed, \"What dreadful-looking man is that?\" \"That's my\nhusband,\" said the wife, \"and God made him.\"\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Jan. 2, 1849.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--Your letter came on New Year's Day, and helped to\nsome of those cachinnations usually thought to belong to such a time;\nthough for my part I can never find set times particularly happy or\neven interesting,--partly, I believe, from a certain obstinacy of\ndisposition that does not like to do what is set down for it.\n\nAs to church matters, I said nothing to you when I was down last,\nbecause I knew nothing. That is, I had no hint of what the congregation\nwas about to do,--no idea of anything in my connection with the church\nthat needed to be spoken of. I was indeed thinking, for some weeks\nbefore I went down, of saying to the congregation, that unless they\nthought my services very important to them, I should rather they would\ndispense with them, and my mind was just in an even balance about the\nmatter. But one is always influenced by the feeling around him,--at\nleast I am,--and when I found that every one who spoke with me about my\ncoming again seemed to depend upon it, and to be much [206] interested\nin it, I determined to say nothing about withdrawing. My reasons for\nwishing to retire were, that I was working hard--hard for me--to\nprepare sermons which, as my engagement in my view was temporary, might\nbe of no further use to me; and that if I were to enter upon a new\ncourse of life, the sooner I did so the better.\n\nAnd here I may as well dispose of what you and others say and urge with\nregard to my continuance in the profession. To your question whether I\nhave not sermons enough to last me for five years in some new place, I\nanswer, No, not enough for two. And if I had, I tell you that I cannot\nenter into these affecting and soul-exhausting relations again and\nagain, any more than I could be married three or four times. The great\ntrial of our calling is the wrenching, the agonizing, of sympathy with\naffliction; and there is another trying thing which I have thought\nof much of late, and that is the essential moral incongruity of such\nrelations, and especially with strangers. I almost feel as if nobody\nbut an intimate friend had any business in a house of deep affliction.\nIn a congregation ever so familiar there is trial enough of this kind.\nIf my friend is sick or dying, I go to his bedside of course, but it is\nas a friend,--to say a word or many words as the case may be; to look\nwhat I cannot say; to do what I can. But to come there, or to come to\nthe desolate mourner, in an official capacity,--there is something in\nthis which is in painful conflict with my ideas of the simple relations\nof man with man. Now all this difficulty is greatly increased when\none enters upon a new ministration in a congregation of strangers.\nTherefore on every account I must say, no more pastoral relations for\nme. I cannot take [207] up into my heart another heap of human chance\nand change and sorrow. Do you not see it? Why, what takes place in New\nBedford now moves me a hundred times more than all else that is in the\nworld. And so it will always be with all that befalls my brethren in\nthe Church of the Messiah.\n\nAs to the world's need of help, I regard it doubtless as you do; and\nI am willing and desirous to help it from the pulpit as far as I am\nable. But I cannot hold that sort of irregular connection with the\npulpit called \"supplying \"; nor can I go out on distant missionary\nenterprises,--to Cincinnati, Mobile, or New Orleans. The first would\nyield me no support; and as to the last, I must live in my family.\nBesides, there is sphere enough with the pen; and study may do the\nworld as much good as action. And there is no doubt what direction\nmy studies must take. Why, I have written out within a week--written\nincontinently in my commonplace book, my pen would run on--a thesis on\nPantheism nearly as long as a sermon. And as to preaching, what ground\nhave I to think that mine is of any particular importance? Not that\nI mean to affect any humility which I do not feel. I profess that I\nhave quite a good opinion of myself as a preacher. Seriously; I think\nI have one or two rather remarkable qualifications for preaching,--a\nsense of reality in the matter of the vitality of the thing, and then\nan edge of feeling (so it seems to me) which takes off the technical\nand commonplace character from discourse. Oh! if I could add, a full\nsense of the divineness of the thing, I should say all. Yet something\nof this, too, I hope; and I hope to grow in this as I hope to live, and\ndo not dread to die. But though I think all this, with all due modesty,\nit does not [208] follow that others do; and the evidence seems to be\nrather against it, does it not?\n\nAs ever, yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nIn connection with this letter, and with his own frank but moderate\nestimate of his gift as a preacher, it is interesting to read the\nfollowing extract from a paper in his memory, read before the annual\nmeeting of the American Unitarian Association by Rev. Dr. Briggs, May\n30, 1882:\n\n\"I remember well the way in which he seemed to me to be a power in\nthe pulpit. He was the first man who made the pulpit seem to me as a\nthrone. When he stood in it, I recognized him as king. I remember how\neager I was to walk in from the Theological School at Cambridge to\nhear him when there was an opportunity to do so in any of the pulpits\nof Boston. I remember walking with my classmate, Nathaniel Hall,--when\nthe matter of the expense of a passage was of great concern to me,--to\nProvidence, where Mr. Dewey was to preach at the installation of Dr.\nHall. My Brother Hall was not drawn there simply for the sake of his\nbrother's installation, I, not from the fact that Providence was\nthe home of my boyhood; but both of us, more than by anything else,\nby our eager desire to hear this preacher where he might give us a\nmanifestation of his power. And, as he spoke from the text, I have\npreached righteousness in the great congregation,' we felt that we were\nwell repaid for all our efforts to come and listen to him.\n\n\"I have heard of some one who heard him preach from the text on\ndividing the sheep from the goats, and as he came away, he said, I\nfelt as if I were standing before [209] the judgment-seat.' I remember\nhearing him preach from the text, Thou art the man,' and I felt that\nthat word was addressed to me as directly as it was by the prophet\nto the king. His was a power scarcely known to the men of this later\ngeneration.\n\n\"It would be difficult, I think, to analyze his character and mind, and\nto say just in what his power consisted. He did not have the reasoning\npower that distinguished Dr. Walker; he did not have the poetic gift\nthat gave such a charm to the sermons of Ephraim Peabody; he did not\nhave that peculiarity of speech which made the sermons of Dr. Putnam so\neffective upon the congregation, and yet he was the peer of any one of\nthem. It was, I think, because the truth had possession of his whole\nbeing when he spoke. It was because he always had a high ideal of the\npulpit, and was striving to come up to it, and because he went to the\npulpit with that preparation which alone makes any preaching effective,\nand which will make it mighty forever.\"\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 26, 1849.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--I came from Albany to-day at noon, and have had but\nthis afternoon to reflect upon your letter. But I see that you ought\nto have an answer immediately; and my reply to your proposition to\nme grows out of such decided considerations, that they seem to me to\nrequire no longer deliberation. I see that you desire my help, and I am\nvery sorry that I cannot offer it to you; but consider. You ask of me\nwhat, with my habits of thought and methods of working, would be equal\nto writing one sermon is a fortnight. I [210] would rather do this than\nto write four or even three columns for the \"Inquirer,\" considering,\nespecially, that I must find such a variety of topics, and must\nfurnish the tale of brick every week. I have always been obliged to\nwork irregularly, when I could; and this weekly task-work would allow\nno indulgence to such poor habits of study. Besides, this task would\noccupy my whole mind; that is, such shattered mind as I have at present\nto give to anything; I could do nothing else,--nothing to supply\nmy lack of means to live upon. I could better take the \"Christian\nExaminer;\" it would cost me much less labor, and it would give me the\nnecessary addition to my income, provided I could find some nook at the\neastward where I could live as cheaply as I can here.\n\nI think the case must be as plain to your mind as it is to mine. If\nI were to occupy any place in your army, it would be in the flying\nartillery; these solid columns will never do for me. Why, I can't\nremember the time when I have written twenty-five sermons in a year,\nand that, I insist, is the amount of labor you desire of me. You may\nthink that I overrate it, and you speak of my writing from \"the level\nof my mind.\" The highest level is low enough, and this I say in sad\nsincerity. In fact, if nothing offers itself for me to do that I can\ndo, I think that I shall let the said mind lie as fallow ground for\na while, hoping that, through God's blessing, leisure and leisurely\nstudies may give strength for some good work by and by. How to live,\nin the mean time, is the question; but I can live poor, and must,\nif necessary, trench upon my principal. But if I am driven to this\nresort, I will make thorough work of it; I will bind myself to no\nduty, professional, literary, or journalistic; if a book, or a little\ncourse of lectures, or any other little thing comes out from under\n[211] my hands at the end of one, two, or three years, let it; but I\nwill do nothing upon compulsion, though the things to do be as thick\nas blackberries. There's my profession of--duty! I have worked hard,\nhowever imperfectly. I have worked in weariness, in tribulation, and to\nthe very edge of peril; and I believe that the high Taskmaster, to whom\nI thus refer with humble and solemn awe, will pardon me some repose, if\ncircumstances beyond my control assign it to me for my lot.\n\nAs to the \"Inquirer,\" in times past, you should remember that in\nwhat I said of it that was disparaging, I excepted your part in it.\nThat certainly has not lacked interest, whatever else it has lacked.\nYou have, I think, some remarkable qualifications for the proposed\nenterprise; and if you could give your whole mind and life to it, I\nshould augur more favorably of such a monarchy than of the proposed\noligarchy. You are a live man; you have a quick apprehension of what is\ngoing on about you; you have insight, generosity, breadth of view. And\nyet, if I were fully to state what I mean by this last qualification, I\nshould say it is breadth rather than comprehension. You see a great way\non one side of a subject, rather than all round. This requires a great\ndeal of quiet, silent study, and where you are going to find space for\nit, I do not see, look all round as I may, or may pretend to. What I\nshall most fear about the \"Inquirer\" is, that it will give an uncertain\nsound; and this danger will be increased by the number of minds brought\ninto it. Associate editors ought to live near to each other, and to\ncompare notes. How do you know that Mr. C. will not cross Mr.O.'s\ntrack, or both of them Mr. Bellows, even if Mr. Bellows do not cross\nhis own? You say you will put your own stamp upon the paper, [212] of\ncourse. But your stamp has been rather indefinite as yet. \"Shaper and\nLeader,\" say you? Suggester and Pioneer, rather, is my thought of your\nfunction. This is pretty plain talk; but, confound you, you can bear\nit. And I can bear to say it, because I love--because I like you, and\nbecause I think of you as highly, I guess, as you ought to think of\nyourself. After all, I do expect a strong, free, living journal from\nyou, and the men of your age, or thereabouts, who are united with you.\n\nYou say that I do not understand a \"certain spirit of expectation and\nseeking\" in these men. Perhaps not; it is vaguely stated, and I cannot\ntell. One of these days you will spread it out and I shall see. I have\nideas of progress, with which my thoughts are often wrestling, and I\nshall be glad to have them made more just, expanded, and earnest. With\nlove to all,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nSHEFFIELD, May 25, 1849. MY DEARLY BELOVED AND LONGED FOR,--I can't\nhave you go to New York and not come here; and my special intent in\nwriting now is to show you how little out of your way it is to return\nto Cambridge by Berkshire, and how little more expense it is. I trust\nthat Mrs. Ware is to be with you.\n\nThere! it's a short argument, but a long conclusion shall follow,--a\nweek long of talk and pleasure, which shall be as good as forty weeks\nlong, by the heart's measurement. [213]Alas! these college prayers!\nIf I had anything to do with them, it would be upon the plan of\nremodelling hem entirely. I would have them but once in a day, it a\nconvenient hour, say eight or nine o'clock in the morning. I would\nhave leave to do what my heart night prompt in the great hours of\nadoration. Reading the Scriptures with a word of comment, sometimes,\nor t word uttered as the spirit moved, without reading; or instead, a\nmatin hymn or old Gregorian chant, solemn seasons, free breathings of\nveneration and joy; sometimes he reading of a prayer of the Episcopal\nChurch, or of he venerable olden time, always a bringing down A the\ngreat sentiment of devotion into young life, to De its guidance and\nstrength,--this should be college prayers. . . .\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. II, 1850.\n\nMy DEAR FRIEND,--In the first place, La Bruyere was the name of the\nFrench satirist that I could not remember the other day. In the second\nplace, I have a letter from Mr. Lowell, inviting me to deliver the\nsecond course of lectures, and the time fixed upon is the winter after\nnext; I can't be prepared by next winter. As to the title, I think,\nafter all, Herder's is the best: \"Philosophy of Humanity,\" or I should\nas lief say, \"On the Problem of Evil in the World.\" You said of me\nonce in some critique, I believe, that I always seemed to write as in\nthe presence of objectors. I shall be very likely to do so now. Well,\nhere is work for me for two years ahead, if I have life and health, and\nwork that I like above all other. In the third place, I don't think I\nshall do much for the \"Inquirer.\" My name has really [214] no business\non the first page; in fact, I never thought of its standing there as\na fixture. I supposed you would say for once in your opening that\nsuch and such persons would help you. With my habits of writing, I am\nbetter able to write long articles than short ones; and the \"Christian\nExaminer\" pays more than you, and I am obliged to regard that\nconsideration. I must have three or four hundred dollars a year beyond\nmy income, or sell stock,--a terrible alternative. In the fourth place,\nevery man is right in his own eyes; I am a man: therefore I am right in\nmy eyes. I am very unprofessional; that is, in regard to the etiquette\nand custom of the profession. I am; and in regard to the professional\nmannerism and spirit of routine, I am very much afraid of it. But\nI do not think that many persons have ever enjoyed the religious\nservices of our profession more than I have; the spiritual communion,\nwhich is its special function, and that, not through sermons alone,\nbut in sacraments, in baptisms, in fireside conference with darkened\nand troubled minds, has long been to me a matter of the profoundest\ninterest and satisfaction. It is the one reigning thought of my life\nnow to see and to show how the Infinite Wisdom and Loveliness shine\nthrough this universe of forms. To this will I devote myself; nay, am\ndevoted, whether I will or not. This will I pursue, and will preach it.\nI will preach it in the Lowell Lectures. Shall I be wrong if I give\nup other preaching for the time? You think so. Perhaps you are right.\nAny way, it is not a matter of much importance, I suppose. There is a\ngreat deal too much of preaching, such as it is. The world is in danger\nof being preached out of all hearty and spontaneous religion. What\nwould you think, if the love of parents and chil-[215] dren were made\nthe subject of a weekly lecture in the family, and of such lecture as\nthe ordinary preaching is? Oh if a Saint Chrysostom, or even a Saint\nCesarius, or a Robert Hall could come along and speak to us once in\nhalf a year, they would leave, perhaps, a deeper imprint than this\nperpetual and petrifying drop-dropping of the sanctuary.\n\nBy the bye, read those extracts from the sermons of Saint Cesarius, in\nthe sixteenth lecture of Guizot on French civilization, and see if they\nare not worth inserting in the \"Inquirer.\" The picture which Guizot\ngives in that and the following lecture, of Christianity struggling in\nthe bosom of all-surrounding wrong, cruelty, and sensualism, is very\nbeautiful. It is one of the indications of the raging ultraism of the\ntime, that the calm wisdom and piety of such a man as Guizot should be\nso little appreciated.\n\nWhen I read such writers as this, I am rather frightened at my\nundertaking; but I believe there is a great deal to be said to the\npeople that is not beyond me, and I shall modestly do what I can. I\nbegan yesterday to study Hegel's \"Philosophy of History,\" and though I\ncan read but a few pages a day, I believe I shall master it; and after\none gets through with his theory, I imagine, in looking at his topics\nahead, that I shall find matters that are intelligible and practical. I\nam, as ever,\n\nYours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 25, 1850.\n\nMY DEAR BRYANT,--You will remember, perhaps, our conversation when\nyou were last up here, about our Club [216] of the XXI. You know my\nattachment to it. The loss of those pleasant meetings is indeed one of\nthe things I most regret in leaving the city. I cannot bear to forfeit\nmy place in that good company. In this feeling I am about to make a\nproposition which I beg you will present for me, and that you will, as\nmy advocate, try to explain and show that it is not so enormous as at\nfirst it may seem. I pray, then, my dear Magnus,{20} that you will turn\nyour poetical genius to account by describing the beautiful ride up the\nvalley of the Housatonic, and this our beautiful Berkshire, and will\nput in the statistical fact that it is but six hours and a half from\nNew York to Sheffield,{21} and then will request the Club to meet at my\nhouse some day in the coming summer. I name Wednesday, the 9th of June.\nI propose that the proper Club-meeting be on the evening of that day.\nThe next day I propose that we shall spend among the mountains,-seeing\nBashpish, and, if possible, the Salisbury Lakes. And I will thank you,\nas my faithful solicitor, that, if you are obliged of your knowledge\nto confess to the fact of my very humble housekeeping, you will also\ncourageously maintain that with the aid of my friends I can make our\nbrethren as comfortable as people expect to be on a frolicking bout,\nand that I can easily get good country wagons to take them on a jaunt\namong the mountains. You will tell me, I hope, how my proposition is\nreceived; and by received, I do not mean any vote or resolution, but\nwhether the gentlemen seem to think it would be a pleasant thing.\n\n    {FN 20: Mr. Dewey was wont to call his friend \"our Magnus\n    Apollo.\"}\n\n    {FN 21: Now lessened to five hours.}\n\nAnd when you write, tell me whether you or Mrs. Bryant chance to know\nof any person who would like to [217] come up here this summer and\nteach French in my sister's school an hour or two a day for a moderate\ncompensation. It must be a French person,--one that can speak the\nlanguage. Her school is increasing, and she must have more help.\n\nWith mine and all our kindest regards to Mrs. Bryant and Julia and\nFanny, I am, as ever,\n\nYours truly,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\nTell Mrs. Bryant we depend on her at the Club.\n\n\nTo his Daughter Mary.\n\nSHEFFIELD, March 4, 1850.\n\n. . . As I suppose you are tormented with the question, \"What's your\nfather doing in Sheffield?\" you may tell them that I have taken to\nlecturing the people, and that I give a second lecture to-morrow\nevening, and mean to give a third. Forbye reading Hegel every morning,\nand what do you think he said this morning? Why, that he had read of a\ngovernment of women, \"ein Weiberstaat,\" in Africa, where they killed\nall the men in the first place, and then all the male children, and\nfinally destined all that should be born to the same fate. And what\ndo you think your mother said when I told her of these atrocities?\nEven this: \"That shows what bad creatures the men must have been.\" And\nthat's all I get when trying to enlighten her upon the wickedness of\nher sex.\n\nAnd I'm just getting through with Guizot's four volumes, too. Oh, a\nvery magnificent, calm, and beautiful course of lectures. You must read\nthem. It's the best French history, so far as it goes.\n\n\n[218] To Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, March 6, 1850.\n\n. . . To my poor apprehension this is an awful crisis, especially\nif pushed in the way the Northern doctrinaires desire. I feel it so\nfrom what I saw of Southern feeling in Washington the winter I passed\nthere. I fear disunion, and no mortal line can sound the depth of\nthat calamity. I sometimes think that it would be well if we could\nwear around this last, terrible, black headland by sounding, and\ntrimming sails, rather than attempt to sail by compass and quadrant.\nDo not mistake my figure. I am no moral trimmer, and that you know.\nConscience must be obeyed. But conscience does not forbid that we\nshould treat the Southern people with great consideration. What we must\ndo, we may do in the spirit of love, and not of wrath or scorn. Oh,\nwhat a mystery of Providence, that this terrible burden--I had almost\nsaid millstone--should ever have been hung around the neck of this\nConfederation!\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nSHEFFIELD, June 7, 1850.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--You should n't have lived in New York, and you should\nn't have been master of the French language, and you should n't have\nbeen Mr. Bryant, and, in fact, you should n't have been at all, if you\nexpected to escape all sorts of trouble in this world! Since all these\nconditions pertain to you, see the inference, which, stated in the most\nskilfully inoffensive way I am able, stands or runs thus:\n\n[Here followed a request that Mr. Bryant would make [219] some\ninquiries concerning a French teacher who had applied, and the letter\ncontinued:]\n\nNow, in fine, if you don't see that all this letter is strictly\nlogical,--an inference from the premises at the beginning,--I am sorry\nfor you; and if you do see it, I am sorry for you. So you are pitied at\nany rate.\n\nThe 19th draws nigh. If any of the Club are with you and Mrs. Bryant\nin coming up, do not any of you be so deluded as to listen to any\ninvitation to dine at Kent, but come right along, hollow and merry,\nand--I don't say I promise you a dinner, but what will suffice for\nnatzir, anyhow. Art, to be sure, is out of the question, as it is\nwhen I subscribe myself, and ourselves, to you and Mrs. Bryant, with\naffectionate regard,\n\nYours truly,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Oct. 13, 1850.\n\n\"THAT'S what I will,\" I said, as I took up your letter just now, to\nread it again, thinking you had desired me to write immediately. \"How\naffectionate!\" thinks I to myself; \"that must have been a good letter\nthat I wrote him last; I really think some of my letters must be pretty\ngood ones, after all; I hate conceit,--I really believe my tendency is\nthe other way,-but, hang it! who knows but I may turn out, upon myself,\na fine letter after all? But at any rate Ware loves me, does n't he?\nHe wants me to write a few lines, at least, very soon. It's evident he\nwould be pleased to have me, pleased as the Laird of Ellangowan said of\nthe king's commission,--good honest gentle-[220] man, he can't be more\npleased than I am!\" But oh! the slips of those who are shodden with\nvanity! I read on, thinking it was a nice letter of yours,--feeling\nsomething startled, to be sure, at the compellation, as if you were\nmesmerise, and had got an insight (calls me bambino half of the\ntime)--looking at your mood reverential as a droll jest,--vexed at\nfirst, but then reconciled, about the book and the lecturing,--charmed\nand grateful beyond measure at what you say about your health,--when!\nat last!! I fell upon your request: \"Now give me one brief epistle\nbetween this and our seeing you.\"!!! BETWEEN! what a word! what a\nhiatus! what a gulf! Down into it tumbled pride, vanity, pleasure,\neverything. Well, great occasions call out virtue. As I emerged, as I\ncame up, I came up a hero; the vanities of this world were all struck\noff from me in my fall, and I came up a hero; for I determined I would\nwrite to you immediately. There! beat that if you can! I give you a\nchance,-one chance,--I don't ask YOU to write at all.\n\nWhat is it you call my study now-a-days,--\"terrible moral metaphysics\n\"? You may well say \"weighed down\" with them. I was never in my life\nbefore quite so modest as I am now. Not that I have n't enough to say,\nand all my faculties leap to the task; but all the while there looms up\nbefore me an ideal of what such a course of lectures might be, that I\nfear I shall never reach up to, no, nor one twentieth part of the way\nto it. . . .\n\n\n[221]To Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Jan. 25, 1851.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--You won't come, and I will write to you! See the\ndifference. See how I return good for evil!\n\nI say, you won't come; for I have a letter from Mrs. Curtis, from\nwhich it is evident the will not, and so I suppose that laudable\nconspiracy falls to the ground. However, we shall sort o' look for\nyou all the week. But you won't come. I know it to my fingers' ends.\nCradled in luxury, wrapped in comfort, enervated by city indulgences,\nsophisticated by fashionable society--well, I won't finish the essay;\nbut you won't come.\n\nAh! speaking of fashionable society,--that reminds me,--you ask a\nquestion, and say, \"Answer me.\" Well, then,--society we must have; and\nall the question I should have to ask about it would be whether it\npleased me,--not whether everybody in it pleased me, but whether its\ngeneral tone did not offend me, and then, whether I could find persons\nin it with whose minds I could have grateful and good intercourse. If\nI could, I don't think the word \"fashion,\" or the word \"world,\" would\nscare me. As to the time given to it, and the time to be reserved\nfor weightier matters, that is, to be sure, very material. But the\nchief thing is a reigning spirit in our life, gained from communion\nwith the highest thoughts and themes, which consecrates all time, and\nsubordinates all events and circumstances, and hallows all intercourse,\nand turns the dust of life into golden treasures.\n\nI have no thoughts of going to New York or anywhere [222] else at\npresent. I finished my eighth lecture yesterday. This is my poor\nservice to the world in these days,-since you insist that I have\nrelations to the world.\n\nI reciprocate Mr. Lane's kind wishes, and am, as ever,\n\nYours, with no danger of forgetting,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 3, 1851.\n\nDEAR GWYLLYM (is n't that Welsh for William?)--I don't know whether\nyour letter with nothing in it, and the postage paid on the contents,\nis on the way to me; but I am writing to all my friends, to celebrate\nthe Independence-day of friendship and to help the revenue, and not to\nwrite to you would be lese-majesty to love and law.\n\nIs it not a distinct mark higher up on the scale of civilization,--this\ncheap postage? The easier transmission of produce is accounted such a\nmark,--much more the easier transmission of thought.\n\nTransmission, indeed! When I had got so far, I was called away to\ndirect Mr. P. about the sink. And do you know what directing a man is,\nin the country? Why, it is to do half the work yourself, and to take\nall the responsibility. And, in consequence of Mr. P., you won't get a\nbit better letter than you proposed to send.\n\nWhere's your book? What are you doing? What do you think of your Miss\nMartineau now? Is n't the Seven Gables a subtile matter, both in\nthought and style?\n\nHave n't I said the truth about the much preaching? Some of the clergy,\nI perceive, say with heat that [223] preaching is not cold and dull.\nBetter let the laity testify.\n\nThere is Mr. P. again.\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nWASHINGTON, Dec. 11, 1851.\n\n. . . HAVE you seen the \"great Hungarian\"? Great indeed, and in a way\nwe seem not to have thought of. Is n't there a story somewhere of a\nman uncaging, as he thought, a spaniel, and finding it to be a lion?\nWe thought we had released and were bringing over a simple, harmless,\ninoffensive, heart-broken emigrant, who would be glad to settle, and\nfind rest, and behold, we have upon our hands a world-disturbing\npropagandist, a loud pleader for justice and freedom, who does not\nwant to settle, but to fight; who will not rest upon his country's\nwrongs, nor let anybody else if he can help it; who does not care for\nprocessions nor entertainments, but wants help. Kossuth has doubtless\nmade a great mistake in taking his position here; it is the mistake of\na word-maker and of a relier on words, and he has not mended the matter\nby defining. But I declare he is infinitely more respectable in my eyes\nthan if he had come in the character in which we expected him,--as the\nprotege and beneficiary of our people, who was to settle down among us\nand be comfortable.\n\n\nTo Rev. William Ware.\n\nWASHINGTON, Jan. 3, 1852.\n\n. . . I MUST fool a little, else I shan't know I am writing to you.\nAnd really I must break out somewhere, [224] life is such a solemn\nabstraction in Washington to a clergyman. What has he to do, but\nwhat's solemn? The gayety passes him by; the politics pass him by.\nNobody wants him; nobody holds him by the button but some desperate,\ndilapidated philanthropist. People say, while turning a corner, \"How do\nyou do, Doctor?\" which is very much as if they said, \"How do you do,\nAbstraction?\" I live in a \"lone conspicuity,\" preach in a vacuum, and\ncall, with much ado, to find nobody. \"What doest thou here, Elijah?\"\none might say to a prophet in this wilderness.\n\nWhat a curious fellow you are! calm as a philosopher, usually, wise\nas a judge, possessed in full measure of the very Ware moderation\nand wisdom, and yet every now and then taking some tremendous\nlurch--against England or for Kossuth! I go far enough, go a good way,\nplease to observe,--but to go to war, that would I not, if I could\nhelp it. Fighting won't prepare men for voting. Peaceful progress, I\nbelieve, is the only thing that can carry on the world to a fitness\nfor self-government. I have no idea that the Hungarians are fit for\nit. See what France has done with her free constitution! Oh! was\nthere ever such a solemn farce, before Heaven, as that voting,--those\ncongratulations to the Usurper-President, and his replies?\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W Bellows.\n\nWASHINGTON, March 7, 1852.\n\n. . . I HAVE seen a good deal of Ole Bull here within a week or two.\nI admire his grand and simple, reverent and affectionate Norwegian\nnature very much. He has come out here now with views connected with\nthe welfare [225] of his countrymen; I do not yet precisely understand\nthem. Is it not remarkable that he and Jenny Lind should have this\nnoble nationality so beating at their very hearts?\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nI DON'T see but you must insert these articles in the \"Inquirer\" as\n\"Communications.\" Some of them will have things in them that cannot\npossibly be delivered as Wegotisms. Don't be stiff about the matter.\nI tell you there is no other way; and indeed I think it no harm, but\nan advantage, to diversify the form, and leave out the solemn and\njuridical Wego sometimes, for the more sprightly and \"sniptious\" Ego.\n\n\nTo his Daughter Mary.\n\nWASHINGTON, May, 1852.\n\nDEAREST MOLLY,--To be sure, how could you? And, indeed, what did you\nfor? Oh! for little K.'s sake. Well, anything for little K.'s sake.\nIndeed, it's the duty of parents to sacrifice themselves for their\nchildren. It's the final cause of parents to mind the children. Poor\nlittle puss! We shall feel relieved when we hear she is in New York,\nand safe under the sisterly wing. I am afraid she is getting too big\nfor nestling. How I want to see the good little comfort! Is she little?\nTell us how she looks and does.\n\nYesterday, beside preaching a sermon more than half new, and attending\na funeral (out of the society), I read skimmingly more than half\nNichol's \"Architecture of the Heavens.\" I laid aside the book\noverwhelmed. What shall we do? What shall we think? Far from our\n[226] Milky Way,--there they lie, other universes,--rebuke resolved\nby Rosse's telescope into stars, starry realms, numerous, seemingly\ninnumerable, and as vast as our system; and yet from some of them\nit takes the light thirty--sixty thousand years to come to us: nay,\ntwenty millions, Nichol suggests, I know not on what grounds. And\nyet in the minutest details such perfection! A million of perfectly\nformed creatures in a drop of water! I do not doubt that it is this\noverwhelming immensity of things that leads some minds to find a sort\nof relief, as it were, in the idea of an Infinite Impersonal Force\nworking in all things. But it is a child's thought. Nay, does not the\nvery fact that my mind can take in so vast a range of things lead me\nbetter to conceive of what the Infinite Mind can do? An ant's mind, if\nit had one, might find it just as hard to conceive of me.\n\nWith love to you two miserable creatures, away from your parents,\n\nThine ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\n[Undated.]\n\nWhat have I not written to you about, you cross thing? Oh! Kossuth.\nWell, then, here is an immensely interesting person, whom we invited\nover here to settle, and who is much more likely to unsettle us. How\nfar would you have him unsettle us? To the extent of carrying us into a\nwar with Russia, or of banding us, with all liberal governments, in a\nwar with the despotic governments, so that Europe should be turned into\na caldron of blood for years to come, millions of people sacrificed,\n[227] unutterable miseries inflicted, the present frame of society torn\nin pieces; and, when all is done, the human race no better off,--worse\noff? You say, no. Well, anything short of that I am willing Kossuth\nshould accomplish. Any expression of opinion that he can get here, from\nthe people or the government, asserting the rights of nations and the\nwrong of oppression, let him have,--let all the world have it. Moral\ninfluence, gradually changing the world, is what I want. But Kossuth\nand the Liberals of Europe want to bring on that great war of opinion,\nwhich, I fear, will come only too soon. I fear that Kossuth has fairly\nbroached the question of intervention here, and that in two years\nit will enter the ballot box. I fear these tendencies to universal\noverthrow that are now revealing themselves all over the civilized\nworld.\n\nKossuth is a man all enthusiasm and eloquence, but not a man, I\njudge, of deep practical sagacity. A sort of Hamlet, he seems to\nme,--graceful, delicate, thoughtful, meditative, moral, noble-minded;\nand I should not wonder if he was now feeling something of Hamlet's\nburden: \"The time is out of joint: oh, cursed spite, That ever I was\nborn to set it right!\"\n\nA lady, who saw him two days ago, told me that so sad a face she never\nsaw; it haunted her.\n\nIt was on his return to his Berkshire home, after this winter in\nWashington, that the next merry little letter, describing his renewed\nacquaintance with his country neighbors, was sent to me. The custom of\nringing the church bell at noon and at nine in the evening had not then\nbeen relinquished, although it has since died out.\n\n\n[228] To his Daughter Mary.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 23, 1852.\n\nDEAR MOLLY,--Dr. K. and H. called upon us the very evening after we\narrived! Mrs. K. as usual. Mrs. B. is on a visit to her friends;\nthe children with their grandmother. . . . Mr. D. does n't raise\nany tobacco this summer. I saw Mr. P. lying fiat on his back\nyesterday,--not floored, however, but high and dry on Mr. McIntyre's\ncounter. Mr. M. has succeeded Doten, Root, and Mansfield. These three\ngentlemen have all flung themselves upon the paper-mill, hardly able\nto supply the Sheffield authors. Mr. Austin continues to announce the\nsolemn procession of the hours. Mr. Swift is building an observatory\nto see 'em as they pass. There are thoughts of engaging me to note 'em\ndown, as I have nothing else to do.\n\nI am particularly at leisure, having demitted all care of the farm to\nMr. Charles, and committed all the income thereof to him, down to the\nsmallest hen's-egg.\n\nYour mother is always doing something, and always growing handsomer and\nlovelier, so that I told her yesterday I should certainly call her a\nsa-int, if she was n't always a do-int\n\nI have nothing to tell of myself; no stitches or aches to commemorate,\nbeing quite free and whole in soul and body, and, freely and wholly\n\nYour loving father,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[229] To Rev. Henry W. Bellows.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 24, 1852.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--Amidst all this lovely quiet, and the beautiful\noutlooks on every side to the horizon, my thoughts seem ever to mingle\nwith the universe; they bear me beyond the horizon of life, and your\nreflections, therefore, fall as a touching strain upon the tenor of\nmine. Experience, life, man, seem to me ever higher and more awful; and\nthough there is constantly intervening the crushing thought of what a\npoor thing I am, and my life is, and I am sometimes disheartened and\ntempted to be reckless, and to say, \"It's no matter what this ephemeral\nbeing, this passing dust and wind, shall come to,\"--yet ever, like the\nlittle eddying whirlwinds that I see in the street before me, this\ndusty breath of life struggles upward. I am very sad and glorious by\nturns; and sometimes, when mortality is heavy and hope is weak, I take\nrefuge in simple resignation, and say: \"Thou Infinite Goodness! I can\ndesire nothing better than that thy will be done. But oh! give me to\nlive forever!--eternal rises that prayer. Give me to look upon thy\nglory and thy glorious creatures forever!\" What an awful anomaly in\nour being were it, if that prayer were to be denied! And what would\nthe memory of friends be, so sweet and solemn now,--what would it be,\nbut as the taper which the angel of death extinguishes in this earthly\nquagmire?\n\nAfter you went away, I read more carefully the splendid article on the\n\"Ethics of Christendom;\"{21} and I confess that my whole moral being\nshrinks from the position [230] of the writer (which brings down the\nmajesty of the Gospel almost to the level of Millerism), that Jesus\nsupposed the end of the world to be at hand, and that he should come in\nthe clouds of heaven, and be seated with his disciples on airy thrones,\nto judge the nations. No; the false double ethics of the pulpit, which\nI have labored, though less successfully, all my life to expose, has\nits origin, I believe, in later superstition, and not in the teachings\nof Christ.\n\n    {FN 21: From the \"Westminster Review,\" vol. lvii. p. 182, or,\n    in the American edition, p. 98.}\n\nThe passages referred to by the writer, I conceive to be more\nimaginative, and less formalistic and logical, than he supposes.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nWASHINGTON, Dec. 28, 1852.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--I will wish you all a happy New York, (ahem! you\nsee how naturally and affectionately my pen turns out the old beloved\nname)--a happy New Year. After all, it isn't so bad; a happy New Year\nand a happy New York must be very near neighbors with you. I sometimes\nwish they could have continued to be so with me, for those I have\nlearnt to live with most easily and happily are generally in New York.\nOur beloved artists, the goodly Club, were a host to me by themselves.\nI wish I could be a host to them sometimes.\n\nWell, heigho! (pretty ejaculation to come into a New Year's\ngreeting--but they come everywhere!) Heigho! I say submissively\n--things meet and match us, perhaps, better than we mean. I am not a\nclergyman--perhaps was never meant for one. I question our position\nmore and more. We are not fairly thrown into the field of life. We\ndo not fairly take the free and [231] unobstructed pressure of all\nsurrounding society. We are hedged around with artificial barriers,\nbuilt up by superstitious reverence and false respect. We are cased in\npeculiarity. We meet and mingle with trouble and sorrow,--enough of\nthem, too much,--but our treatment of them gets hackneyed, worn, weary,\nand reluctant. They grapple with the world's strife and trial, but it\nis an armor. Our excision from the world's pleasure and intercourse, I\ndoubt, is not good for us. We are a sort of moral eunuchs.\n\n\nTo his Daughter Mary.\n\nWASHINGTON, June 19, 1853.\n\nTHOUGH it is very hot,\n\nThough bladed corn faint in the noontide ray, And thermometers stand at\nninety-three, And fingers feel like sticks of sealing-wax, Yet I will\nwrite thee.\n\nThis evening I saw Professor Henry, who said he saw you at the Century\nClub last Wednesday evening; that le did not speak to you, but that\nyou seemed to be enjoying yourself. I felt like shaking hands with him\non the occasion, but restrained myself. But where are you, child, this\nblessed minute? . . . I would have you to know that it is a merit to\nwrite to somebody who is nowhere. Why in thunder don't you write to me?\nIf I were nobody, I am somewhere. I hope you are enjoying yourself, but\nI can't think you can, conscientiously, without telling me of it.\n\nMy love to the Bryants. I hope it may greet the Grand Panjandrum\nhimself. Tell Mrs. C. I should write to her, but I have too much regard\nfor her to think of [232] such a thing with the thermometer at 93\ndegrees, and that it is as much as I can do to keep cool at any time,\nwhen I think of her.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Sept. 2, 1853.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--Do you remember when we were walking once in Weston,\nthat we saw the carpenter putting sheets of tarred paper under the\nclapboarding of a house? I want you to ask your father if he thinks\nthat a good plan; if he knows of any ill effect, as, for instance,\nthere being a smell of tar about the house, or the tar's running down\nbetween the clapboards. If he thinks well of it (that is question\nfirst); question second is, What kind of paper is used? and question\nthird, Is it simply boiled tar into which the paper is dipped? I state\nprecisement, and number the queries, because nobody ever yet answered\nall the questions of a letter. I hope in your reply you will achieve a\ndistinction that will send down your name to future times. . . .\n\nTo the Same.\n\nSept. 9, 1853.\n\nYou have achieved immortal honor; the answers, Numbers 1, 2, and 3,\nare most satisfactory. I have thoughts of sending your letter to the\nCrystal Palace. I am much obliged to your father, and I will avail\nmy-self of his kindness, if I should find it necessary, next rear, when\nI may be building an addition here.\n\nI am sorry things don't go smoothly with-; but I guess nothing ever\ndid go on without some hitches, that s, on this earth. It is curious,\nby the bye, how we go in blindly, imagining that things go smoothly\nwith many [233] people around us,--with some at least,--with some\nWellington, or Webster, or Astor, when the truth is, they never do with\nanybody. To take our inevitable part with imperfection, in ourselves,\nin others, in things,--to take our part, I say, in this discipline of\nimperfection, without surprise or impatience or discouragement, as\na part of the fixed order of things, and no more to be wondered at\nor quarrelled with than drought or frost or flood,--this is a wisdom\nbeyond the most of us, farther off from us, I believe, than any other.\nAhem! when you told me of those rocks in the foundation of the house,\nyou did not expect this \"sermon in stones.\". . .\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant.\n\nSHEFFIELD, May 13, 1854.\n\nDEAR EDITOR,--Are we to have fastened upon us this nuisance that is\nspreading itself among all the newspapers,--I mean the abominable smell\ncaused by the sizing or something else in the manufacture? For a long\ntime it was the \"Christian Register\" alone that had it, and I used to\nthrow it out of the window to air. Now I perceive the same thing in\nother papers, and at length it has reached the \"Post.\" Somebody is\nmanufacturing a villanous article for the paper-makers (I state the\nfact with an awful and portentous generality.) But do you not perceive\nwhat the nuisance is? It is a stink, sir. I am obliged to sit on the\nwindward side of the paper while I read its interesting contents, and\nto wash my hands afterwards--immediately.\n\nBut, to change the subject,--yes, toto aelo,-for I turn to something as\nfragrant as a bed of roses,--will [234] not you and Mrs. Bryant come\nto see us in June? Do. It is a long time since I have sat on a green\nbank with you, or anywhere else. I want some of your company, and talk,\nand wisdom. The first Lowell Lecture I wrote was after a talk with you\nhere, three or four years ago. Come, I pray, and give me an impulse for\nanother course. Bring Julia, too. I will give her my little green room.\n\nI shall be down in New York on business a fortnight hence, and shall\nsee you, and see if we can't fix upon a time.\n\nWith all our loves to you all,\n\nYours as ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nMr. Dewey's father died at the very beginning of his son's career,\nin 1821, and early in 1855 he lost also his mother from her honored\nplace at his fireside. He was, nevertheless, obliged to leave home in\nMarch, to fulfil an engagement made the previous autumn to lecture in\nCharleston, S. C.\n\n\nTo his Daughter Mary.\n\nCHARLESTON, March 16, 1855.\n\nI HAVE been trying four hours to sleep. No dervish ever turned round\nmore times at a bout, than I have turned over in these four hours.\nI dined out to-day, at Judge King's, and afterwards we went to the\ncelebrated Club 3 and, whether it is that I was seven consecutive hours\nin company, or that I drank a cup of coffee,\n\nThe reason why, I cannot tell, But this I know full well, [235] that\nhere I am, at three o'clock in the morning, venting my rage on you.\n\nIt would do your heart good to see the generous and delighted\ninterest which the G.'s and D.'s, and indeed many more, take in the\nphenomenon of the lectures. The truth is, that their attention to\nthe matter, and the intelligence of the people, and the merits of\nthe lecturer, must be combined to account for such an unprecedented\nand beautiful audience,-larger, and much more select, they say, than\neven Thackeray's. I'll send you a newspaper slip or two, if I can\nlay my hand upon them, upon the last lecture, which, assembled (the\naudience, I mean), under a clouded sky, and in face of a threatening\nthunder-gust, was a greater wonder, some one said, than any I undertook\nto explain.\n\nBah! what stuff to write I But all this is such an agreeable surprise\nto me, and will, I think, give me so much better a reward for this\nweary journey and absence than I expected, that you must sympathize\nwhat you can with my dotage.\n\nAs to the \"Corruptions of Christianity,\" dear, if you don't find enough\nof them about you,--and you may not, as you live with your mother\nmostly,--you will find them in the library somewhere. There were, I\nthink, two editions, one in one volume, and another in two. There are a\nhundred in the world.\n\nThe Club mentioned in this letter was that of which my father wrote\nin his Reminiscences: \"This Charleston Club, then, I think, forty\nyears old, was one of the most remarkable, and in some respects\n[236] the most improving, that I have ever known. An essay was read\nat every meeting, and made the subject of discussion. One evening\nat Dr. Gilman's was read for the essay a eulogy upon Napoleon III.\nIt was written con amore, and was really quite sentimental in its\nadmiration,--going back to his very boyhood, his love of his mother,\nand what not. I could not help touching the elbow of the gentleman\nsitting next me and saying, Are n't we a pretty set of fellows to be\nlistening to such stuff as this? He showed that he thought as I did.\nWhen the reading was finished, Judge King, who presided, turned to me\nand asked for my opinion of the essay. I was considerably struck up,'\nto be the first person asked, and confessed to some embarrassment. I\nwas a stranger among them, I said, and did not know but my views might\ndiffer entirely from theirs. I was not accustomed to think myself\nilliberal, or behind the progress of opinion, and I knew that this man,\nLouis Napoleon, had his admirers, and perhaps an increasing number of\nthem; but if I must speak,--and then I blurted it out,--I must say that\nit was with inward wrath and indignation that I had listened to the\nessay, from beginning to end. There was a marked sensation all round\nthe circle; but I defended my opinion, and, to my astonishment, all but\ntwo agreed with me.\"\n\nThe following winter he was invited to repeat his lectures in\nCharleston, and passed some time there, accompanied by his family. In\nMarch, 1856, he went with Mrs. Dewey to New Orleans, and, returning to\nCharleston at the end of April, went home in June.\n\n\n[237] To his Daughters.\n\nON BOARD THE \"HENRY KING,\" ON THE ALABAMA RIVER, March 18, 1856.\n\n. . . Sum charming things cars are! No dirt,--no sp-tt-g, oh! no,--and\nsuch nice places for sleeping! Not a long, monotonous, merely animal\nsleep, but intellectual, a kind of perpetual solving of geometric\nproblems, as, for instance,--given, a human body; how many angles is\nit capable of forming in fifteen minutes? or how many more than a\ncrab in the same time? And then, no crying children,--not a bit of\nthat,--singing cherubs, innocently piping,--cheering the dull hours\nwith dulcet sounds.\n\nI write in the saloon, on this jarring boat, that shakes my hand and\nwits alike. We are getting on very prosperously. Your mother bears the\njourney well. This boat is very comfortable-for a boat; a good large\nstate-room, and positively the neatest public table I have seen in all\nthe South.\n\nThere! that'll do,--or must do. I thought wife would do the writing,\nbut I have \"got my leg over the harrow,\" and Mause would be as hard to\nstop.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nNEW ORLEANS, March 29, 1856.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--Yesterday I was sixty-two years old. After lecturing\nin the evening right earnestly on \"The Body and Soul,\" I came home\nvery tired, and sat down with a cigar, and passed an hour among the\nscenes of the olden time. I thought of my father, when, a boy, I used\nto walk with him to the fields. Something way-[238] ward he was,\nperhaps, in his moods, but prevailingly bright and cheerful,--fond of a\njoke,--strong in sense and purpose, and warm in affection,--steady to\nhis plans, but somewhat impulsive and impatient in execution. Where is\nhe now? How often do I ask! Shall I see him again? How shall I find him\nafter thirty, forty years passed in the unseen realm? And of my mother\nyou will not doubt I thought, and called up the scenes of her life: in\nthe mid-way of it, when she was so patient, and often weary in the care\nof us all, and often feeble in health; and then in the later days, the\ndeclining years, so tranquil, so gentle, so loving,--a perfect sunshine\nof love and gentleness was her presence.\n\nBut come we to this St. Charles Hotel, where we have been now for a\nweek, as removed as possible from the holy and quiet dreamland of past\ndays. Incessant hubbub and hurly-burly are the only words that can\ndescribe it, seven hundred guests, one thousand people under one roof.\nWhat a larder! what a cellar! what water-tanks, pah! filled from the\nMississippi, clarified for the table with alum. People that we have\nknown cast up at all corners, and many that we have not call upon\nus,--good, kind, sensible people. I don't see but New Orleans is to be\nlet into my human world.\n\nYou see how I blot,--I'm nervous,--I can't write at a marble table.\nVery well, however, and wife mainly so. Three weeks more here, and then\nback to Savannah, where I am to give four lectures. Then to Charleston,\nto stay till about the 25th May.\n\nThe lectures go here very fairly,--six hundred to hear. They call it a\nvery large audience for lectures in New Orleans. . . . With our love to\nall your household,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[239]The Same\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 10, 1856.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--My time and thoughts have been a good deal occupied of\nlate by the illness and death of Mr. Charles Sedgwick. The funeral\nwas on last Tuesday, and Mr. Bellows was present, making the prayer,\nwhile I read passages, and said some words proper for the time. They\nwere hearty words, you may be sure; for in some admirable respects\nCharles Sedgwick has scarcely left his equal in the world. His sunny\nnature shone into every crack and crevice around him, and the poor\nman and the stranger and whosoever was in trouble or need felt that\nhe had in him an adviser and friend. The Irish were especially drawn\nto him, and they made request to bear his body to the grave, that is,\nto Stockbridge, six miles. And partly they did so. . . . It was a\ntremendous rain-storm, but the procession was very long.\n\nBut I must turn away from this sad affliction to us all,--it will be\nlong before I shall turn my thought from it,--for the world is passing\non; it will soon pass by my grave and the graves of us all. I do not\nwonder that this sweeping tide bears our thoughts much into the coming\nworld,--mine, I sometimes think, too much.\n\nBut we have to fight our battle, perform our duties, while one and\nanother drops around us; and one of the things that engages me just\nnow, is to prepare a discourse to be delivered under our Elm Tree on\nthe 21st.\n\nThe Elm Tree Association, before which the address just alluded to was\nmade, was a Village Improvement Society, of which my father was [240]\none of the founders, and which took its name from an immense tree, one\nof the finest in Massachusetts, standing near the house of his maternal\ngrandfather. To smooth and adorn the ground around the Great Elm, and\nmake it the scene of a yearly summer festival for the whole town, was\nthe first object of the Society, extending afterwards to planting\ntrees, grading walks, etc., through the whole neighborhood; and it was\none of the earlier impulses to that refinement of taste which has made\nof Sheffield one of the prettiest villages in the country. With its\nfine avenue of elms, planted nearly forty years ago, its gardens and\nwell-shaven turf, it shows what care and a prevailing love of beauty\nand order will do for a place where there is very little wealth. It was\nabout this time that my father planted in an angle of the main street\nthe Seven Pines, which now make, as it were, an evergreen chapel to\nhis memory, and with the proceeds of some lectures that he gave in the\ntown, set out a number of deciduous trees around the Academy, many of\nwhich are still living, though the building they were intended to shade\nis gone.\n\nThe Elm Tree Association, however, from one cause and another, was\nshort-lived; but \"It lived to light a steadier flame\" in the Laurel\nHill Association, of Stockbridge, which, taking the idea from the\nSheffield plan, continues to develop it in a very beautiful and\nadmirable manner. [241] The address at the gathering in 1856 was\nchiefly occupied with a review of the history of the town, and with\nthe thoughts appropriate to the place of meeting; and at the close the\nspeaker took occasion to explain to his townspeople his ideas upon\nthe national crisis of the day, and the changed aspect that had been\ngiven to the slavery question by the fresh determination of the South\nto maintain the excellence of the system and to force it upon the\nacceptance of the North in the new States then forming. Against this he\nmade earnest and solemn protest, with a full expression of his opinion\nas to the innate wrong to the blacks, and the destructive effects on\nthe whites, of slavery; but at the same time he spoke with large and\nkindly consideration for the Southerners. After doing justice to the\ncare and kindness of many of them for their slaves, he said, in close:--\n\n\"I have listened also to what Southern apologists have said in another\nview,--that this burden of slavery was none of their choosing; that it\nwas entailed upon them; that they cannot immediately emancipate their\npeople; that they are not qualified to take care of themselves; that\nthis state of things must be submitted to for a while, till remedial\nlaws and other remedial means shall bring relief. And so long as they\nsaid that, I gave them my sympathy. But when they say, 'Spread this\nsystem,--spread it far and wide,' I cannot go another step with them.\nAnd it is not I that has changed, but they. When they say, 'Spread\nit, --spread it over [242] Kansas and Nebraska, spread it over the\nfar West, annex Mexico, annex Cuba, annex Central America, make\nslavery a national institution, make the compact of the Constitution\ncarry it into all Territories, cover it with the national images,\nset it up as part of our great republican profession, stamp on our\nflag and our shield and our scutcheon the emblem of human slavery,' I\nsay,--no--never-God forbid!\"\n\nIt seems strange now that so temperate and candid a speech should have\nraised a storm of anger when read in Charleston. But the sore lace\nwas too tender for even the friendliest such, and of all those who\nhad greeted him here so cordially the winter before, but two or three\nmaintained and strengthened their relations with him after this summer.\nIt was one of many trials to which his breadth of view exposed him.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 11, 1856.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--I do not complain of your Teter; but what if it\nshould turn out that I cannot agree with you? What if my opinions, when\nproperly understood, should displease many persons? Is it the first\ntime that honest opinions have been proscribed, or the expression of\nthem thought \"unfortunate \"?\n\nI appreciate all the kindness of your letter, and your care for my\nreputation; but you are not to be told that here is something higher\nthan reputation.\n\nYou write with the usual anti-slavery assurance that our opinion is the\ncorrect one. It is natural; it is the [243] first-blush, the impromptu\nview of the matter. But whether there is not a juster view, coming\nout of that same deliberateness and impartiality that you accuse me\nof,--whether there is not, in fact, a broader humanity and a broader\npolitics than yours or that of your party, is the question.\n\nI don't like the tendencies of your mind (I don't say heart) on this\nquestion; your willingness to bring the whole grand future of this\ncountry to the edge of the present crisis; your idea of this crisis as\na second Revolution, and of the cause of liberty as equally involved;\nyour thinking it so fatal to be classed with Tories, or with-, and-,\nand your regret that I should have gone down South to lecture. It all\nlooks to me narrow.\n\nI may address the public on this subject. But if I do, I shan't do it\nmainly for my own sake; at any rate, I shall write to you when I get\nleisure.\n\nWith love to E.,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Ephraim Peabody, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Nov. 10, 1856.\n\nMY DEAR PEABODY,--I have written you several imaginary letters since I\nsaw you, and now I'm determined (before I go to Baltimore to lecture,\nwhich is next week) that I will write you a real one. I desired H. T.\nto inquire and let me know how you are, and she writes that you are\nvery much the same as when I was in Boston,--riding out in the morning,\nand passing, I fear, the same sad and weary afternoons. I wish I were\nnear you this winter, that is, if I could help you at all through those\nheavy hours. [244] I am writing a lecture on \"Unconscious Education;\"\nfor I want to add one to the Baltimore course. And is not a great deal\nof our education unconscious and mysterious? You do not know, perhaps,\nall that this long sickness and weariness and prostration are doing for\nyou. I always think that the future scene will open to us the wonders\nof this as we never see them here.\n\nHeine says that a man is n't worth anything till he has suffered;\nor something like that. I am a great coward about it; and I imagine\nsometimes that deeper trial might make something of me.\n\nMy dear friend, if I may call you so, I write to little purpose,\nperhaps, but out of great sympathy and affection for you. I do not know\nof a human being for whom I have a more perfect esteem than for you.\nAnd in that love I often commend you, with a passing prayer, or sigh\nsometimes, to the all-loving Father. We believe in Him. Let us \"believe\nthe love that God hath to us.\"\n\nWith all our affectionate regards to your wife and girls and to you,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nWithin a few weeks the pure and lofty spirit to whom these words were\naddressed was called hence, and the following letter was written:--\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 17, 1856.\n\nMY DEAR MRS. PEABODY,--Do you not know why I dread to write to you, and\nyet why I cannot help it? Since last I spoke to you, such an event has\npassed, that I tremble to go over the abyss and speak to you again. But\nyou and your children stand, bereft and stricken, on [245] the shore,\nas it were, of a new and strange world,--for strange must be the world\nto you where that husband and father is not,--and I would fain express\nthe sympathy which I feel for you, and my family with me. Yet not with\nmany words, but more fitly in silence, should I do it. And this letter\nis but as if I came and sat by you, and only said, \"God help you,\" or\nknelt with you and said, \"God help us all;\" for we are all bereaved in\nyour bereavement.\n\nTrue, life passes on visibly with us as usual; but every now and then\nthe thought of you and him comes over me, and I exclaim and pray at\nonce, in wonder and sorrow.\n\nBut the everlasting succession of things moves on, and we all take\nour place in it-now, to mourn the lost, and now, ourselves to be\nmourned--till all is finished. It is an Infinite Will that ordains it,\nand our part is to bow in humble awe and trust.\n\nI had a letter once, from a most lovely woman, announcing to me the\ndeath of her husband, a worthless person; and she spoke of it with\nno more interest than if a log had rolled from the river-bank and\nfloated down the stream. What do you think of that,--with affections,\nvenerations, loves, sympathies, swelling around you like a tide?\n\nI know that among all these there is an unvisited loneliness which\nnothing can reach. May God's peace and presence be there!\n\nI could not write before, being from home. I do not write anything now,\nbut to say to you and your dear children, \"God comfort you.\"\n\nFrom your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[246] To his Daughter Mary.\n\nBALTIMORE, Nov. 24, 1856.\n\nDEAREST MOLLY,--I must send you a line, though somehow I can't make my\ntable write yet. I have just been out to walk in the loveliest morning,\nand yet my nerves are ajar, and I can't guide my pen. I preached\nvery hard last evening. I don't know but these people are all crazy,\nbut they make me feel repaid. The church was full, as I never saw it\nbefore. The lecture Saturday evening was crowded. So I go.\n\nI am reading Dr. Kane's book. Six pages could give all the actual\nknowledge it contains; but that fearful conflict of men with the most\nterrible powers of nature, and so bravely sustained, makes the story\nlike tragedy; and I read on and on, the same thing over and over, and\ndon't skip a page. But Mrs.--has just been in, and sat down and opened\nher widowed heart to me, and I see that life itself is often a more\nsolemn tragedy than voyaging in the Arctic Seas. Nay, I think the\ndeacon himself, when he accepted that challenge (how oddly it sounds!),\nmust have felt himself to be in a more tragic strait than \"Smith's\nStrait,\" or any other that Kane was in.\n\nYour letters came Saturday evening, and were, by that time, an\nindispensable comfort. . . .\n\nThis will be with you before the Thanksgiving dinner. Bless it, and you\nall, prayeth, giving thanks with and for you,\n\nYour\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[247]Mr. Dewey had been asked repeatedly, since his retirement from\nNew York, to take charge of Church Green, in Boston, a pulpit left\nvacant by the death of Dr. Young; and he consented to go there in the\nbeginning of 1858, with the understanding that he should preach but\nonce on a Sunday. He had an idea of a second service, which should be\nmore useful to the people and less exhausting to the minister than\nthe ordinary afternoon service, which very few attended, and those\nonly from a sense of duty. He had written for this purpose a series of\n\"Instructions,\" as he called them, on the 104th Psalm. Each was about\nan hour long, and they were, in short, simple lectures on religious\nsubjects. To use his own words, \"This was not preaching, and was\nattended with none of the exhaustion that follows the morning service.\nMany people have no idea, nor even suspicion, of the difference between\npraying and preaching for an hour, with the whole mind and heart poured\ninto it, and any ordinary public speaking for an hour. They seem to\nthink that in either case it is vox et preterea nihil, and the more\nvoice the more exhaustion; but the truth is, the more the feelings are\nenlisted in any way, the more exhaustion, and the difference is the\ngreatest possible.\"\n\n\n[248] To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nBOSTON, Sept. 7, 1858.\n\nDEAR BRYANT,-You have got home. If you pronounce the charm-word four\ntimes after the dramatic (I mean the true dramatic) fashion, all is\ntold. It makes me think of what Mrs. Kemble told us the other day.\nIn a play where she acted the mistress, and her lover was shot,--or\nwas supposed to be, but was reprieved, and came rushing to her\narms,--instead of repeating a long and pretty speech which was set down\nfor her, the dramatic passion made her exclaim: \"ALIVE! ALIVE! alive!\nalive!\"\n\nWell, you are such a nomadic cosmopolitan, that I won't answer for you;\nbut I will be bound it is so with. Mrs. Bryant, and I guess Julia too.\nHow you all are, and how she is especially, is the question in all our\nhearts; and without waiting for forty things to be done, all working\nyou like forty-power presses, pray write us three words and tell us.\n\n. . . I hope that some time in the winter I shall get a sight of you.\nYou and the Club would make my measure full. And yet Boston is great.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nBOSTON, Sept. 20, 1858.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--Dr. Jackson is fast turning me into a vegetable,-homo\nmulti-cotyledonous is the species. My head is a cabbage--brain,\ncauliflower; my eyes are two beans, with a short cucumber between\nthem, for a nose; my heart is a squash (very soft); my lungs--cut a\nwatermelon in two, lengthwise, and you have them; [249]my legs are\ncornstalks, and my feet, potatoes. I eat nothing but these things, and\nI am fast becoming nothing else. I am potatoes and corn and cucumber\nand cabbage,--like the chameleon, that takes the color of the thing\nit lives on. Dr. Jackson will have a great deal to answer for to the\nworld. Had n't you better come into town and see about it? Perhaps you\ncan arrest the process. . . .\n\nI declare I think it is too bad to send such a poor dish to you as\nthis, and especially in your loneliness; but it is all. Dr. Jackson's\nfault.\n\nThink of mosquito-bars in Boston! They must be very trying things--to\nthe mosquitoes. You see they don't know what to make of it; and very\nlikely their legs and wings get caught sometimes in the \"decussated,\nreticulated interstices,\" as Dr. Johnson calls them. At any rate, from\ntheir noise, they evidently consider themselves as the most ill-treated\nand unfortunate outcasts upon earth. Paganini wrote the \"Carnival\nof Venice.\" I wonder somebody does n't write the no-carnival of the\nmosquitoes.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nBOSTON, Dec. 30, 1858.\n\nDEAR MY FRIEND,--I cannot let the season of happy wishes pass by\nwithout sending mine to you and yours. But you must begin to gather\nup patience for your venerable friend, for the happy anniversaries\nsomehow begin to gather shadows around them; they are both reminders\nand admonishers.\n\nNevertheless, it is noteworthy that the \"Happy New Year!\" is never\nsounded out in the minor key; always it has a ring of joyousness and\nhope in it. Read that [250] little piece of Fanny Kemble's,{22} on the\n179th page,--the \"Answer to a Question.\" I send you the volume 1 by\nthis mail. Ah! what a clear sense and touching sensibility and bracing\nmoral tone there is, running through the whole volume! But I was going\nto say that that little piece tells you what I would write better than\nI can write it. We all send \"Merry Christmas\" and \"Happy New Year\" to\nyou all, in a heap; that is, a heap of us to a heap of you, and a heap\nof good wishes.\n\n    {FN 22: Mrs. Kemble's Poems}\n\nMy poor head is rather improving, but it is n't worth much yet, as you\nplainly see. Nevertheless, in the other and sound part of me I am,\n\nAs ever, your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo his Sister, Miss F. Dewey.\n\n[Date missing. About 1859.]\n\nSo you remember the old New Bedford times pleasantly,--and I do. And\nI remember my whole lifetime in the same way. And even if it had been\nless pleasant, if there had been many more and greater calamities in\nit, still I hold on to that bottom-ground of all thanksgiving, even\nthis, that God has placed in us an immortal spark, which through storm\nand cloud and darkness may grow brighter, and in the world beyond\nmay shine as the stars forever. I heard Father Taylor last Sunday\nafternoon. Towards the close he spoke of his health as uncertain\nand liable to fail; \"But,\" said he, \"I have felt a little more of\nimmortality come down into me today, and as if I should live awhile\nlonger here.\"\n\n\n[251]To Mrs. David Lane.\n\nBOSTON, Saturday evening [probably Oct., 1859]\n\nDEAR MY FRIEND,--I imagine you are all so cast down, forlorn, and\ndesolate at my leaving you, and especially \"At the close of the day,\nwhen the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness\nprove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught\nbut the nightingale's song in the grove,\" that I ought to write a\nword to fill the void. I should have said, on coming away, like that\ninteresting child who had plagued everybody's life out of them, \"come\nagain!\"\n\nBah! you never asked me; or only in such a sort that I was obliged\nto decline. Am I such a stupid visitor? Did I not play at bagatelle\nwith L.? Did I not read eloquently out of Carlyle to you and C.? Did\nI not talk wisdom to you by the yard? Did I not let drop crumbs of\nphilosophy by the wayside of our talk, continually? Above all, am I not\nthe veriest woman, at heart, that you ever saw? Why, I had like to have\nchoked upon \"Sartor Resartus.\" I wonder if you saw it. But, ahem!-a\ngreat swallow a man must have, to gulp down the \"Everlasting Yea.\" And\na great swallow implies a great stomach. And a great stomach implies\na great brain, unless a man's a fool. \"If not, why not?\" as Captain\nBunsby says; \"therefore.\"\n\nOh, what a mad argument to prove swan sane,--and good company besides\nI Well, I am mad, and expect to be so,-at least I think I have a right\nto be so, in the proportion of one hour to twenty-four, being so\nrational the rest of the time. I think it's but a reasonable allowance.\n[252] You will judge that this is my mad hour to-day, and it is;\nnevertheless, I am, soberly,\n\nYour friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nIn the winter of 1859 he writes to the same friend upon New York City\npolitics with a passionate vivacity that old New Yorkers will sadly\nappreciate.\n\n\"I took up the paper this morning that announced Fernando Wood's\nelection by two thousand plurality. If you had seen the way in which\nI brought down my hand upon the table,--minding neither muscle nor\nmahogany, you would know how people at a distance, especially if they\nhave ever lived in New York, feel about it. I hope he will pay you\nwell. I wish he would take out some of your rich, stupid, arms-folding,\npurse-clutching millionnaires into Washington Square and flay them\nalive. Something of the sort must be done, before our infatuated city\nupper classes will come to their senses.\"\n\n\nTo his Sister, Miss F. Dewey.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Oct. 5, 1859.\n\nI HAVE got past worrying about things, myself. I see all these\nmovements, this way and that way, as a part of that great oscillation\nin which the world has been swinging, to and fro, from the beginning,\nand always advancing. These are the natural developments of the freed\nmind of the world; and whoever lives now, and yet more, whoever shall\nlive through this century, must take this large and calm philosophy\nto his heart, or he will find himself cast upon the troubled waters\nwithout rudder [253] or compass. Daniel Webster, one day at Marshfield,\nwhen his cattle came around him to take an ear of corn each from his\nhand, said to Peter Harvey, who was by, as he stood looking at them,\n\"Peter, this is better company than Senators.\" So I am tempted to\nturn from all the religious wranglings and extravagances of the time,\nto nature and to the solid and unquestioned truths of religion. I\nsometimes doubt whether I will ever read another word of the ultraists\nand the one-sided men. They will do their work, and it will all come to\ngood in the long run; but it is not necessary that I should watch it or\ncare for it. I did, indeed, print a political sermon four months ago,\nand I said a few words in the \"Register\" last week (which I will send\nyou), but I am not the man to be heard in these days. I can't take a\nside. . . .\n\nYours as always,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nSHEFFIELD, May 7, 1860.\n\nWELL, did I address you as a poet, Magnus; for none but a poet or a\nWelshman could write such a reply. Do you know I am Welsh? So was\nElizabeth, Tudor; so is Fanny Kemble, and other good fellows.\n\nWell, I take your poetry as if it were just as good as prose. But\nyou don't consider, my dear fellow, that if we make our visit when I\ngo down to preach for Bellows, that I can't preach for your Orthodox\nfriend. . . .\n\nOh, ay, I quite agree with you about leaving the world-melee to others.\nFor my part, I feel as if I were dead and buried long ago. You said,\nawhile ago, that you did n't so well like to work as you once did.\nSensible, [254] that. I feel the same, in my bones--or brains. There it\nis, you always say, what I think; except sometimes, when you scathe the\nopponents,--for I am tenderhearted. I don't like to have people made\nto feel so \"bad.\" Seriously, I wonder that some of you editors are not\nbeaten to death every month. Ours is a much-enduring society. I could\nenlarge, but I have n't time; for I must go and set out some trees--for\nposterity.\n\nWith our love to your wife and all,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nBOSTON, Dec. 1860.\n\nDEAREST FRIEND (for I think friends draw closer to one another in\ntroublous times),--Indeed I am sad and troubled, under the most\nfavorable view that can be taken of our affairs; for though all this\nshould blow over, as I prevailingly believe and hope it will, yet the\ncrisis has brought out such a feeling at the South as we shall not\neasily forget or forgive. To be sure, as the irritation of an arraigned\nconscience, we may partly overlook it, as we do the irritation of a\nblamed child,--as an arraigned, and, I add, not quite easy conscience;\nfor surely conscious virtue is calmer than the South is, today. I\nknow that other things are mixed up with this feeling of the South;\nbut if it felt that its moral position was high and honorable and\nunimpeachable before the world, it would not fly out into this\noutrageous passion. If the ground it stood upon in former days were\nheld now, it might be calm, as it was then; but ever since the day when\nit changed its mind,--ever since it has assumed that the slave system\nis right and good and admirable [255] and ought to be perpetual,--it\nhas been growing more and more passionate. Well, we must be patient\nwith them. For my part, I am frightened at the condition to which their\nfolly is bringing them. It is terrible to think that the distrust and\nfear of their slaves is spreading itself all over the South country. To\nbe sure, they, in their unreasonableness, blame us for it. They might\nas well accuse England; they might as well accuse all the civilized\nworld. For the conviction that slavery is wrong, that it ought not to\nbe advocated, but to be condemned, and ultimately removed from the\nworld,-this conviction is one of the inevitable developments of modern\nChristian thought and sentiment. It is not we that are responsible for\nthe rise and spread of this sentiment; it is the civilized world; it is\nhumanity itself.\n\nAnd now what is it that the South asks of us as the condition of union\nwith it? Why, that we shall say and vote that we so much approve of\nthe slave-system, that we are willing, not merely that it should exist\nuntouched by us,--that is not the question,--but that it should be\ntaken to our bosom as a cherished national institution.\n\nI hope we shall firmly but mildly refuse to say it. It is the only\nhonorable or dignified or conscientious position for us of the\nNorth. But, do you see the result of these municipal elections\nin Massachusetts? That does not look like firmness. There may be\nflinching. But so it is, under the great Providence, that the world\nwears around questions which it cannot sharply meet.\n\nThese matters take precedence of all others now-adays, or else my first\nword would have been to say how glad we were to hear that C. is well\nagain.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[256] To his Daughter Mary.\n\nBOSTON, Feb. 10, 1861.\n\nHAPPILY for my peace of mind, I have been over to the post-office this\nevening and got your letter. For my one want has been to know how that\ntremendous Thursday afternoon and night took you; that is, whether it\ntook you off the ground, or the roof off the house. Here, it did not\nunroof any houses, but it blew over a carryall in Beacon Street; and\nwhen Dr. J. went out, like a good Samaritan, to help the people, it did\nnot respect his virtue at all, but blew him over. Blew him over the\nfence, it was said; at any rate; landed him on his face, which was much\nbruised, and dislocated his shoulder. So you see I could not tell what\npranks the same wind might play around the corners of certain houses or\nbarns afar off.\n\nWas there ever anything like the swing of the weather? Now it is warm\nhere again, and ready to rain. Agassiz told me that the change in\nCambridge, on Thursday, was 71? in ten hours. In Boston it was Go?,\nbeing 100 or 1? colder in Cambridge.\n\nI see Agassiz often of late at Peirce's Lowell Lectures on \"the\nMathematics in the Cosmos.\" The object is to show that the same\nideas, principles, relations, which the mathematician has wrought out\nfrom his own mind, are found in the system of nature, indicating an\nidentity of thought. You see of what immense interest the discussion\nis. But Peirce's delivery of his thoughts is very lame and imperfect\n(extemporaneous). Two lectures ago, as I sat by Agassiz, I said at the\nclose, \"Well, I feel obliged to apologize to myself for being here.\"\n\nA. Why?\n\n[257] D. Because I don't understand half of it.\n\nA. No? I am surprised. I do.\n\nD. Well, that is because you are learned. (Thinking with myself,\nhowever, why does he? For he knows no more of the mathematics than I\ndo. But I went on.)\n\nD. Well, my apology is this; Peirce is like nature,-vast, obscure,\nmysterious,--great bowlders of thought, of which I can hardly get hold;\ndark abysses, into which I cannot see; but, nevertheless, flashes of\nlight here and there, and for these I come.\n\nA. Why, yes, I understand him. Just now, when he drew that curious\ndiagram to illustrate a certain principle, I saw it clearly, for I know\nthe same thing in organic nature.\n\nD. Aha! the Mathematics in the Cosmos!\n\nWas it not striking? Here are the Mathematics (Peirce), and Natural\nScience (Agassiz), and they easily understand each other, because the\nlecturer's principle is true.\n\nThe three or four years which Mr. Dewey spent in Boston with his family\nwere full of enjoyment to him; but in December, 1861, he withdrew\nfinally to Sheffield, which he never left again for more than a few\nweeks or months at a time.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 26, 1861.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--God bless you for what you and your Sanitary\nCommission are doing for our people in the camps It goes to my heart to\nbe sitting here in quiet and comfort, these lovely summer days, while\nthey [258] are braving and enduring so much. And so, though of silver\nand gold I have not much, I send my mite, to help, the little that I\ncan, the voluntary contribution for your purposes.\n\nLast Monday night [Alluding to the battle and rout of Bull Run, July\n1861] was the bitterest time we have had yet some, even in this quiet\nvillage, did not sleep a wink. Confound sensation newspapers and\nnewspaper correspondents that fellow who writes is enough to drive\none mad. The \"Evening Post\" is the wisest paper. But it is too bad\nthat that rabble of civilians and teamsters should have brought this\napparent disgrace upon us.\n\nWe have an immense amount of inexperience, and of rash, opinionated\nthinking to deal with; but we shall get over it all.\n\nIf you are staying in New York, I wish you could run up and take a\nlittle breathing-time with us. Come any time; we have always a bed for\nyou.\n\nWe are all well, and all unite in love to you and E.\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Seagwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 5, 1862.\n\nMy FRIEND,--I must report myself to you. I must have you sympathize\nwith my life, or--I will not say I shall drown myself in the\nHousatonic, but I shall feel as if the old river had dried up, and\nforsaken its bed.\n\nI do not know how to set about telling you how happy I am in the old\nhome. I feel as if I had arrived after a long voyage, or were reposing\nafter a day's [259] work that had been forty years long. Indeed, it is\nforty-two years last autumn since I left Andover and began to preach.\nAnd I have never before had any cessation of work but what I regarded\nas temporary. Indeed, I have never before had the means to retire upon.\nAnd although it is but a modest competence,\u2014$1,500 a year,\u2014yet I am\nmost devoutly thankful to Heaven that I have it, and that I am not\nturned out, like an old horse upon the common. To be sure, I should be\nglad to be able to live nearer to the centres of society; but you can\nhardly imagine what comfort and satisfaction I feel in having enough to\nlive upon, instead of the utter poverty which I might well have feared\nwould be, and which so often is, the end of a clergyman's life.{23}\n\n    {FN 23: He had just received a legacy of $5,000 from Miss Eliza\n    Townsend, of Boston}\n\nThis house of ours is very pleasant, you would think so if you were\nin it,--all doors open, as in summer, a summer temperature from the\nfurnace, day and night, moderate wood-fires in the parlor and library,\ncheering to the eye, and making of the chimneys excellent ventilators,\nand the air pure; and this summer house seated down amidst surrounding\ncold, and boundless fields of snow,--it seems a miracle of comfort.\n\nAnd then, this surrounding splendor and beauty,-the valley, and the\nhills and mountains around,--the soft-falling snow, the starry crystals\ndescending through the still air,--the lights and shadows of morning\nand evening,--this wondrous meteorology of winter--but you know all\nabout it. Really, I think some days that winter is more beautiful than\nsummer. Certainly I would not have it left out of my year. . . . \"Aha!\nall is rose-colored to him!\" Well, nay, but it is literally [260] so.\nThe white hill opposite, looking like a huge snow-bank, only that it\nis checkered with strips and patches of wood, dark as Indian-ink, is\nstained of that color every clear afternoon, and rises up at sundown\ninto a bank of roseate or purple bloom all along above the horizon.\n\n6th. I did n't get through last evening. No wonder, with so much heavy\nstuff to carry. Did I ever write such a stupid letter before? Well, do\nnot say anything about it, but quickly cover it over with the mantle of\none of your charming epistles. It is not often that one has a chance\nto show so much Christian generosity. Besides, consider that I do not\naltogether despair of myself. I am reviving; and you don't know what a\nletter I may write you one of these days, if you toll me along.\n\nIn the autumn his only son enlisted for nine months in the 49th\nMassachusetts Regiment.\n\n\nTo his Daughters.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Oct. 13, 1862.\n\nMY DEAR GIRLS, Charles has enlisted. It was at a war-meeting at the\ntown-hall last evening. You have known his feelings, and perhaps will\nnot be surprised. I did not expect it, and must confess I was very much\nshaken in spirit by it. But, arriving through some sleepless hours at a\ncalmer mood, I do not know that it is any greater sacrifice than we as\na family ought to make.\n\nAlthough it will throw a great deal of care upon me, and there is all\nthis extra work to do, yet, that excepted, perhaps he could not go at\nany better time than now. [261] It is for the winter, and nine months\nis a fitter term for a family man, circumstanced as he is, than three\nyears; and this enlistment precludes all liability to future draft.\nThis is in the key of prudence; but I do think that men with young\nfamilies dependent upon them should be the last to go. And yet I had\nrather have in C. the patriotic spirit that impels him, than all the\nprudence in the world.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nOct. 16, 1862.\n\nC. is steadily and calmly putting all things into order that he\ncan. . . . He came in the morning after he had enlisted, and said to\nme with a bright, vigorous, and satisfied expression of countenance,\n\"Well, you see what I have done.\" I believe some people have been very\nmuch stirred and moved by his decision. It is said to have given an\nimpulse to the recruiting, and the quota, I am told, is now about full\nand there will be no drafting here.\n\nThinking of these things,--thinking of all possible good or ill to\ncome, your mother and I go about, from hour to hour, sometimes very\nmuch weighed down, and sometimes more hopeful and cheerful; and poor\nJ., with the tears ready to come at every turn, is yet going on very\nbravely and well. . . . Cassidy is to look after barn-yard, etc., for\nthe winter.\n\nBut all this is nothing. Good heaven! do people know, does the world\nknow, what we are doing, when we freely send our sons from peaceful and\nhappy homes to meet what camp-life, and reconnoissances, and battles\nmay bring to them and us? God help and pity us!\n\n\n[262] To Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 19, 1862.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I wrote to Mrs. Curtis{24} last Saturday, before I knew\nwhat had befallen her, and in that letter sent a message to you, to\nknow of your whereabouts, provided you were still in town. I don't\nexpect an answer from her now, of course, though I have written her\nsince; but thinking that you are probably in New York, I write.\n\n    {FN 24: Mrs. George Curtis, of New York, whose son, Joseph\n    Bridgham Curtis, lieutenant-colonel, commanding a Rhode Island\n    regiment, had just fallen at Fredericksburg, Va.}\n\nI had hoped to hear from you before now. Through this heavy winter\ncloud I think friendly rays should shine, if possible, to warm and\ncheer it. It is, indeed, an awful winter. I will not say dismal; my\nheart is too high for that. But public affairs, and my private share in\nthem, together, make a dread picture in my mind, as if I were gazing\nupon the passing of mighty floods, that may sweep away thousands of\ndwellings, and mine with them. And though I lift my thoughts to Heaven,\nthere are times when I dare not trust myself to pray aloud; the burden\nis too great for words. It is singular, but you will understand it,--I\nthink there was never a time when there was less visible devotion in my\nlife than now, when my whole being is resolved into meditations, and\nstrugglings of faith, and communings with the supreme and holy will of\nGod.\n\nI am writing, my friend, very solemnly for a letter; but never mind\nthat, for we are obliged to take into our terrible questioning now what\nis always most trying in the problem of life,--the results of human\nimperfection--\n\n[263] human incompetence, brought into the most immediate connection\nwith our own interests and affections. See what it is for our friend\nMrs. Curtis to reflect that her son was slain in that seemingly\nreckless assault upon the intrenchments at Fredericksburg, or for me\nthat my son may be sent off in rotten transports that may founder\namidst the Southern seas.\n\nBut do I therefore spend my time in complainings and reproaches, and\nalmost the arraigning of Providence? No. I know that the governing\npowers are trying to do the best they can. The fact is, a charge is\ndevolved upon them almost beyond human ability to sustain. Neither\nRussia nor Austria nor France, I believe, ever had a million of\nsoldiers in the field, to clothe, to equip, to feed, to pay, and\nto direct. We have them,--we, a peaceful people, suddenly, with no\nmilitary experience, and there must be mistakes, delays, failures. What\nthen? Shall we give up the cause of justice, of lawful government,\nof civilization, and of the unborn ages, and do nothing? If we will\nnot,--if we will not yield up lawful sovereignty to mad revolt, then\nmust we put what power, faculty, skill, we have, to the work, and\namidst all our sacrifices and sorrows bow to the awful will of God.\n\nHave you seen Mrs. Curtis? In her son there was a singular union of\nloveliness and manliness, of gentleness and courage, and, high over\nall, perfect self-abnegation. A mother could not well lose in a son\nmore than she has lost. I hope she does not dwell on the seeming\nuntowardness of the event, or that she can take it into a larger\nphilosophy than that of the New York press. . . .\n\n\n[264] To the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 26, 1863.\n\nYOUR sympathy, my friend, for us and Charles, is very comforting to\nme. Yes, we have heard from him since the surrender of Port Hudson. He\nwrote to us on the 9th, full of joy, and glorying over the event; but,\npoor fellow, he had only time to wash in the conquered Mississippi,\nbefore his regiment was ordered down to Fort Donaldsonville, and\ntook part in a fight there on the 13th; and we have private advices\nfrom Baton Rouge that the brigade (Augur's) is sent down towards\nBrash-ear City. . . . Now, when we shall hear of C. I do not venture to\nanticipate, but whenever we do get any news, that is, any good news,\nyou shall have it.\n\nIf these horrid New York riots had not lifted up a black and\nfrightful cloud between us and the glorious events in Pennsylvania\nand the Southwest, we should have burst out into illuminations and\ncannon-firings all over the North. But the good time is coming FN We\nshall be ready when Sumter is taken. I hardly know of anything that\nwould stir the Northern heart like that.\n\nI have not seen Mrs. Kemble's book yet. Have you read Calvert's\n\"Gentleman\"? It is charming. And \"The Tropics,\" too. And here is\nDraper's book upon the \"Intellectual Development of Europe\" on my\ntable. I augur much from the first dozen pages.\n\nWith kind remembrances to Mr. Lane, and love to the girls,\n\nYours as ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[265] To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 15, 1863.\n\nMY DEAR BELLOWS,--Such a frolic breeze has not fallen upon these\ninland waters this good while. Complain of heat! Why, it is as good as\nchampagne to you. Well, I shan't hesitate to write to you, for fear\nof adding to your overwhelming burdens. A pretty picture your letter\nis, of a man overwhelmed by burdens! And weigh a hundred and eighty!\nI can't believe it. Why, I never have weighed more than a hundred and\nseventy-six. Maybe you are an inch or two taller; and brains, I have\noften observed, weigh heavy; but yours at the top must be like a glass\nof soda-water! Nature did a great thing for you, when it placed that\nbuoyant fountain within you. I have often thought so.\n\nBut let me tell you, my dear fellow, that with all the stupendous share\nyou have had in the burdens of this awful time, you have not known, and\nwithout knowing can never conceive, of what has weighed upon me for the\nlast nine months. . . . I thank you most heartily for your sympathy\nwith C. After all, my satisfaction in what he has done is not so great\nas in what his letters, all along, show him to be. . . .\n\nAlways and affectionately your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Nov. 28, 1863.\n\nMY DEAR FRIENDS,--I received your letter, dated 20 September, two days\nago. I am very sorry to see that you are laboring under the mistaken\nimpression that I [266] have lost my son in the war. Something you\nmisapprehended in-'s letter. You seem to suppose that it was Charles\nwho used that striking language, \"Is old Massachusetts dead? It is\nsweet to die for our country!\" No; it was Lieutenant-Colonel O'Brien,\nwho fell immediately afterwards. Charles was one of the storming\nparty under O'Brien. He stepped forward at that call, for they had\nall hesitated a moment, as the call was unexpected; it came upon them\nsuddenly. He behaved as well as if he had fallen; but, thank God, he\nis preserved to us, and, is among us in health, in these Thanksgiving\ndays. All were around my table day before yesterday,--three children,\nwith their mother, and three grandchildren.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 29, 1863.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--Our life goes on as usual, though those drop from it that\nmade a part of it. We strangely accustom ourselves to everything,--to\nwar and bloodshed, to sickness and pain, to the death of friends; and\nthat which was a bitter sorrow at first, sinks into a quiet sadness.\nAnd this not constant, but arising as occasions or trains of thought\ncall it forth. Life is like a procession, in which heavy footsteps\nand gay equipages, and heat and dust, and struggle and laughter, and\nmusic and discord, mingle together. We move on with it all, and our\nmoods partake of it all, and only the breaking asunder of the natural\nbonds and habitudes of living together (except it be of some especial\nheart-tie) makes affliction very deep and abiding, or sends us away\nfrom the great throng to sit and weep alone. Of friends, I [267] think\nI have suffered more from the loss of the living than of the dead.\n\nI do not know but you will think that all this is very little like me.\nIt certainly less belongs to the sad occasion that has suggested it\nthan to any similar one that has ever occurred to me. I shall miss E.\nS. from my path more than any friend that has ever gone away from it\ninto the unknown realm.\n\nOh! the unknown realm! Will the time ever come, when men will look\ninto it, or have it, at least, as plainly spread before them as to the\ntelescopic view is the landscape of the moon? I believe that I have\nas much faith in the future life as others,--perhaps more than most\nmen,--but I am one of those who long for actual vision, who would\n\n\"See the Canaan that they love, With unbeclouded eyes.\"\n\nBut now what I have been saying reasserts its claim. The great\nprocession moves on,--past the solemn bier, past holy graves. You\nare in it, and in these days your life is crowded with cares and\nengagements. . . . I wish I could do something for the Great Fair;{25}\nbut I am exhausted of all my means.\n\nWith my love to all around you, I am, as ever, Yours affectionately,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n    {FN 25: The Great Fair, held in New York for the benefit of\n    the Sanitary Commission, and of which Mrs. Lane was the chief\n    manager and inspiring power.}\n\n\n[268] To Rev. Henry Bellows, D.D. SHEFFIELD, Dec. 31, 1863.\n\n. . . Ah! heaven,--what is rash or wise, shortsighted or far-seeing,\ntoo fast or too slow, upon the profound and terrible question, \"What\nis to be done with slavery?\" You have been saying something about it,\nand I rather think, if I could see it, that I should very much agree\nwith you. Bryant and I had some correspondence about it a year ago,\nand I said to him; \"If you expect this matter to be all settled up in\nany brief way, if you think that the social status of four millions\nof people is to be successfully placed on entirely new ground in five\nyears, all historical experience is against you.\"\n\nHowever, the real and practical question now is, How ought the\nGovernment to proceed? Upon what terms should it consent to receive\nback and recognize the Rebel States? I confess that I am sometimes\ntempted to go with a rush on this subject,--since so fair an\nopportunity is given to destroy the monster,--and to make it the very\nbusiness and object of the war to sweep it out of existence. But\nthat will be the end; and for the way, things will work out their\nown issues. And in the mean time I do not see that anything could be\nbetter than the cautious and tentative manner in which the President is\nproceeding.\n\nOne thing certainly has shaken my old convictions about the feasibility\nof immediate emancipation, and that is the experiment of emancipated\nlabor on the Mississippi and about Port Royal. But the severest trial\nof emancipation, as of democracy,--that is, of freeing black men as of\nfreeing white men,--may not be found at the start, but long after.\n\n\n[269] To the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 12, 1864.\n\nREVEREND AND DEARLY BELOVED, THOU AND THY PEOPLE,--We are so much\nindebted to you all for our four pleasant days in the great city, that\nI think we ought to write a letter to you. We feel as if we had come\nout of the great waters; the currents of city life run so strong, that\nit seems to us as if we had been at sea; so many tall galleys are\nthere, and such mighty freights are upon the waves, and the captains\nand the very sailors are so thoroughly alive, that--that--how shall I\nend the sentence? Why, thus, if you please,--that it seems to me as if\nI ought to be there six months of the year, and that somebody ought to\nwant me to do something that would bring me there. But somebody,--who\nis that? Why, nobody. You can't see him; you can't find him; Micawber\nnever caught him, though he was hunting for him all his life,--always\nhoped the creature would turn up, though he never did.\n\nWell, I 'm content. I am more, I am thankful. I have had, all my life,\nthe greatest blessing of life,--leave to work on the highest themes\nand tasks, and I am not turned out, at the end, on to the bare common\nof the world, to starve. I have a family, priceless to me. I have many\ndear and good friends, and above all I have learned to draw nigh to a\nFriendship which embraces the universe in its love and care, if one may\nspeak so of That which is almost too awful for mortal word. . . .\n\nBut leaving myself, and turning to you,--what a monstrous person you\nare! a prodigy of labor, and a prodigy in some other ways that I could\npoint out. I always thought that the elastic spring in your nature was\n[270] one of the finest I ever knew, but I did not know that it was\nquite so strong. You, too, know of a faith that can remove mountains.\n\nThe Great Fair is one mountain. I hope you will get the \"raffles\"\nquestion amicably settled. There is the same tempest in the Sheffield\nteapot; for we have a fair on the 22d, and they have determined here\nthat they won't have raffles.\n\nWhat made you think that I \"dread public prayers \"? Did I say anything\nto you about it? If I did, I should not have used exactly the word\n\"dread.\" The truth is, that state of the mind which is commonly called\nprayer becomes more and more easy, or at least inevitable to me; but\nthe action has become so stupendous and awful to me, that I more and\nmore desire the privacy in it of my own thoughts. \"Prayers,\"-\"saying\none's prayers,\" grows distasteful to me, and a Liturgy is less and less\nsatisfying. Communion is the word I like better.\n\nBut I have touched too large a theme. With our love to E. and your\nlovely children, let me be,\n\nAlways your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 22, 1864.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--You are not well; I know you are not, or you would have\nwritten to me; and indeed they told me so when I was in New York\nthe other day. I wrote you a good (?) long letter about New Year's,\nwhich \"the human race running upon our errands\" (as Carlyle says) has\ndelivered to you, unless in the confusion of these war times it has\nlet said letter drop out of [271]its pocket. That many-membered body,\naccording to this account of it, has a good deal to do with us; and,\ndo you know, I find great help by merging myself in the human race.\nIt has taken a vast deal of worry to wash and brush it into neatness,\nand to train it to order, virtue, and sanctity; why should I not have\nmy share in the worry and weariness and trouble? Many have been sick\nand suffering,--all mankind more or less; why should not I be? All the\nhuman generations have passed away from the world; Walter Scott died;\nPrescott died; Charles Dewey, of Indiana, died; E. S. has died; who am\nI, that I should ask to remain?\n\nE.'s passing away was very grand and noble,--so cheerful, so\nnatural,--so full of intelligence and fuller of trust,--this earthly\nland to her but a part of the Great Country that lies beyond. She left\nsuch an impression upon her family and friends, that they hardly yet\nmourn her loss as they will; they feel as if she were still of them and\nwith them. . . .\n\nAll my people love you, as does\n\nYour friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nSHEFFIELD, May 1, 1864.\n\nTHANK your magnificence! Perhaps I ought to say your misericordia, for\nCharles says you wrote to him that you knew I should n't have those\ngrapes unless you sent them to me. And I am afraid it's true; for I\nhave had such poor success in my poor grape-culture, that I had about\ngiven up in despair.\n\n[272] Nonetheless, I have had these set out, according to the best of\nmy judgment, in the best place I could find in the open garden, and I\nwill have a trellis or something for them to run upon; and then they\nmay do as they have a mind to.\n\nI have delayed to acknowledge the receipt of the grape-roots,--Charles\nis n't to blame, I told him I would write,--because I waited for the\ncider to come, that wife and I might overwhelm you with a joint letter\nof thanks, laudation, and praise. But I can wait no longer. That is,\nthe cider does n't come, and I begin to think it is a myth. Poets,\nyou know, deal in such. They imagine, they idealize, nay, it is said\nthey create; and if we were poets, I suppose we should before now\nhave as good as drank some of that Long Island champagne. Speaking of\npoets reminds me that I did n't tell you how charmed I was with those\ntranslations from the Odyssey; the blank verse is so simple, clear, and\nexquisite, so I think.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, May 5, 1864.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--Dear B. did you no wrong, and me much right, in giving\nme to read a letter of yours to her, written more than a month ago,\nwhich impressed me more and did me more good than any letter I have\nread this long time. It was that in which you spoke of Mr. Choate.\nIt was evidently written with effort and with interruptions,--it was\nnot like your finished, though unstudied letters, of which I have in\nmy garner a goodly sheaf; but oh! my friend, take me into your [273]\nrealm, your frame of mind, your company, wherever it shall be. The\nsilent tide is bearing us on. May it never part, but temporarily, my\nhumble craft from your lovely sail, which seems to gather all things\nsweet and balmy-affections, friendships, kindnesses, touches and traits\nof humanity, hues and fragrances of nature, blessings of providence and\nbeatitudes of life--into its perfumed bosom.\n\nYou will think I have taken something from Choate. What a strange,\nOriental, enchanted style he has! What gleams of far-off ideas,\nflashes from the sky, essences from Arabia, seem unconsciously to drop\ninto it! I have been reading him, in consequence of what you wrote.\nIt is strange that with all his seeking for perfection in this kind\nhe did not succeed better. But it would seem that his affluent and\nmysterious genius could not be brought to walk in the regular paces.\nHe was certainly a very extraordinary person. I understand better his\ngenerosity, candor, amiableness, playfulness. I understand what you\nmean by the resemblance between him and your brother Charles. With\nconstant love of us all,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Sept. 3, 1864.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--. . . Mrs. __ reported you very much occupied with\ndocuments, papers, letters, and what not, on matters connected with\nthe Sanitary. I should like to have you recognize that there are other\npeople who need to be healed and helped besides soldiers; and that\nthere are other interests beside public ones to be looked after. Are\nnot all interests individual interests in [274] the \"last analysis,\"\nas the philosophers say? But I am afraid you don't believe in analysis\nat all. Generality, combination, is everything with you. One part of\nthe human race is rolled up into a great bundle of sickness, wounds,\nand misery; and the other is nothing but a benevolent blanket to be\nwrapped round it. And if any one thread--videlicet I--should claim to\nhave any separate existence or any little tender feeling by itself,\nimmediately the manager of the Great Sanitary Fair says, \"Hush! lie\ndown! you are nothing but a part of the blanket.\" But a truce to\nnonsense. Since writing the foregoing, the news has come from Atlanta.\nOh! if Grant could do the same thing to Lee's army, not only would the\nRebellion be broken, but the Copperhead party would be scattered to the\nwinds! Do you read anything this summer but reports from Borrioboola\nGha? The best book I have read--Ticknor's \"Prescott,\" Alger's \"Future\nLife,\" Furness's \"Veil Partly Lifted,\" etc., notwithstanding--is De\nTocqueville's \"Ancient Regime and the Revolution.\"\n\nYour old friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nNov. 9, 1864.\n\nCHARMING! I will be as bad as I can. Talk about being \"useful to\nthe world\"! If the people that do the most good, or get it to be\nclone,--same thing,--are to be sought for, are n't they the wicked\nones? Where had been the philanthropists, heroes, martyrs, but for\nthem? [275] Where had been Clark, and Wilberforce, but for the\nslave-catchers? Where Howard, but for cruel sailors? Where Brace, but\nfor naughty boys? Where our noble President of the Sanitary, but for\nthe wicked Rebels? And how should I ever have known that Mrs. Lane was\ncapable of such a fine and eloquent indignation, if, instead of being\na bad boy, \"neglecting the opportunities\" thrown in my way, I had been\njust a good sort of middle-aged man, \"in the prime of life,\" doing\nas I ought? Really, there ought to be a society got up to make bad\npeople,--they are so useful! I heard a man say of Bellows, the other\nday in the cars, \"He is a noble man!\" And it was an Orthodox, formerly\na member and elder of Dr. Spring's church. And what do you think he\nsaid to me? \"Don't you remember me?\"--\"No.\"--\"Don't you remember when\nyou were a young man, in Dodge Sayre's bookstore, that Jasper Corning\nand I set up a Sunday-school for colored people in Henry Street, and\nthat you taught in it for several months? And a good teacher you were,\ntoo.\" Not a bit of it. Oh, dear me! I hope there are some other good\nthings which I have done in the world that I don't remember. \"A grand\nsermon,\" you heard last Sunday, hey? And then went to the \"Century\"\nRooms, to see the decorations of the Bryant Festival! It seems to me\nthat was rather a queer thing to do, after sermon! You will have to\nwrite a letter to me immediately, to relieve my anxieties about your\nreligious education. Was the text, \"And they rose up early on the\nmorrow and offered burnt sacrifices and brought peace offerings; and\nthe people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play \"? See\nthe same, Exodus xxxii. 6. [276] There! I am not in deep waters, you\nsee, but skimming on the surface, except when I subscribe myself your\nabused, scolded, but\n\nFaithful friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\nMy wife and people send their love and dire indignation to you.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 12, 1864.\n\n. . . It is not pleasant to think upon death. It would not be pleasant\nto any company of friends to think that the hour for parting was\nnear. Death is a solemn and painful dispensation. I will have no\nhallucination about it. I \"wait the great teacher, Death.\" I do not\nwelcome it. It is a solemn change. It is a dread change to natures like\nours. I do not believe that the Great Disposer meant that we should\napproach it with a smile, with an air of triumph,--with any other\nthan feelings of lowly submission and trust. I do not want to die.\nI never knew anybody that did, except when bitter pain or great and\nirremediable unhappiness made the release welcome. And yet, I would\nnot remain forever in this world. And thus, like the Apostle, \"I am\nin a strait betwixt two.\" And I believe that it is better to depart;\nbut it is a kind of reluctant conclusion. It may be even cheerful; but\nit does not make it easy for me to tear myself from all the blessed\nties of life. I submit to God's awful will; but it is with a struggle\nof emotions, that is itself painful and trying,--that tasks all the\nfortitude and faith of which I am capable. [277] Will you tell me\nthat our Christian masters and martyrs spoke of a \"victory\" over\ndeath? Yes, but is victory all joy? Ah, what a painful thing is every\nvictory of our arms in these bloody battles, though we desire it! Do\nyou feel that I am not writing to you in the high Christian strain?\nPerhaps not. But I confess I am accustomed to bring all that is taught\nme--all that is said in exceptional circumstances like those of the\napostles-into some adjustment with a natural, necessary, and universal\nexperience. Besides, Jesus himself did not approach death with a song\nof triumph upon his lips. What a union, in him, of sorrow and trust!\nNo defying of pain, no boasting of calmness or strength, no braving of\nmartyrdom,--not half so fine and grand, to a worldly and superficial\nview, as many a martyr's death! But oh, what a blending in him of\neverything that makes perfection,--of pain and patience, of trial and\ntrust! But I am writing too long a letter for you to read. . . . K.\njust came into my study, and says, \"Do give my love.\" I answer, \"I give\nall our love always.\" So I do now; and with the kindest regards to all\naround you, I am, as ever,\n\nMost affectionately your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Jan. 7, 1865.\n\nTHANKS for a beautiful record of a beautiful festival [At the\n\"Century,\" New York, Nov. 5, 1864, in honor of Mr. Bryant's seventieth\nbirthday.] to a beautiful--but enough of this. You must have [278] had\na surfeit. 'T was all right and due, but it must have been a hard thing\nto bear,--to be so praised to your very face. . . . Your reply was\nadmirable,--simple, modest, quiet, graceful,--in short, I don't see how\nit could be better. For the rest, I think our cousin Waldo chiselled\nout the nicest bit of praise that was done on the occasion.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 24, 1865.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I was intending to write to you ten days ago, and\nshould have done so before now, but my mind has been engrossed with\na great anxiety and sorrow; my grandson and namesake was taken with\na fever, which went to the brain, and he died last Monday evening. I\ncannot tell you--you could hardly believe what an affliction it has\nbeen to me. He was five years old, a lovely boy, and, I think, of\nsingular promise,--of a fine organization, more than beautiful, and\nwith a mind inquiring into the causes and reasons of things, such as I\nhave rarely seen. . . . We meant to educate this boy; I hoped that he\nwould bear up my name. God's will be done!\n\nIt was of the coming Convention that I was going to write to you; but\nnow, just now, I have no heart for it. But I feel great interest in the\nmovement. Would that it were possible to organize the Unitarian Church\nof America,--to take this great cause out of the hands of speculative\ndispute, and to put it on the basis of a working institution. To\nfind a ground of union out of which may spring boundless freedom of\nthought,--is it impossible? I should like to see a church which could\nembrace and embody all sects.\n\n\n[279]To his Daughter Mary.\n\nSHEFFIELD, April 11, 1865.\n\n. . . BUT I feel as if it were profane to speak of common things in\nthese blessed days. Did you observe what the papers say about the\nmanner in which they received the Great News yesterday in New York [The\nsurrender of the Rebel army],--not with any loud ebullition of joy, but\nrather with a kind of religious silence and a gratitude too deep for\nutterance? And I see that they propose to celebrate, not with fireworks\nand firing of cannon, but with an illumination,--the silent shining out\nof joy from every house. Last evening the locomotive of the freight\ntrain expressed itself in a singular way. Not shutting its whistle when\nit left the station, it went singing all down through the valley. For\nmy part, I feel a solemn joy, as if I had escaped some great peril,\nonly that it is multiplied by being that of millions.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, April 15, 1865.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--We used to think that life in our country, under our\nsimple republican regime and peaceful order, was tame and uneventful;\ngiven over to quiet comfort and prosaic prosperity; never startled by\nanything more notable than a railroad disaster or a steamer burnt at\nsea. Events that were typified by the sun turning to darkness and the\nmoon to blood, and stars falling from heaven,--distress of nations with\nperplexity of men's hearts, failing them for fear,--all this seemed to\nbelong to some far-off country and time.\n\n[280] But it has come to us. God wills that we should know all\nthat any nation has known, of whatever disciplines men to awe and\nvirtue. The bloody mark upon the lintel, for ten thousands of\nfirst-born slain,--the anxiety and agony of the struggle for national\nexistence,--the tax-gatherer taking one fourth part of our livelihood,\nand a deranged currency nearly one half of the remainder,--four years\nof the most frightful war known in history,--and then, at the very\nmoment when our hearts were tremulous with the joy of victory, and\nevery beating pulse was growing stiller and calmer in the blessed\nhope of peace, then the shock of the intelligence that Lincoln and\nSeward, our great names borne up on the swelling tide of the nation's\ngratulation and hope, have fallen, in the same hour, under the stroke\nof the assassin,--these are the awful visitations of God!. . . As I\nslowly awake to the dreadful truth, the question that presses upon\nme--that presses upon the national heart--is, what is to become of\nus? If the reins of power were to fall into competent hands, we could\ntake courage. But when, in any view, we were about to be cast upon a\ntroubled sea, requiring the most skilful and trusted pilots, what are\nwe to do without them? Monday morning, 17th. Why should I send you\nthis,--partly founded on mistake, for later telegrams lead us to hope\nthat Mr. Seward will survive,--and reading, too, more like a sermon\nthan a letter? But my thoughts could run upon nothing else but these\nterrible things; and, sitting at my desk, I let my pen run, not merely\ndash down things on the paper, as would have been more natural. But for\nthese all-absorbing horrors, I should have [281] written you somewhat\nabout the Convention. It was certainly a grand success. I regretted\nonly one thing, and that was that the young men went away grieved and\nsad. . . . I think, too, that what they asked was reasonable. That is,\nif both wings were to fly together, and bear on the body, no language\nshould have been retained in the Preamble which both parties could not\nagree to. But no more now. Love to your wife and A. Yours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Ally 19, 1865.\n\nBE it known to you, my objurgatory friend, that I have finished a\nsermon this very evening,--a sermon of reasonings, in part, upon this\nvery matter on which you speak; that is, the difference of opinion\nin the Convention. \"Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.\"\nRadicalism and Conservatism. The Convention took the ground that both,\nas they exist in our body, could work together; it accepted large\ncontributions in money from both sides, and it is not necessary to\ndecide which side is right, in order to see that a statement of faith\nshould have been adopted in which both could agree. I was glad, for my\npart, to find that the conservative party was so strong. I distrust the\nradical more than I do the conservative tendencies in our church; still\nI hope we are too just, not to say liberal, to hold that mere strength\ncan warrant us in doing any wrong to the weaker party. [282] To be\nsure, if I thought, as I suppose--and--do, that the radical ground was\nfatal to Christianity, I should oppose it in the strongest way. But\nthe Convention did not assume that position. On the contrary, it said,\n\"Let us co-operate; let us put our money together, and work together as\nbrethren.\" Then we should not have forced a measure through to the sore\nhurt and pain of either party.\n\nAs to the main question between them,--how Jesus is to be regarded,\nwhether simply as the loftiest impersonation of wisdom and goodness, or\nas having a commission and power to save beyond that and different from\nit,--one may not be sure. But of this I am sure, that he who takes upon\nhis heart the living impression of that divinest life and love is saved\nin the noblest sense. And I do not see but there is as much of this\nsalvation in those young men as in those who repel and rebuke them.\n\nThere! let that sheet go by itself. Alas! the question with me is not\nwhich of them is right, but whether I am right,--and that in something\nfar more vital than opinion. It does seem as if one who has lived as\nlong as I have, ought to have overcome all his spiritual foes; but\nI do not find it so. I feel sometimes as if I were only struggling\nharder and harder with all the trying questions, both speculative and\nspiritual, that press upon our mortal frame and fate.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine ill Sedgwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Dec. 31, 1865.\n\n. . . I AM talking of myself, when I am thinking more of you, and how\nit is with you in these winter days, the [283] last of the year. I\nhope that they do not find you oppressed with weakness or suffering;\nand if they do not, I am sure that your spirit is alert and happy,\nand that the bright snow-fields and the lovely meteor of beauty that\nhangs in the air in such a morning as this was, are as charming to\nyou as they ever were. It is-a delight to your friends to know that\nall things lovely are, if possible, more lovely to you than ever. Are\nthere not bright rays shining through our souls,--streaming from the\nInfinite Light,--that make us feel that they are made to grow brighter\nand brighter forever? Ah! our confidence in immortality must be this\nfeeling, and never a thing to be reasoned out by any logical processes.\n\nJan. 1, 1866. I have stepped, you see, from the old year to the new. I\nwish all the good wishes to you, and take them from you in return as\nsurely as if you uttered them.\n\nThis year is to be momentous to us, if for no other reason, that K. is\nto be married. And we are to be no more together much, perhaps, in this\nworld. It is an inconceivable wrench in my existence. This marrying\nis the cruellest thing; and it is a perfect wonder and mystery of\nProvidence that parents give in to it as they do.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 20, 666.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I wonder if you can understand how happy I am in my\nnook,--you who have so much of another sort of happiness, but not this,\n(no nook for you!) with my winter's task done, \"with none to hurt nor\ndestroy,\" that is, my time, \"in all the holy [284] mountain,\" that is,\nthe Taghkonic. Dear old Taghkonic,--quiet, happy valley,--blessed,\nundisturbed fireside,-what contrast could be greater than New York to\nall this! \"Ahem! not so fast, my friend,\" say you; \"other places are\nblessed and happy besides valleys and mountains.\" Yes, I know. And I\nconfess my late experience inclines me to think that, for the mind's\nhealth and sharpening, cities are desirable places to be in, for a\npart of the year, notwithstanding all the notwithstandings. Of course,\nstrong and collected thought works free and clear everywhere, or tends\nthat way; but it did seem to me that the whirl of the great maelstrom\nleft but few people in a condition to think, or to form well-considered\nopinions, or to meditate much upon anything. Yes, I know it,--\"The\nmind is its own place,\" (nothing was ever better said), and it may be\nfretted and frittered away to nothing in country quiet, and it may be\nstrong and calm and full in the city throng. . . . And more and more do\nI feel that this nature of mine is the deep ground-warrant for faith in\nGod and immortality. Everywhere in the creation there is a proportion\nbetween means and ends,--between all natures and their destinies. And\ncan it be that my soul, which, in its few days' unfolding, is already\nstretching ()LA its hands to God and to eternity, and which has all\nits being and welfare wrapped up in those sublime verities, is made to\nstrive and sigh for them in vain, to stretch out its hands to--nothing?\nThis day rises upon us fair and beautiful,--the precursor, [285] I\nbelieve, of endless days. If not, I would say with Job, \"Let it be\ndarkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light\nshine upon it; for darkness and the shadow of death stain it.\" But\nwhat a different staining was upon it this morning! As I looked out\nupon the mountain just before sunrise, it showed like a mountain-rose\nblossoming up out of the earth,--covered all over with the deepest\nrose-color. . . .\n\nEver your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, March 12, 1866.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I should like to know whether you propose, from\nyour own pen, to provide me with all my reading. Look which way I\nwill,--towards the \"Inquirer,\" the \"Monthly,\" or the \"Examiner,\"--and\nH. W. B. is coming at me with an article, and sometimes with both\nhands full. You must write like a horse in full gallop. And yet you\ndon't seem to. Those articles in the \"Examiner,\" and the letter in\nthe \"Inquirer,\" seem to be thoroughly well considered; the breadth\nof view in them, the penetration, the candor and fairness, the sound\njudgment, please me exceedingly. Only one thing I questioned; and that\nis, putting the plea for universal suffrage on the ground that it is\neducation for the people. One might ask if it were well to put a ship\nin the hands of the crew because it would be a good school for them.\nAnd looking at our popular elections, one, may doubt whether they are\na good school. I should be inclined to say that if the people could\nconsent that only property holders who could read [286] and write\nshould vote, it would be better. But they will not consent; we are on\nthe popular tide, and suffrage must be universal, and the freedmen\neventually must and will have the franchise.\n\nBut with the general strain of your writing I agree entirely. What you\nsay of the exceptional character of the Southern treason is true, and\nit has not been so distinctly nor so well said before. I had thought\nthe same myself, and, of course, you must be right! Yet we must take\ncare lest the concession go too far. Treason must forever be branded as\nthe greatest of crimes. It aims not to murder a man, but a people. And\nas to opinion and conscience, I suppose all traitors have an opinion\nand a conscience.\n\nI have read this time the whole of the \"Examiner,\" which I seldom do.\nIt is all very good and satisfactory. Osgood's article on Robertson is\nexcellent; it appreciates him and his time. One laments that his mind\nhad so hard a lot; but every real man must, in one way or another,\nfight a great battle. . . . Especially I feel indebted to Abbot's\narticle. Truly he 'says, that the great question of the coming days\nis,--theism, or atheism? Not whether Jesus is our Master, the chief\namong men, but whether the God in whom Jesus believed really exists;\nand, by consequence, whether the immortality which lay open to his\nvision is but a dream of weary and burdened humanity? Herbert Spencer\nbelieves in no such God and Father, and his religion, which he vaunts\nso much, is but a hard and cold abstraction. On other subjects he is a\ngreat writer; and in his volume of essays there is not one which is not\nmarked with strong and original thought. It is a prodigious intellect,\ncertainly, and struggling hard with the greatest questions. [287] May\nit find its way out to light! Thus far its light is, to my thinking,\nthe profoundest darkness. With our house's love to your house,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, March 28, 1866.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--To-day I am seventy-two years old. If I write to\nany one to-day, it must be to some one whose friendship is nearly as\nold as myself. Looking about me, I find no such one but you. Fifty\nyears I have known you. Fifty years ago, and more, I saw you in your\nfather's house; and charming as you were to my sight then, you have\nnever--youth's loveliness set at defiance--been less so since. Forty\nyears I think I have known you well. Thirty years we have been friends;\nand that word needs no epithet nor superlative to make it precious.\nThis morning I called my wife to come and sit down by me, saying, \"I\nwill read you an old man's Idyl.\" And I read that in the March number\nof the \"Atlantic.\" I believe Holmes wrote it; but whoever did, it is\nbeautiful, and more than that it was to us--for it was true.\n\nThe greatest disappointment that I meet in old age is that I am not so\ngood as I expected to be, nor so wise. I am ashamed to say that I was\nnever so dissatisfied with myself as I am now. It seems as if it could\nnot be a right state of things. My ideal of old age has been something\nvery different. And yet seventy years is still within the infancy of\nthe immortal life and progress. Why should it not say with the Apostle,\n\"Not as though [288] I had attained, neither were already perfect.\"\nI can say with him, in some respects, \"I have fought a good fight.\"\nI have fought through early false impressions of religion. I have\nfought through many life problems. I have fought, in these later years,\nthrough Mansel and Herbert Spencer, as hard a battle as I have ever\nhad. But I have come, through all, to the most rooted conviction of the\nInfinite Rectitude and Goodness. Nothing, I think, can ever shake me\nfrom this,-that all is well, and shall be forever, whatever becomes of\nme. . . . Ever your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nSHEFFIELD, July 9, 1866.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I am etonne, as the French have it; at least Moliere\nand Corneille--whom I have been reading by and large of late, having\nread all the new things I could get hold of-are continually having\ntheir personages etonned. Or, I feel like Dominie Sampson, and say,\n\"Pro-di-gi-ous!\" Not as he said it to Meg Merrilies, but rather to Miss\nJulia Mannering, when he was confounded with her vivacity. What! two\nletters to my one! I do believe you are going to be literary.\n\nAnd then,--was ever seen such an ambitious woman! Reading Mill, and\ngoing to read Herbert Spencer! And I suppose Kant will come next.\nBut bravo! I say. I am very much pleased with you. And don't say, \"I\nwish,--but what 's the use!\" You are through with the great absorbing\nmother's cares, and can undertake studies, and I believe there is\nno study so worthy of our attention as our literature. I confess\nthat I have come [289] to a somewhat new thought of this matter of\nlate. What is there on the earth upon which we stand,--what is there\nthat offers to help us, to lift and build us up, that can compare\nwith the productions of the greatest minds which are gathered up in\nour literature? Whether we would study human nature or the Nature\nDivine,-whether we would study religion, science, nature in the world\naround us, in the life within us,--these are the lights that shine\nupon our path. For those who have time to read, it seems a deplorable\nmistake not to turn their thoughts distinctly to what the greatest\nminds have said; that is, upon as many subjects as they can compass.\n\nIf I were to undertake anything in the way of education, I would\nset up in New York an Institute of English Literature. I do not\nknow but--might do something of the kind,--have a house and receive\nclasses that should come once or twice in a week and read in the\nmean time under her direction, and teach them by reading to them, by\ncommenting, talking, pointing out and opening up to them the best\nthings in the best authors, the poets, the essayists, the historians,\nthe fiction-writers, and thus making them acquainted with the finest\nproductions of the English mind; and, what is better, inspiring them\nwith an enthusiasm and taste for pursuing, for reading such things,\ninstead of sensation novels and such stuff.\n\nMoliere and Corneille have struck me much on this reading,--the first\nwith the tenuity of his thought, the slender thread on which he weaves\nhis entertaining and life-like drama, making it to live through the\nages simply by sticking to nature, making his personages speak so\nnaturally; and the second, with the real dramatic [290] grandeur of\nhis genius. I feel that I have never done justice to Corneille before,\nI have been so dissatisfied with the formal rhyme, the want of the\nnatural dramatic play of language in his work, the stilted rhetoric.\nAnd when I heard Rachel in the Cid, I thought, by the rapid, undramatic\nway in which she hurried through his declamations, while, in a few\nexclamatory bursts, she swept everything before her, that she justified\nmy criticism. But this was the misfortune of Corneille; he walked in\nshackles imposed by the taste of his time. Yet it was a lofty stride. I\nam particularly struck with his grand moral ideals. I wish I had a good\nlife of him. He must have been a good man. Like Beethoven and Michael\nAngelo, he does not seem to have liked flattery, court, or ceremony.\nBut I guess that is the case with most men of the higher genius. . . .\n\nAs ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Miss Catherine M. Sea'gwitk.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Aug. 27, 1866.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--It is some time since I have written to you, and I\nam almost afraid you are glad of it, not having to answer. You must\nacknowledge, however, that I have always offered you the easiest terms\nof exchange; two for one, three, four, anything you liked. . . . I\nhave been lately with Mr. Bryant, in his great affliction, staying\nwith my sisters, who occupy one of his cottages, but spending all the\ntime I could with him. It was very sad,--talking upon many things as\nwe did, and much upon those things that were pressing upon his mind,\nfor he felt that he was losing his chief earthly [291] treasure. His\nwife was that to him, by her simplicity, her simple truthfulness, her\nperfect sincerity and heart-earnestness, latterly of a very religious\ncharacter, and by her good judgment also; he told me that he always\nconsulted her upon everything he published, and found that her opinion\nwas always confirmed by that of the public, that is, as to the relative\nmerit of his writings. He was bound to her the more, because his ties\nof close affection with others are so very few. Sometimes he could not\nrepress his tears in our talking; and they told me that in the morning,\nwhen he went to her bedside, he often sat weeping, saying, \"You have\nbeen suffering all night, and I have been sleeping.\" In the last days\nshe longed to depart, and often said to him, \"You must let me go; I\nwant to go\" And so she went, peacefully to her rest.\n\nWe have had a very pleasant visit from Mr. R. . . . His visits are\nalways a great pleasure to us, both for the talk we have, and the\nmusic. It is really a great thing to know anything as he knows music.\nAs I listened to him last evening, I could not help feeling that I knew\nnothing as he knows that, and thinking that if there are infant schools\nin the next world, I should certainly be put into one of them.\n\nI hope the weather will allow you to sit often on the piazza in the\ncoming month. It is what we have not been able to do in the present\nmonth at all,--by a fire, rather, in the parlor, half the time.\n\n. . . With our affectionate remembrances to those around you, hold me\nto be, as ever,\n\nYours, ORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[292] To his Daughter Mary.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Oct. 28, 1866.\n\nDEAREST MOLLY,--I have the pleasure to be seated at my desk to write\nto you, in my new gown and slippers, and with my new sermon, finished,\nbefore me. A \"combination and a form,\" indeed, but I say no more. \"But\nhow is the sermon?\" you 'll say. Why, as inimitable as the writer.\nBut really, I think it is worth something. I did think, indeed, when\nI took my pen, that I could write a stronger argument for immortality\nthan I ever saw, that is, in any one sermon or thesis. And if I have\nfailed entirely, and shall come to think so, as is very likely, it will\nbe no worse, doubtless, than my presumption deserved. You and K., who\nare satisfied with your spiritual instincts, would think it no better,\nprobably, than a belt of sand to bolster up a mountain. Well, every one\nmust help himself as he can. This meditation certainly has strengthened\nmy own faith in the immortal life.\n\nI should like to go to church with you this morning, where you are\nprobably going; but the places are very few where I should want to\ngo. More and more do all public services dissatisfy me,--all devout\nutterances, my own included. Communion with the Highest, with the\nUnseen and Unspeakable, seems to me to consist of breathings, not\nwords, and requires a freedom of all thoughts and feelings,--of awe and\nwonder, of adoration and thanksgiving, of meditations and of stirrings\nof the deeps within us, such as can with difficulty be brought into a\nregular prayer.\n\n\n[293] To the Same.\n\nNov. 21, 1866.\n\nTHE last \"Register\" has a sermon in it of Abbot's upon the Syracuse\nConference, which I thought so excellent, that I told the editor it\nwas itself worth a quarter's payment. Your mother admires it, too.\nThough she has no sympathy, as you well know, with Abbot's Left-Wing\nviews, her righteous nature warmly takes part with his argument. The\nfact is, the Conference is wrong. If it expects the young men to act\nwith it, it should adopt a platform on which they can conscientiously\nand comfortably stand. The conduct of the majority, in my opinion,\nis inconsistent and ungenerous. Either take ground upon which all\ncan stand,--and I think there is such ground,--or else say to the\nultra-liberals, \"We cannot consent that any part of our common means\nshall be used for the spread of your views, influence, and preaching,\nand we must part.\"\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, March 20, 1867.\n\nCOME up here, my anxious friend, and I'll read my Concio to you; for\nit is written, as I preferred to do, before the warm and cold, wet\nand dry meslin of April weather comes, which always breaks me up in\nmy studies. I will read it to you, and I rather think you will like\nit. . . . But do not make yourself uneasy. There will be nothing in\nthe address of what you call \"a defection to the radical side,\" simply\nbecause, in opinion, I cannot take that ground. I do not and cannot\ngive up the miraculous element in Christianity. But I [294] embrace our\nwhole denomination in my sympathies and do not think our differences so\nimportant as you do. That religion has its roots in our nature, if that\nis radicalism, I strongly hold and always have. And in its development\nand culture I have never given that exclusive place to Christianity\nthat many do. I confess that I always disliked and resisted the\nutterances of the extreme conservatives on this point, more than those\nof their opponents. So you see that M. was mainly right. And certainly\nI think the minority in the Conference has had hard measure from the\nmajority; and I liked Abbot's sermon as much as you heard I did.\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nST. DAVID'S, April 14, 1867.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--Why should I write to you about the things you speak of\nin your letter which crossed mine? How vain to attempt to discuss such\nmatters on note-paper!\n\nBut, without discussing, I will tell you, in few words, what I think.\n\nThe vitality of the Christian religion lies deeper than the miraculous\nelement in it. The miraculous is but an attestation to that. That\nis authority to me. The authority of God is more clearly and\nunquestionably revealed to me, than in anything else, in the inborn\nspiritual convictions of my nature, without which, indeed, I could not\nunderstand Christianity, nor anything else religious. These convictions\naccord with the deepest truths of Christianity, else I could not\nreceive it. Jesus has strengthened, elevated, and purified these\nnatural [295] convictions in such a way,--by such teachings, by such a\nlife, by such an unparalleled beauty of character,-that I believe God\nhas breathed a grace into his soul that he never-has [given] in the\nsame measure and perfection to any other. Effects must have causes, and\nsuch an effect seems to me fairly to indicate such a cause.\n\nBut there are those who cannot take this view; who look upon the\ngospel as simply the best exposition of national religion ever given,\nwithout any other breath of inspiration upon the record than such\nas was breathed upon the pages of Plato or Epictetus. Now, if they\nwent further, and disowned the very spirit of Jesus, rejected the\nvery essence of the gospel, certainly they would not be Christians.\nBut this they do not; on the contrary, they reverently and heartily\naccept it, and seek to frame their lives upon this model. Am I to hold\nsuch persons as outcasts from the Christian fold, to refuse them my\nsympathy, to accord them only my \"pity \"? Certainly, I can take no such\nground.\n\nThe peculiarities of certain individuals--the \"cold abstractions\" of\none, and the rash utterances of another--have nothing essentially to\ndo with the case; nor has the hurt they may be thought to do to our\nUnitarian cause anything to do with the essential truth of things. Nor\ndo I know that extreme Radicalism does us any more harm than extreme\nConservatism. I belong to neither extreme; and my business is, without\nregard to public cause or private reputation, to keep, as far as I can,\nmy own mind right.\n\nThe fact is, you are so conservative on every subject,--society,\npolitics, medicine, religion,--that it is very difficult for you to do\njustice to the radical side. But consider that such men as Martineau,\nBartol, Stebbins, [296] Ames, and Abbot are mainly on that side, and\nthat it will not do to cast about scornful or pitying words concerning\nsuch. As to __ I give him up to you, for I don't like his writing any\nbetter than you do.\n\nI think the great Exposition which you are soon to see may give you\na liberalizing hint. There, the industry of all nations will be\nexhibited. All are bent, honestly and earnestly, upon one point,--the\ndevelopment of the human energies in that direction. And it will infer\nnothing against their good character, or their titles to sympathy and\nrespect, that they differ more or less with regard to the modes and\nmeans of arriving at the end.\n\nWell, you will go before I come to New York. God bless and keep you,\nand bring you safely back!\n\nEver your friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nThere are some passages in an unpublished sermon, preached by my father\nat Church Green, in 1858, which I will quote presently, as illustrative\nof the same tone of thought shown in these letters. His clinging to\nthe miraculous element in the life of Jesus, while refusing to base\nany positive authority upon it, is equally characteristic of him,\narising from the caution, at once reverent and intellectual, which\nmade him extremely slow to remove any belief, consecrated by time\nand affection, till it was proved false and dangerous, and from his\nthorough conviction that every man stands or falls by so much of the\nInfinite Light and Love as he is able to receive directly into his\nbeing. He was conservative by [297] feeling, and radical by thought,\nand the two wrought in him a grand charity of judgment, far above what\nis ordinarily called toleration.\n\nThese are the extracts referred to:\n\n\"Society as truly as nature, nay, as truly as the holy church, is a\ngrand organism for human culture. I say emphatically,--as truly as the\nholy church; for we are prone to take a narrow view of man's spiritual\ngrowth, and to imagine that there is nothing to help it, out of the\npale of Christianity. We make a sectarism of our Christian system, even\nas the Jews did of the Hebrew, though ours was designed to break down\nall such narrow bounds; so that I should not wonder if some one said\nto me,--Are you preaching the Christian religion when you thus speak\nof nature and society?' And I answer, 'No; I am speaking of a religion\nelder than the Christian.' . . .\n\n\"There was a righteousness, then, before and beside the Christian. Am I\nto be told that Socrates and Plato, and Marcus Antoninus and Boethius,\nhad no right culture, no religion, no rectitude? and they were cast\nupon the bosom of nature and of society for their instruction, and of\nthat light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.'\"\n\n\nTo his Daughter Mary.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Sept. 20, 1867.\n\n. . . THINK of my having read the whole of Voltaire's \"Henriade\" last\nweek! But think especially of eminent French critics, and Marmontel\namong them (in the preface), praising it to the stars, saying that some\nof the [298] passages are superior to Homer and Virgil! However, it is\nreally better than I expected, and I read on, partly from curiosity and\npartly for the history. The French would have been very glad to find\nit an epic worthy of the name, for they have n't one. Voltaire frankly\nconfesses that the French have not a genius for great poetry,--too much\nin love, he says, with exactness and elegance.\n\nI have--read--through--\"Very Hard Cash;\" and very hard it is to read.\nReade has some pretty remarkable powers,--powers of description and of\ncharacterization; but the moment he touches the social relations, and\nshould be dramatic, he is struck with total incapacity. Indeed, what\none novelist has been perfect in dialogue, making each person say just\nwhat he should and nothing else, but glorious Sir Walter?\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Sept. 20, 1867.\n\nDEAR MARY,--\"Live and learn.\" Next time, if it ever come, I shall put\nup peaches in a little box by themselves. But the fact is, peaches\ncan't travel, unless they are plucked so early as nearly to spoil them\nof all their \"deliciarunz,\"--which we are enjoying in those we eat\nhere. And Bryant with us,--fruity fellow that he is!--I am glad we have\nsome good fruit to give him. Yesterday we had a very good cantelope,\nand pears are on hand all the while. I am sorry that I could not get\nthe pears to you just in eating condition, and the Hurlbut apples too;\nbut they'll all come right.\n\nYes, fruity,--that 's what Bryant is; but rather of the quality of\ndried fruits,--not juicy, still less gushing, but [299] with a good\ndeal of concentrated essence in him (rather \"frosty, but kindly \"),\nexuding often in little bits of poetical quotations, fitly brought in\nfrom everywhere, and of which there seems to be no end in his memory.\n\nThe woods are beginning to show lovely bits of color, but the great\nburden of leaves remains untouched. Bryant and I walked out to the\nPine Grove, and on to Sugar-Maple Hill. Your mother admires him for\nhis much walking; but I insist that he is possessed and driven about\nby a demon. . . . By the bye, just keep that \"article\" for me; I have\nno other copy. Bryant commended it, and said he thought the argument\nagainst the Incomprehensible's being totally unintelligible, was new.\n\n\nTo his Daughter, Mrs. C.\n\nST. DAVID'S, July 22, 1868.\n\nDEAR KATE,--I am going to have no more to do with the weather. You\nneed n't expostulate with me. It 's no use talking. My mind is made\nup. You may tell M. so. It will be hardest for her to believe it. She\nhas partaken with me in that infirmity of noble minds,--a desire to\nlook through the haze of this mundane atmospheric environment, and\npredict the future. But, alas I there is an infirmity of vision; we see\nthrough a glass darkly. We can't see through a millstone. The firmament\nhas been very like that, for some days,--all compact with clouds. We\nthought something was grinding for us. \"Now it is coming!\" we said last\nevening. But no. It was no go,--or no come, rather. And this morning,\nat the breakfast table, sitting up [300] there, clothed, and in my\nright mind, I said to my sister, \"I am not a-going to predict about the\nweather any more!\"\n\nAsk my dear M., pray her, to try to come up to the height of that great\nresolution. I know the difficulty,-the strain to which it will put all\nher faculties; but ask her, implore her, to try.\n\n\nTo his Daughters, then living in London Terrace, New York.\n\n1868.\n\nST. DAVID'S sends a challenge to all the Terrace birds.\n\nShow us a bird that sings in the night. We have a nightingale,--a\nbird that has sung, for two evenings past, between ten and twelve, as\ngayly as the nightingales of Champel. It is the cat-bird, the same\nthat comes flying and pecking at our windows. What has come over the\nlittle creature? I suppose the season of nest-building and incubation\nis one of great excitement,--the bird's honeymoon. And then, the full\nmoon shining down, and the nights warm as summer, and thoughts of the\nnice new house and the pretty eggs, and the chicks that are coming,--it\ncould not contain itself.\n\nWell, as I sit in my porch and look at the birds, they seem to me\na revelation, as beautiful, if not so profound, as the Apocalypse.\nWhat but Goodness could have made a creature at once so beautiful and\nso happy? Mansel and Spencer may talk about the incomprehensibility\nof the First Cause; I say, here is manifestation. The little Turdus\nFelivox,--oho! ye ignorant children, that is he of the cat,--it sits\non the bough, ten feet from me, and sings and trills and whistles, and\nsends [301] out little jets of music, little voluntaries, as if it were\nfreely and irrepressibly singing a lovely hymn.\n\nThis morning there is the slightest little drizzle, a mere tentative\nexperimenting towards rain, no more,-I keep to facts. Well, all the\ntownship is saying, no doubt, \"Now it is coming!\" Catch me a-doing so!\nI was left to say, in an unguarded moment, \"If C. had mowed his meadow\ntwo or three days ago, he would have got it all in dry.\" I feel a\nlittle guilty. I am afraid that incautious observation was the nuance\nof the shadow of an intimation of an opinion, bearing the faintest\nadumbration of a prediction: I am sorry for it. I am very sorry. I\nought to have kept my lips shut. I ought to have put sealing-wax upon\nthem the moment I got up. I won't,--I won't speak one word again.\n\nYours, wet or dry,\n\nO. D\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, July 27, 1868.\n\nFRIEND BRYANT,--I am a Quaker. I have just joined the sect. Thee won't\nbelieve it, because thee will think I lack the calmness and staidness\nthat fit me for it. But I am a Quaker of the Isaac T. Hopper sort;\nthough, alas! here the resemblance fails also, for I do no good. Dear\nme! I wish sometimes that I could have been one of the one-sided men;\nit is so easy to run in one groove! and it 's all the fashion in these\ndays. But, avaunt expediency! Let me stick to my principles, and be a\nrounded mediocrity, pelted on every hand, and pleasing [302] nobody.\nBy the bye, Mrs. Gibbons [Mrs. James Gibbons of New York, daughter of\nIsaac T. Hopper] I has just sent me a fine medallion of her, father,\nbeautifully mounted. It is a remarkable face, for its massive strength\nand the fun that is lurking in it. Hopper might have been a great man\nin any other walk,--the statesman's, the lawyer's; he was, in his own.\n\n. . . I want to say something, through the \"Post,\" of the abominable\nnuisance of the railroad whistle. I wrote once while you were gone, and\nNordhoff (how do you spell him?) did n't publish my letter, but only\nintroduced some of it in a paragraph of his own. If I write again, I\nshall want your imprimatur. This horrible shriek, which tears all our\nnerves to pieces, and the nerves of all the land, except Cummington and\nsuch lovely retirements, is altogether unnecessary; a lower tone would\nanswer just as well. It does on the Hudson River Road.\n\n\nTo his Daughters.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Oct. 15, 1868.\n\n. . . YOUR letter came yesterday, and was very satisfactory in the\nupshot; that is, you got there. But, pest on railroad cars I they are\nmere torture-chambers, with the additional chance, as Johnson said of\nthe ship, of being land-wrecked. Some people like 'em, though. And\nthere are dangers everywhere. The other day-a high windy day--a party\nwent to the mountain, and had like to have been blown off from the top.\nBut they said it was beautiful. I don't doubt, if the whole bunch had\nbeen tumbled over and rolled down to the bottom, they would all have\njumped up, exclaiming, \"Beautiful! [303] beautiful!\" People so like to\nhave it thought they have had a good time. One day they went up and\nall got as wet as mountain--no, as marsh--rats; and that was the most\n\"lovely time\" they have had this summer.\n\nGirls, I have a toothache to-day! It 's easier now, or I should not\nbe writing. But pain, what a thing it is! The king of all misery, I\nthink, is pain. It is a part of you, and does n't lie outside; a thing\nto be met and mastered with healthy faculties. You can't fight with\nit, as you can with poverty, bankruptcy, mosquitoes, a smoky chimney,\nand the like. I can't be thankful enough that I have had, through my\nlife, so little pain. What I shall do with it, if it comes, I don't\nknow. Perhaps I need it for what Heine speaks of; that is, to make\nme \"a man.\" I am afraid I am a chicken-hearted fellow. But I cannot\nhelp thinking that different constitutions take that visitation very\ndifferently.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Jan. 18, 1869.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--. . . It is the audible, the uttered prayer, to which\nI feel myself unequal. The awfulness of prayer to me inclines me more\nand more to make it silent, speechless. It is so overwhelming, that\nI am losing all fluency, all free utterance. What it is fit for a\ncreature to say to the Infinite One--to that uncomprehended Infinitude\nof Being--makes me hesitate. My mind addressing a fellow mind is\neasy; and yet addressing the highest mind in the world would cause me\nanxiety. I should feel that my thoughts were too poor to express to\nhim. But my mind addressing itself, its [304] thought and feeling, to\nthe Infinite, Infinite Mind,--I faint beneath it. It is higher than\nheaven; what can I do? I am often moved to say with Abraham, \"Lo! now\nI, who am but dust, have taken upon me to speak unto God. Oh! let not\nthe Lord be angry, and I will speak.\" And indeed, so much praying,-this\nimploring the love and care of the Infinite Providence and Love, of\nwhich the universe is the boundless and perpetual evolution,--can that\nbe right and fit? I often recall what Mrs. Dwight, of Stockbridge,\nsaid of the public devotions of old Dr. West,--one of the most saintly\nbeings I ever knew,--that she had observed that they consisted less and\nless of prayers, and more and more of thanksgivings.\n\nLast evening my wife read to us your article on the Mission of America.\nIt is a grand, full stream of thought, and original, too, and ought to\nhave a wider flow than through the pages of the \"Examiner.\" It ought\nto be read not by two thousand, but by two million persons. I wish\nthere were a popular organ, like the \"Ledger\" (in circulation), for the\ndiffusion of the best thoughts, where the best minds among us could\nspeak of the country to the country, for never was there a people that\nmore needed to be wisely spoken to. And you are especially fitted to\nspeak to it. Your conservative position in our Unitarian body, however\nit may fare among us, would help you with the people.\n\nAs to your position, I don't know but I am as conservative as you are.\nThat is, I don't know but I believe in the miracles as much as you do.\nThe difference between us is, that I do not feel the miraculous to be\nso essential a part of Christianity. Yet I see and feel the force of\nwhat you say about it. And the argument is [305] put in that article of\nyours with great weight and power. For myself, I cannot help feeling\nthat at length the authority of Jesus will be established on clearer,\nhigher, more indisputable and impregnable grounds than any historic,\nmiraculous facts.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Jan. 26, 1869.\n\n. . . I AM thankful, every day of my life, that I have my own roof over\nme, and can keep it from crumbling to the ground. Do not be proud, Sir,\nwhen you read this, nor look down from your lordliness,--of owning a\ndozen houses, and three of them your own to live in,--down, I say, upon\nmy humble gratitude. Can it be, by the bye, that Cicero had fourteen\nvillas? I am sure Middleton says so. I should think they must have been\nfourteen of what Buckminster, in a sermon, called \"bundles of cares and\nheaps of vexations.\"\n\n. . . I read a letter of Cicero's to his friend Valerius, this morning,\nin which he urges him to come and see him, saying that he wants to have\na pleasant time with him,--tecum jocari,-and says, \"When you come this\nway, don't go down to your Apulia,\"--to wit, Cummington. Nam si illo\nveneris, tanquam Ulysses, cognosces tuorum neminem. Now don't quote\nHomer to me when you answer, for I am nearly overwhelmed with my own\nlearning.\n\nI wish you could have seen the world here for the last three weeks.\nNever was such a splendid winter season. I think it 's something great\nand inspiring to see the whole broad, bright, white, crystal world, and\nthe whole [306] horizon round, instead of looking upon brick houses.\nBut you will say, the human horizon widens in cities. Yes; but if there\nare six bright points in it you are fortunate, while here, the whole\nhorizon round is sapphire and purple and gold.\n\nWell, peace be with you wherever you are, and with your house. My wife\nand Mary send love to you all, as I do, [who] am, as ever.\n\nYours faithfully,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo his Daughters.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Feb. 23, 1869.\n\n. . . WE are going on very nicely, neither sick nor sad. Our winter\nevening readings have been very fortunate this season. First,\n\"Lord Jeffrey's Life and Letters,\" and now, \"Draper's Intellectual\nDevelopment in Europe.\" I had read it before, but it is a greater book\nthan I had thought. I must say that I had rather pass my evenings as we\ndo,--some writing, some reading, then a quiet game, and then at my desk\nagain,--than to take the chances of society, in town or country. If I\ncan get you to think as I do, we shall pass a happy life here. Heaven\ngrant that I may not fall into a life of pain! With our good spirits,\nas they now are, we every day fall into a quantity of dramatic capers\nthat are enough to make a cat laugh,--no bigger animal.\n\nHoping you may have as much folly, for what saith Paley? \"He that is\nnot a fool sometimes, is always one,\"--and wishing you all merry, I am\nas ever,\n\nYour loving father,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[307] Nothing can be imagined more peaceful than the retirement of\nSheffield. Removed from the main lines of traffic and travel, even now\nthat a railroad passes through it, the village remains, as it has been\nfor a hundred and fifty years, the quiet centre of the quiet farms\nspread for four or five miles about it. The Housatonic wanders at its\nown sweet and lazy will among the meadows, turning and returning upon\nitself till it has loitered twenty miles in crossing the eight-mile\ntownship, but never turning a mill or offering encouragement to any\nindustry but that of the muskrats who burrow in its banks, or the\nkingfishers who break its glassy surface in pursuit of their prey. No\nbusy factories are there; no rattle of machinery or feverish activity\nof commerce disturbs the general placidity; and the still valley\nlies between its enclosing hills as if it were, indeed, that happy\nAbyssinian vale my father fancied it in his childhood.\n\nThe people share the calm of the landscape. Like many New England towns\nwhere neither water-power nor large capital offers opportunity for\nmanufactures, and where farming brings but slow returns, the village\nhas been gradually drained of the greater part of its active and\nenterprising younger population, and is chiefly occupied by retired and\nquiet persons who maintain a very gentle stir of social life, save for\na month or two in summer, when the streets brighten with the influx of\nguests from abroad.\n\n[308] It must have been very different seventy years ago. Instead of\nthree slenderly attended churches, divided by infinitesimal differences\nof creed, and larger variations of government and discipline, all the\npeople then were accustomed to meet in one well-filled church; and\nthe minister, a life resident, swayed church and congregation with\nlarge and unquestioned rule. There were several doctors with their\ntrains of students, and lawyers of county celebrity, each with young\nmen studying under his direction; and all these made the nucleus of a\nsociety that was both gay and thoughtful, and that received a strong\nimpulse to self-development from the isolated condition of a small\nvillage in those days. Railroads and telegraphs have changed all this,\nand scarcely a hamlet is now so lonely as not to feel the great tides\nof the world's life sweep daily through it, bringing polish and general\ninformation with them, but washing away much of the racy individuality\nand concentrated mental action which formerly made the pith of its\nbeing. Sheffield has gained in external beauty and refinement year\nby year, but, judging from tradition, has lost in intellectual\nforce. There is more light reading and less hard reading, much more\nacquaintance with newspapers and magazines, and less knowledge of great\npoets, than in my father's youth; but his love for his birthplace\nremained unchanged, and his eyes and his heart drank repose from its\npeaceful and familiar beauty.\n\n\n[309] To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Oct. 6, 1869.\n\nDEAR BRYANT, THE BOUNTIFUL,--You are something like grapes yourself.\nBy the bye, it 's no matter what you call me; \"my dear Doctor\" is well\nenough, if you can't do better; only \"my dear Sir\" I do hate, between\ngood old friends such as we are, as much as Walter Scott did. But, as I\nwas saying, you are like grapes yourself,--fair, round, self-contained,\nhanging gracefully upon the life-vine, still full of sap; shining under\nthe covert of leaves, but more clearly seen, now that the frosts of\nage are descending, and causing them to fall away; while I am more\nlike--but I have so poor an opinion of myself, that I won't tell you\nwhat. This is no affected self-depreciation. I can't learn to be old,\nbut am as full of passion, impatience, foolishness, blind reachings\nafter wisdom, as ever. Instance: I am angry with the expressman because\nhe did not bring the grapes to-day; angry with the telegraph because\nit did not bring a despatch to tell how a sick boy was, under nine\nhours. . . .\n\nHere I am, Thursday morning, on a second sheet, waiting for the grapes.\nWhat else, in the mean time, shall I entertain you with? The flood! It\nhas been prodigious, the highest known for many years; water, water all\naround, from beside the road here to the opposite hill. It is curious\nto see men running like rats from the deluge, up to their knees in\nwater, on returning from a common walk (fact, happened to the S--s),\ntrying to drive home one way and could n't,--going round to a bridge\nand finding that swept away,--dams torn down and mills toppled over,\nand half the \"sure and firm-set earth\" turned into water-courses and\nflood-trash. . . .\n\n[310] The afternoon train has arrived, and no grapes. Very angry.\n\nThe faithless express, you see, is a great plague to you as well as me;\nfor not only does it not bring me the grapes, but is the cause of your\nhaving this long dawdling letter. Why don't you show up its iniquities?\nWhat is a \"Post\" made and set up for, if not, among other things,\nto bear affiches testifying to the people of their wickedness? The\nexpress is the most slovenly agent and the most irresponsible tyrant in\nthe country. What it brings is perhaps ruined by delay,--plants, for\ninstance. No help. \"Pay,\" it says to the station-master, \"or we don't\nleave it.\" Oh, if I had the gift and grace to send articles to the\n\"Post,\" from time to time, upon abuses!\n\nFriday. No grapes. More angry.\n\nSaturday. No grapes. I 'm furious.\n\nThis last was the record of the afternoon; but in the evening,\nat half-past nine, they were sent down from the station,--and in\nremarkably good order, considering, and in quantity quite astonishing.\nThe basket seemed like the conjurer's hat, out of which comes a\nhalf-bushel of flowers, oranges; and what not. We are all very much\nobliged to you; and, judging from the appearance of the six heaped-up\nplates, I am sure, when we come to eat them, that every tooth will\ntestify, if it does not speak.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Feb. 28, 1870.\n\nMY DEAR BRYANT,--The volume has not come, but the kindness has, and\nI will acknowledge the one without [311] waiting for the other;\nespecially as it is not a case where one feels it expedient to give\nthanks for a book before he has read it. We all know the quality of\nthis, from passages of the work printed in advance. It will be the\ntranslation into English of the Iliad, I think, though not professing\nto be learned in translations of Homer, still less in the original.\n\nI read your preface in the \"Post.\" Nothing could be better, unless it\nis your speech at the Williams dinner, which was better, and better\nthan any occasional speech you have given, me judice.\n\nGreat changes are projected in Sheffield,--you will have to come and\nsee them and us,--a widening of the village on the east, towards the\nmeadow and pine knoll, and--what do you think?--a railroad to the top\nof Taghkonic! 'T is even so-proposed. An eastern company has bought the\nEgremont Hotel, and the land along the foot of the mountain down as far\nas Spurr's ( a mile), and they talk seriously of a railroad. So the\nTaghkonic is to be made a watering-place, if the thing is feasible, in\nquite another sense than that in which it has long sent its streams and\ncast its lonely shadows upon our valley.\n\nWe are having winter at last, and our ice-houses filled with the best\nof ice, and the prospect is fair for the wood-piles. The books you sent\nare turning to great account with us. In that and in every way I am\nobliged to you; and am, as ever,\n\nYours truly,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[312] To Mrs. David Lane.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Dec. 20, 1870.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I think I must take you into council,--not to sit upon\nthe case, nor to get up a procession, nor to have the bells rung, if we\nwin; but just to sympathize, so far as mid-life vigor can, with an aged\ncouple, who have lived together half a century, and would much rather\nlive it over again than not to have lived it at all; who have lived in\nthat wonderful connection, which binds and blends two wills into one;\nwho do not say that no differences or difficulties have disturbed them,\nan attainment beyond human reach,--but who have grown in the esteem\nand love of each other to this day (at least one of them has); one of\nwhom finds his mate more beautiful than when he married her, though the\nother's condition, in that respect, does n't admit of more or less,\nbeing a condition of obstinate mediocrity; and who, both of them, look\nwith mingled wonder and gratitude to their approaching Golden Wedding\nDay.\n\nSo you can look upon us with pleasure, on the day after Christmas,\nand think of us as surrounded by all our children and grandchildren.\nAnd that is all we shall make, except in our thoughts, of our great\nanniversary.\n\nAdieu. I shall not descend in this letter to meaner themes, but with\nour love to you all, am ever,\n\nYour friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nFrom a Note-Book.\n\nApril 13, 1871.\n\nFATHER TAYLOR, of Boston, has just died,-a very remarkable person. He\nwas a sailor, and more than [313] forty years ago he came from before\nthe mast into the pulpit. He brought with him, I suppose, something of\nthe roughness of his calling; for I remember hearing of his preaching\nin the neighborhood of New Bedford when I first went there, and of his\ninveighing against paid preachers as wretched hirelings, \"rocked upon\nfive feather-beds to hell.\" This, I was told, was meant for me, as I\nhad just been settled upon the highest salary ever paid in those parts.\nIn after years I became acquainted with him, and a very pleasant and\ncordial acquaintance it was. His preaching improved in every way as\nhe went on; the pulpit proved the best of rhetorical schools for him,\nand he became one of the most powerful and impressive preachers in the\ncountry. He was one of nature's orators, and one of the rarest. It was\nsaid of him that he showed what Demosthenes meant by \"action.\" The\nwhole man, body and soul, was not only in action, but was an action\nconcentrated into speech. His strongly built frame,--every limb,\nmuscle, and fibre,--his whole being, spoke.\n\nWaldo Emerson took me to his chapel the first time I ever heard him\npreach. As we went along, speaking of his pathos, he said, \"You 'll\nhave to guard yourself to keep from crying.\" So warned, I thought\nmyself safe enough. But I was taken down at the very beginning of the\nservice. The prayers of the congregation were asked by the family of a\nyoung man,--a sailor, who had been destroyed by a shark on the coast\nof Africa. In' the prayer, the scene was touchingly depicted,--how\nthe poor youth went down to bathe in the summer sea, thoughtless,\nunconscious of any danger, when he was seized by the terrible monster\nthat lay in wait for him. And then the preacher prayed that none of us,\ngoing [314]down into the summer sea of pleasure, might sink into the\njaws of destruction that were opened beneath. I think the prayer left\nno dry eyes.\n\nFather Taylor was a man of large, warm-hearted liberality. He was a\nMethodist; but no sect could hold him. He often came to our Unitarian\nmeetings and spoke in them. In addressing one of our autumnal\nconventions in New York, I recollect his congratulating us on our\nfreedom from all trammels of prescription, creed, and church order,\nand exhorting us to a corresponding wide and generous activity in the\ncause of religion. He was always ready with an illustration, and for\nhis purpose used this: \"We have just had a visit in Boston,\" he said,\n\"from an Indian chief and some of his people. They were invited to\nthe house of Mr. Abbot Lawrence. As Mr. Lawrence received them in his\nsplendid parlor, the chief, looking around upon it, said, It is very\ngood; it is beautiful; but I--I walk large; I go through the woods and\nhunting-grounds one day, and I rise up in the morning and go through\nthem the next,--I walk large. \"Brethren,\" said the speaker, \"walk\nlarge.\"\n\nTaylor's great heart was not chilled by bigotry; neither was it by\ntheology, nor by philosophy. His prayer was the breathing of a child's\nheart to an infinitely loving father; it was strangely free and\nconfiding. I remember being in one of the early morning prayer-meetings\nof an anniversary week in Boston, and Taylor was there. As I rose to\noffer a prayer, I spoke a few words upon the kind of approach which we\nmight make to the Infinite Being. Something like this I said,--that\nas we were taught to believe that we were made in the image of God,\nand were his children, emanations from the Infinite Perfection,\n[315]partakers of the divine nature; as the Infinite One had sent forth\na portion of His own nature to dwell in these forms of frail mortality\nand imperfection, and no darkness, no sorrow, nor erring of ours could\nreach to Him; might we not think,--God knows, I said, that I would be\nguilty of no irreverence or presumption,-but might we not think that\nwith infinite consideration and pity he looks down upon us struggling\nwith our load; upon our weakness and trouble, upon our penitence and\naspiration?\n\nAs the congregation was retiring, and I was passing in the aisle, I saw\nFather Taylor sitting by the pulpit, and he beckoned me aside. \"Brother\nDewey,\" he said, in his emphatic way, \"did you ever know any one to say\nwhat you have been saying this morning?\"-\"Why,\" I replied, \"does not\nevery one say it?\"--\"No,\" he answered; \"I have talked with a thousand\nministers, and no one of them ever said that.\"\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Sept. 12, 1871.\n\nDEAR AND VENERABLE,--For it seems you grow old, and count the\ndiminishing days, as a bankrupt his parting ducats. I never heard\nyou say anything of the sort before, and have only thought of you as\ngrowing richer in every way. I don't in any way; but though well,\nconsidering, I find myself losing strength and good condition every\nyear. That is why I move about less and less, sticking closer to my own\nbed and board, furnace and chimney-nook,--shelf for shoes, and pegs\nfor coat and trousers. [316] I am very glad to hear from you, and that\nyou will come and see us on your way home. Don't slip by us. Don't be\nmiserly about time. Odysseus took a long time for his wanderings; take\na hint from the same, not to be in a hurry.\n\n\nTo Mrs. David Lane.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Nov. 25, 1871.\n\nDEAR me! and dear you, yet more. If I should write to you \"often,\" what\nwould be the condition of us both? I very empty, and you with a great\nclatter in your ears. Think of a hopper, with very little grain in it,\nto keep shaking! It would be a very impolitic hopper.\n\nI am laughing at myself, while I write this, for I am not an empty\nhopper, and if I could \"find it in my heart to bestow all my\ntediousness upon you,\" you would laugh at me too. Ay, but in what sense\nwould you laugh? That is the question. I laugh at myself, proudly, for\ncalling myself empty; and you, perhaps, would laugh at me piteously, on\nfinding me so.\n\nBut a truce with this nonsense. Anybody will find enough to write who\nwill write out what is within him. Did you ever read much of German\nletters,--those, for instance, of Perthes and his friends? They are\nfull of religion, as our American letters, I think, are not. We seem to\nhave been educated, especially we Unitarians, to great reserve on this\nsubject. I remember Channing's preaching against so much reserve. It is\npartly, I believe, a reaction against profession. But there is another\nreason; and that is, in religion's having become, under a more rational\nculture, so a part of our whole life and thought [317] and being, that\nformally to express our feelings upon it seems to us unnecessary,\nand in bad taste, as if we were to say how much we love knowledge or\nliterature, or how much we love our friends or our children. Much talk\nof this sort seems to bring a doubt, by implication, upon the very\nthing talked about. Channing talked perpetually about religion,--that\nis, everything ran into that,--but never about his own religious\nfeelings.\n\nDo get the life of Perthes, if you have never read it. That and\n\"Palissy the Potter\" are among the most interesting biographies I know.\n\nIt is grim November weather up here, and I like it. Everything in its\nplace; and we are having considerable rain, which is more in place,\nas winter is approaching, than anything else could be. Wife and I are\nbunged up with colds. No, I am; that ugly epithet can't attach to the\ngrace and delicacy of her conditions and proportions. But alas! I\nam losing my old and boasted security against colds. I but went out\none evening, to give a lecture at the Friendly Union [The Sheffield\nFriendly Union is the name of an association for purposes of social\nentertainment and culture, which meets one evening in the week, during\nwinter, at a hall in the village, to enjoy music, lectures, reading,\ndramas, or whatever diversion its managers can procure or its members\noffer. Dancing and cards are forbidden, but other games are played\nin the latter part of the evening; and there is a small but good\nlibrary, slowly enlarging, and much used and valued by the members. The\nsubscription fee is small, and the meetings are seldom of less than one\nhundred or two hundred people, many coming three or four miles. The\nsociety was started in 1871, and Dr. Dewey took a great interest in\nit from the first. It was he who chose its name; and while his health\nlasted, he was a frequent attendant, and always lectured or read a play\nof Shakespeare before it two or three times every winter.] and this is\nthe way I [318]pay for it. If there is any barrel in town bigger than\nmy head, I should like to buy it, and get in.\n\nI was sorry not to see Coquerel, and pleased to hear that he had the\ngrace to be disappointed at not seeing me. But I don't seek people\nany more. Why, I don't think I should run in the mud to see Alexis I\nhimself. And to a New York lady I suppose that is about the strongest\nthing I could say.\n\nAll send their love to you and yours.\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, March 7, 1872.\n\nDEAR FRIEND--OF ALL MANKIND,--I see you have let them make you\nPresident of the Bellevue Local Visiting Association. Was there nobody\nelse that could take that charge? Was it not enough for you to have the\nForty-ninth Street Hospital to look after? But M. says, \"Let her; let\nher work.\" And she talks about \"living while you live,\" and comes at me\nwith such saws. Saws they may well be called, for they sever prudence\nfrom virtue, instead of making them a rounded whole. The fact is,\nnobody has any sense--I mean the perfect article--but me. For I say,\nwhat if \"living while you live\" comes to not living at all? Is that\nwhat you call working? And why not let other people work? Is Mrs. Lane\nto be made the queen bee of New York philanthropy, and to become such\nan enormous conglomeration of goodness [319] that she can't get out of\nher hospital hive to visit her friends, nor let them visit her, with\nany chance of seeing her? And is nobody worth caring for unless he has\nbeen knocked down in the street, and has got a broken leg or a fever?\n\nI am quite serious, though you may not think so. I do not like your\ntaking another hospital, or the visitation of it, in charge. It must\ndevolve an immense deal of care and thinking upon somebody. There 's\nreason in all things, or ought to be. Your brains and eyes ought to be\nspared from overwork. We shall hear of you as blind or paralytic next.\n\nTell your mother that we have to \"stand to our colors\" for the climate\nof New England nowadays, else they would be all blown away. It 's\nawful weather in New York too, I hope. I don't go out much. Really, if\nthis March were not-a march to spring, it would be a hard campaign.\nWith love to all your house, I am, as affectionately and warmly as the\nweather will permit,\n\nYours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Feb. 21, 1873.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I need not say we shall be rejoiced to see you. Don't\nbe proud, but it is \"real good\" of you. If \"a saint in crape is twice\na saint in lawn,\" a friend in winter is twice a friend of any other\nseason. \"If I shall be away?\" Only by being beside myself could I be\naway in winter. \"Or have other guests.\" No, indeed, they don't fly like\ndoves to our winter [320]windows. But the white snowflakes do, and it\nwill do your eyes good to see the driven and drifted snow. We have had\na very quiet winter, and few drifts, but to-night, I see, is blowing\nthem up. I should not wonder if they blocked the road and kept my\nletter back a day or two.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nMarch 5, 1873.\n\n. . . WE thought you might be stopped somewhere, and not to go at all\nwould be the worst \"go\" that could be. All Sunday we kept speaking\nabout it, with a sort of feeling as if we were guilty of something;\nso that I felt it necessary to calm the family distress by setting up\na new and original view of the whole matter, to this effect: \"Well,\nif he has been stopped over Sunday at the State Line, or Chatham Four\nCorners, it may be the most profitable Sunday he ever passed. What a\ntime for calm meditation and patience!--better things than preaching.\nYou know he lives in a throng; this will be a blessed 'retreat,' as\nthe Catholics call it. He is stomach-full of prosperity; perhaps he\nneeded an alterative. Introspection is a rare thing in our modern\noutward-bound life. He is accustomed to preach to great admiring\naudiences; to-day he will preach to his humble, non-admiring self.\"\n\nWell, I am glad,--so ready, alas! are we to escape from\ndiscipline,--but I am glad that you got through, though by running a\ngauntlet that we shivered to read of. But you did get through, and\ngot home, having accomplished what you went for. Any way, you did us\nso much good that it paid, on the great scale of disinterested [321]\nbenevolence, for a great deal of trouble on your part.\n\n\"Shall we be carried to the skies On flowery beds of ease?\"\n\nWith our love to the entire quaternity of you, Yours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nOn his eightieth birthday my father was surprised and touched by the\ngift acknowledged in the next letter to the old friend through whose\nhands it was conveyed to him. It will be seen, that in the private\nletter accompanying this response, he was under the mistaken impression\nthat Mr. Bryant was writing a history of the United States, while, in\nfact, he was merely editing one written by Mr. Gay.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nSHEFFIELD, March 30, 1874.\n\nMY DEAR SIR AND FRIEND,--Your letter, which came to me to-day, crowns\nthe birthday tokens and expressions of regard which I have received\nfrom many. It takes me entirely by surprise, only exceeded by the\ngratification I feel at having s: a generous gift from my friends in\nNew York and elsewhere. I thank them, and more than thank them, and\nyou, for being the medium of it. I am alike honored by both. Thanks is\na little word, and dollars is called a vulgar one; but two thousand two\nhundred and sixty-two of the latter, and [322]the sense I have of the\nformer, make up, I feel, no vulgar amount.\n\nI don't know how you will convey to my old parishioners and friends my\nsense of their good will and good esteem, but I pray you will-do so as\nlargely as you can; and to Dr. Osgood particularly for the care and\ntrouble I cannot but suppose he has taken in this matter. I am sure it\nwill please them to know, that on account of the increased expenses\nof living, and the failure of some stocks, this gift is especially\nconvenient to me, and will help to smooth--for the steps now, perhaps,\nbut few-my remaining path in life.\n\nI am, as ever, with great regard,\n\nYour friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, March 30, 1874.\n\nDEAR BRYANT,--I send you enclosed my formal answer to your letter on\nbehalf of my kind friends in New York and elsewhere, but I must have a\nlittle private word with you. . . . That speech of yours at the Cooper\n[A meeting at the Cooper Institute] was one of the best, if not the\nvery best, of the little speeches that you have ever made. But good\ngracious! to think of your undertaking a Popular History of the United\nStates! The only thing that troubles me for you is the taskwork of\ninvestigation. Supposing you to have the whole subject in your mind,\nnobody can write the story better than you can. Put fire into it, my\ndear Senior; or rather do what you can do,--for I have seen it,--so\nstate things in your calm way as to put fire into others.\n\n[323] This is a great work that you have in hand; everybody will read\nit, and will be instructed by it, I trust, in sound politics, and\nstirred to holy patriotism.\n\nEver yours, faithfully,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same,\n\nST. DAVID'S, Aug. 6, 1874.\n\nWE have had a good deal of conference together, you and I, old friend,\nbut I do not know that we ever discussed the subject of bores. You\nhave raised questions about it, both for the next world and this,\nwhich, though I said nothing about them in my book, as you facetiously\nremark, it may surprise you to know are quite serious with me. Thus,\nif there is to be society in the next world, what can save it from\nthe weariness of society in this,--save it, in other words, from\nbores? The spiritists say that Theodore Parker gives lectures there\nto delighted audiences. And, truth to say, I do not know of any other\nsocial occupation that would be so satisfactory as that of teaching or\nlearning. What is all the highest conversation here, but that by which\nwe help one another--teaching or being taught--to higher and juster\nthoughts? That would shake off the yoke of boredom under which so many\ngroan now. If, instead of eternal surface-talk, we could strike down\nto reality, to something that interested our minds and hearts, fresh\nstreams would flow over the arid waste of commonplace. Real thoughts\nwould be a divining-rod. If, when a man calls upon me, he could, teach\nme something upon which he knows more than I do, or I could do the same\nfor him, neither of us would be bored. [324] Do I not talk like a book?\nBut, to be serious, so much am I bored with general society, that I am\ninclined to say I had rather live as I do here in Sheffield. Is n't\nCummington a blessed place for that?\n\nBut alas! it don't save you from being bored with letters,--vide, for\nexample, this, perhaps, which I am now writing.\n\nBut, O excellent man! though you never bored me in talk, you have\nlately bored into me; I will tell you how.\n\nA month or two ago a book agent came to me, asking me to subscribe\nfor \"Bryant's Pictorial America.\" I was astonished, and said, \"Do\nyou mean to say that Mr. Bryant's name will appear on the title page\nof this work, and that it was written by him?\"--\"Certainly,\" was the\nreply; \"not that he has written the whole, but much of it.\" I could n't\nbelieve that, and was declining to subscribe, when my wife--that woman\nhas a great respect for you--called me aside and said, \"I wish you\nwould take this book.\" So I turned back and said, \"My wife wants this\nbook, and I will subscribe for it.\" Well, yesterday the first volume\ncame to hand; and, turning to the title page, I found edited by W. C.\nB., which means not that you wrote the book, but seem to father it.\nNext year a man will come along with \"Bryant's Popular History of the\nUnited States of America,\" and the year after, for aught I know, with\n\"Specimens of American Literature,\" by W. C. B. I do seriously beseech\nyou, my friend, to look into this. These people take advantage of your\ngood-nature; and ill-nature will spring up about it, if this kind of\nthing goes on. With love to J., and hoping to see you,\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[325] To the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Sept. 14, 1874.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--It was very amiable in you to write to me on getting\nhome; and, not to be outdone, I am going to write to you; and for the\nboth sad and amusing story you repeated of Mr. G., I will give you a\nrecital of the same mixed character.\n\nI have been this evening to hear the Hampton Singers. Two of them, by\nthe bye, are our guests,--for we offered to relieve the company of all\nexpenses if they would come down here,--and very well behaved young\nmen they are. The tunes they sing, remember, come from the tobacco and\ncotton fields of the South. I asked them how many they had. They said,\ntwo hundred, and that there were a great many more which were sung by\nthe slaves of the old time. Is it not an extraordinary thing? I do\nnot believe that more than ten are ever heard from the farms of New\nEngland. I don't remember more than five. What a musical nature must\nthese people have I imagine that no such musical development, no such\nnumber of songs, can be found among any other people in the world,\n\nThe chief interest with me in hearing them was thinking where they\ncame from, what was the condition that gave birth to them. Their\nsinging is both sad and amusing, but partakes more of aspiration than\nof dejection; and it has not a particle of hard or revengeful feeling\ntowards their masters. But here again,--what sort of a people it is!\nThe words of their songs are of the poorest; not a soul among them has\narisen to give us anything like the German folk-songs, or like Burns's.\nStill, their songs are a wonderful revelation from the house of [326]\nbondage; such sadness, such domestic tenderness, such feeling for one\nanother, such hopes and hallelujahs lifted above this world, where\nthere was no hope\n\nHeartily yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Nov. 24, 1874.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I have read and read again what you have written upon the\nGreat Theme. What a subject for a letter! And yet the most we can say\nseems to avail no more than the least we can say. Some one, or more,\nof the old Asiatics--I forget who--says he \"would have no word used\nto describe the Infinite Cause.\" I suppose no word can be found that\nis not subject to exceptions. The final words that I fall back upon\nare righteousness and love. Even the word intelligence is perhaps more\nquestionable. If it implies anything like attention to one person and\nthing or another, anything like imagination, comparison, reasoning,\nwe must pause upon the use of it. To say knowledge would perhaps be\nbetter, for there must be something that knows its own works and\ncreatures. To suppose the cause of all things to be ignorant of all\nthings seems like a contradiction in terms. It would be, in fact, to\ndeny a cause; to say that the universe is what it is without any cause.\nEven that awful supposition, the only alternative to theism, comes over\nthe mind sometimes; but if I were to accept it, \"the very stones would\ncry out\" against me.\n\nOh, my friend, I lie down in my bed every night thinking of God; and\nI say sometimes, is it not a false idea of greatness, to suppose the\nInfinite Greatness cannot [327] regard me? Worldly great men shrink\nfrom little things, from little people. But it is not so with the most\ntruly great. They come down in art, in poetry, in eloquence, in true\nlearning, to instruct and lift up the lowly and ignorant.\n\nAnd again I say, when trying to reckon up the account with myself\nbefore I sink into unconsciousness, thinking of this bodily frame, with\nits million harmonious agencies, and the mind more wonderful still; or\nwhen I sit down in my daily walk, and sink into the bosom of nature,\nwith light and life and beauty all around me,--surely the author of\nall this is good. It would be monstrous fatuity to question it, utter\nblindness not to see it.\n\nAnd yet again, I say, there are relations between the finite and the\nInfinite, between my mind and the Infinite mind, between my weakness\nand the Infinite power. And why should conscious Omnipresence in our\nconception localize it? Presence is not limited to contact. I am\npresent here in my room; I am present in the field where I sit down.\nWhy, with the whole universe, should not the Infinite Being thus be\npresent?\n\nWhat a wonderful chapter is the twenty-third of Job! There are many\nthings in that book which touch upon our modern experience. \"Oh! that I\nknew where I might find him, that I might come near even to his seat.\nI go forward, but he is not there, and backward, but I cannot perceive\nhim; on the left hand where he cloth work, but I cannot behold him;\nfor he hideth himself on the right hand that I cannot see him.\" But I\ncome with undoubting faith to Job's conclusion: \"But he knoweth the way\nthat I take; when he hath tried me I shall come forth as gold.\" There\nare deep trials, at times, in the approach to God, in lifting the weak\nthoughts of our minds to the [328] Infinite One; there are struggles\nand tears which none may ever witness; but still I say, \"0 God, thou\nart my God, early will I seek thee,\"--ever will I seek thee. Let him\nwho will, or must, walk out from this fair, bright, glowing world,\nthrilling all the world in us with joy, upon the cold and dreary waste\nof atheism; I will not. I should turn rebel to all the great instincts\nwithin me, and all the great behests of nature and life around me, if I\ndid. Ah! the confounding, ever-troubling difficulty is not to believe,\nbut to feel the great Presence all the day long. This is what I think\nof, and long have, with questioning and pain. What beings should we\nbecome--what to one another--under that living and loving sense of the\nall-good, the all-beautiful and divine within us and around us! And,\nfor ourselves, what a perfect joy it is to feel that, in this seemingly\ndisturbed universe, all is order, all is right, all is well, all is the\nbest possible!\n\nYours ever,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nFrom a Note-Book.\n\nTHE pain of erring,--the bitterest in the world,--is it not strange\nthat it should be so bitter? Is it not strange that growth must be\nattained on such hard terms? Nay, but is it not simply applying the\nsharpest instrument to the cutting and carving of the finest and\ngrandest form of things on earth,--a noble character?\n\nThe work is but begun on earth. Man is the only being in this world\nwhose nature is not half developed, whose powers are in their infancy;\nthe ideal in whose constitution is not yet, and never on earth,\nrealized. The animal arrives at animal perfection here,--becomes all\n[329] that it was made to be. The beetle, the dragon-fly, the eagle,\nis as perfect as it can be. But man comes far short of the ideal that\npresided over his formation. Any way it would be unaccountable, not to\nsay incredible, that God's highest work on earth should fail of its\nend, fail of realizing its ideal, fail of being what it was made for.\nBut when the process, unlike that in animals, which is all facility\nand pleasure, is full of difficulty and pain, then for the unfinished\nwork to be dropped would be, not as if a sculptor should go on blocking\nout marble statues only to throw them away half finished, but as if he\nshould take the living human frame for his subject, and should cut and\ngash and torture it for years, only to fling it into the ditch.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Dec. 22, 1874.\n\nTHANK you, my friend, and three times over, for Allibone's volumes. I\ndid want and never expected to have them. But I had no idea Allibone\nwas such a big thing. All the bigger are my thanks. What an ocean of\ndrowned authors it is,--only here and there one with masts up and the\nflags flying!\n\nMy little oracular, pro-Indians admonition was correctly printed, and\nthe changes you made were good.\n\nDo you know that to-day sol stat? I don't believe that you mind it\nin the city as we do in the country. To-day the glorious orb pauses\nand rests a little, to turn back and march up and along the mountain\ntop,-about a mile and a half a month on the same,--and bring us summer.\nAnd there is cheer and comfort in [330] that, though the proverb about\nthe cold strengthening holds for a couple of months.\n\nWith our Merry Christmas to you all, I am, all days of the year,\n\nYours heartily,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, May 9, 1875.\n\nMY DEAR FELLOW (of the Royal Society, I mean),--I have had it upon\nmy mind these two or three weeks past to write to you; and I really\nbelieve that what most hindered me was that I had so many things to\nsay. And yet, I solemnly declare that I cannot remember now what they\nwere. They were things of evanescent meditation, phases of the Great\nQuestions; but for a week or two I have been saying, I will not weary\nmyself so much with them. So you have escaped this time. One thing,\nhowever, I do recall, though not of those questions; and that is,\nreading the Psalms through for my pillow-book. And it is with a kind\nof astonishment that I have read them. Did you ever look into them\nwith the thought of comparing them with the old Hindoo and Persian or\nMohammedan or Greek utterances of devotion? How cold and formal these\nare, compared with the earnestness, the entreaty, the tenderness of\nDavid and Asaph,-the swallowing up of their whole souls into love,\ntrust, and thankfulness! What is this, whence came it, and what does\nit mean? This phenomenon in Judaa, how are you to explain it, without\nsupposing a special inspiration breathed into the souls of men from\nthe source of all spiritual life and light? The Jewish nature was\nnot [331] more keen than the Greek, or perhaps the Arabians, yet all\ntheir religious utterances are but apothegms in presence of the Jewish\nvitality and experience. I do not deny their grandeur and beauty; but\nthe Bible brings me into another world of thought and feeling,--into a\nnew creation. And when we take into the account the Gospels, we seem to\nbe brought alike out of the old philosophy and the new,--out both from\nthe old formalism and the vast inane and unknown, which the science of\nto-day conceives of, into new and living relations with the Infinite\nLove and Goodness. In this, for my part, I rest.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Jury 24, 1875.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--Thank you for one of your good, long, thoughtful\nletters. My thoughts in these days run in other directions. I cannot\ntell you what they are; no language can; at least, I never used any\nthat did. Almost all human experience has been described; but what\nare the thoughts and feelings of a man who says with himself as he\nwalks along upon the familiar path, \"A few more steps and I shall be\ngone;--what and where shall I be then?\" No mortal speech can tell.\nMeditations come, you may imagine, at such a crisis in one's being,\ntoo vast, too trying for utterance. Wearied and weighed down by them,\nI sometimes say, \"I will think no more about it; all my thinking will\nalter nothing that is to be; what can I do but lay myself on the bosom\nof that Infinite Goodness, in which, without doubting, I believe? What\nwould I have other than what God appoints?\" [332] Yet, after all, I am\nfar from losing my interest in the world I am leaving. I am much struck\nwith what you say about the press,--the money interest involved, and\nthe direction which that interest is likely to give it. I wish there\nwere a distinct education for editorship, as there is for preaching, or\nfor the lawyer or physician. There is an article of Greg's in the last\n\"Contemporary Review,\" following out his \"Rocks Ahead,\" that it has\ndistressed me to read. The great danger now is the rise of the lower\nand laboring classes against capital and intelligence. And nothing\nwill save the world, but for the higher classes to rouse themselves to\ndo their duty,--in politics, in education, and in consideration and\ncare for the lower. Have you seen the pamphlet of Miss Octavia Hill,\nof England? That is the spirit, and one kind of work that is wanted. O\nwomen! instead of clamoring for your rights, come up to this!\n\nThis is the most beautiful summer that I remember. I am glad to hear of\nyour enjoying it, and of the bevy of young people around you. Such I\nsee every day in the street and the grounds, as if Sheffield were the\nvery paradise of the young and gay.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Dec. 30, 1875.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--. . . I am glad to have your opinion of Emerson's and\nWhittier's verse Collections, and especially your good opinion of\nCranch's translation, `or I am much interested in him. . . .\n\nMy own reading runs very much in another direction, among those who\n\"reason of\" the highest things. Especially I have been interested in\nwhat those old [333] atheists, Lucretius and Omar Khayyam, say. Have\nyou seen the \"Rubaiyat\" of the latter? And, by the bye, have you an\nEnglish translation of Lucretius's \"De Rerurn Natura\"? It must be a\nsmall volume, only six books; and if it is not too precious an edition,\nI pray you to lend and send it to me by mail.\n\nWhat atheism was to the minds of these two men amazes me. Lucretius was\nan Epicurean in life, perhaps, as well as philosophy, but I want to\nunderstand him better. I want to see whether he anywhere laments over\nthe desolation of his system. That a man of his power and genius should\nhave accepted it calmly and indifferently, is what I cannot understand.\nAs for Omar, he seems to turn it all into sport. \"Don't think at all,\"\nis what he says; \"drown all thought in wine.\" But he writes very\ndeftly, and I cannot but think that his resort is something like the\ndrunkard's,--to escape the great misery.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Jan. 11, 1876.\n\n. . . IT is n't everybody that can turn within, and ask such questions\nas you do. But though I laughed at the exaggeration, I admire the\ntendency. I suppose nobody ever did much, or advanced far, without more\nor less of it. But your appreciation of others beats your depreciation\nof yourself. For me, I am so poor in fact and in my own opinion,\nthat,--what do you suppose I am going to say?--that I utterly reject\nand cast away the kind things you say of me? No, I don't; that is, I\nwon't. I am determined to make the most of them. For, to be serious,\nI have poured out my mind and [334] heart into my preaching. I have\nwritten with tears in my eyes and thrills through my frame, and why\nshall I say, it is nothing? Nay, though I have never been famed as a\npreacher, I do believe that what I have preached has told upon the\nhearts of my hearers as deeply, perhaps, as what is commonly called\neloquence. But when you speak of my work as \"put beyond cavil and\nbeyond forgetfulness,\" I cover my face with my hands, with confusion.\n\nBut enough of personalities, except to say that I think you exaggerate\nand fear too much the trials that old age, if it come, will bring upon\nyou. Not to say that your temperament is more cheerful and hopeful than\nmine, you are embosomed in interests and friendships that will cling\nabout you as long as you live. I am comparatively alone. . . .\n\nBut after all, the burden of old age lies not in such questions as\nthese. It is a solemn crisis in our being, of which I cannot write now,\nand probably never shall.\n\n\"Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore.\"\n\nThat is all I can do, except reasonably to enjoy all the good I\nhave and all the happiness I see. Of the latter, I count A.'s being\n\"better,\" and of the former, your friendship as among the most prized\nand dear.\n\nWith utmost love to you all,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo William Cullen Bryant, Esq.\n\nST. DAVID'S, March 14, 1876.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I have begun to look upon myself as an old man. I\nnever did before. I have felt so [335] young, so much at least as I\nalways have done, that I could n't fairly take in the idea. The giftie\nhas n't been gi'ed me to see myself as others see me. Even yet, when\nthey get up to offer me the great chair, I can't understand it. But at\nlength I have so far come into their views as seriously to ask myself\nwhat it is fit for an old man to do, or to undertake. And I have come\nto the conclusion that the best thing for me is to be quiet, to keep,\nat least, to my quiet and customary method of living,-in other words,\nto be at home. My wife is decidedly of that opinion for herself, and,\nby parity of reasoning, for me; and I am inclined to think she is right.\n\nThis parity, however, does not apply to you. You are six months younger\nthan I am, by calendar, and six years in activity; you go back and\nforth like Cicero to his country villas; pray stop at my door some day,\nand let me see you.\n\nYou see where all this points. I decide not to go to New York at\npresent, notwithstanding all the attractions which you hold out to me.\nI don't feel like leaving home while this blustering March is roaring\nabout the house. And from the mild winter we have had, I expect it to\ngrow more like a lion at the end.\n\nWith love to J. and Miss F.,\n\nYour timid old friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nAug. 7, 1876.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I can't be quite still, though I have nothing to say\nbut how good you must be, to see so much good in others! That is what\nalways strikes me [336] in your oraisons funebres, and equally, the\nfine discrimination you always show. And both appear in your loving\nnotice of my volume.' Well, I take it to heart, and accept, though I\ncannot altogether understand it. Such words, from such a person as you,\nare a great thing to me. It is to me a great comfort to retire from the\nscene with such a testimony, instead of a bare civil dismissal, which\nis all I was looking for from anybody.\n\nMr. Dewey was urged to the publication of this last volume of sermons\nby several of his most valued friends; and its warm acceptance by the\npublic justified their opinion, and gave him the peculiar gratification\nof feeling that in his old age and retirement his words could yet have\npower and receive approbation.\n\nRev. J. W. Chadwick wrote a delightful review of the book in the\n\"Christian Register;\" and, supposing that the notice was editorial, my\nfather wrote to Mr. Mumford, then editor, as follows:\n\nSHEFFIELD, Nov. 22, 1876.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--It is taking things too much au serieux, perhaps, to\nwrite a letter of special thanks for your notice of my volume in last\nweek's \"Register.\" If I ought to have passed it over as the ordinary\neditorial courtesy, I can only say that it did not seem to me as such\nmerely, but something heartier,--and finer, by itself considered. I\nwas glad to have praise from such a pen. You will better understand\nthe pleasure [337] that it gave me, when I tell you that I set about\nthe publication of that volume with serious misgiving, feeling as if\nthe world had had enough of me, and it would be fortunate for me to\nbe let off without criticism. And now, you and Bellows and Martineau\n(in a private letter) come with your kind words, and turn the tables\naltogether in my favor.\n\nI once wrote a review of Channing, and, on speaking with him about it,\nI found that he had n't read the praise part at all. His wife told me\nthat he never read anything of that sort about himself. Well, he was\nhalf drowned with it; but for me, I think it is right to express my\nobligation to you, and the good regard with which I am,\n\nVery truly your\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Jan. 16, 1877.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--A New Year's word from you should have had an answer\nbefore now, but I have had little to tell you. Unless I tell you of\nour remarkable snow season, snow upon snow, till it is one or two\nfeet deep; or of the woodpeckers that come and hammer upon our trees\nas if they were driving a trade; or of our sunsets, which flood the\nsouth mountain with splendor, and flush the sky above with purple and\nvermilion, as if they said, \"We are coming, we are coming to bring\nlight and warmth and beauty with us.\" You can hardly understand, in\nyour city confines, how lovely are these harbingers of spring. And see!\nit is only two months off. And withal we are ploughing through the\nwinter in great [338] comfort and health. No parties here, to be sure;\nno clubs, no oysters and champagne, but pleasant sitting around the\nevening fire, with loud reading,--Warner's \"Mummies and Moslems\" just\nnow, very pleasantly written. . . . Have you seen Huidekoper's \"Judaism\nin Rome\"? It has interested me very much. The Jews, as a people,\npresent the greatest of historic problems. A narrow strip of land,\nthat \"scowl upon the face of the world,\"--a small people, no learning,\nno art, no military power; yet, by the very ideas proceeding from\nit,-Christianity included,-has influenced the world more than Greece or\nRome. Huidekoper's book is very learned. I am glad to see such a book\nfrom our ranks. We have done too little elaborate work in learning or\ntheology. Your Ministers' Institute promises well for that.\n\n\nTo his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.\n\nST. DAVID'S, March 26, 1877.\n\nYOUR letter has come this afternoon, astonishing us with its date, and\nleading us to wonder where your whereabouts are now. Such an 4,-nis\nfatuus you have proved for the month past! With plans of goings and\ncomings, with engagements and disengagements, you have slipped by us\nentirely, so that the kind of assurance I have had that you would come\nand pass two or three weeks with us before going eastward has come\nutterly to nought. You should have come; our chances of seeing one\nanother are narrowing every year. But we will not dwell gloomily upon\nit. We may live three or four years longer,--people do; and I think\nI am more afraid of a longer than of a shorter term. [339] The \"pain\nat heart,\" of which you speak at putting a wider space between us,\nis what I, too, have felt; and your thoughts, taken literally, are\npleasant, while spiritualized, they are our only resource. Yes, the\nheavenly spaces unite us, while the earthly separate. Oh! could we know\nthat we shall meet again when the earthly scene closes! But what we do\nnot know, we hope for, and I think the supports of that hope increase\nwith me. Development for every living creature, up to the highest it\ncan reach, is the law of its nature; and why, according to that law,\nshould not the poorest human creatures--the very troglodytes, the\ncave-dwellers--rise, till all that is infolded in their being should\nbe brought forth? Where and how, is in the counsels and resources of\ninfinite power and goodness. Where and how creatures should begin to\nexist would be as much mysterious to us as where and how they should go\non.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, April 22, 1877.\n\nDEAR HOSPITALITY,--I minded much what you said about my coming down in\nMay, but I have been so discouraged about myself for six weeks past,\nthat I have not wanted to write to you;--besieged by rheumatism from\ntop to toe; in my ankle, so that I could not walk, only limp about; in\nmy left arm, so that I could not lift it to my head, and, of course, a\npretty uncomfortable housekeeper all that time. Nevertheless, I expect\nMay to bring me out again, and do think sometimes that I may take C.\nwith me, and run down for two or three days. . . . I am reading the\nMartineau book, skippingly. . . . It seems that Miss M. was not an\natheist, [340] after all. She believed in a First Cause, only denying\nthat it is the God of theology,--which who does not deny?-denying,\nindeed, with Herbert Spencer, that it is knowable. But if they say that\nit is not knowable, how do they know but it is that which they deny?\n\nMiss Martineau's passing out of this world in utter indifference as\nto what would become of her, seems to me altogether unnatural, on her\nground or any other. Any good or glad hold on existence implies the\ndesire for its continuance. She had no hope nor wish for it, as well as\nno belief in it.\n\nAs to belief in it, or hope of it, why should not the law of\ndevelopment lead to such a feeling? The plant, having within it the\npower to produce flower and fruit, does not naturally die till it\ncomes to that maturity. The horse or ox attains to its full strength\nand speed before its life is ended. Why should it not be so with man?\nHis powers are not half, rather say not one-hundredth part, developed,\nwhen he arrives at that point which is called death. Development is\nimpossible to him, unless he continues to exist, and to go onward. And\nwhy should not the same argument apply to what may trouble some people\nto think of,--that is, to the three hundred and fifty millions of\nChina, or even the troglodytes, the cave-dwellers? To our weakness and\nignorance, it may seem easier to sweep the planet clean every two or\nthree generations. But of the realms and resources of Infinite Power,\nwhat can we know or judge?\n\nUntil this spring, my father's health had been exceptionally good,\nnotwithstanding his allusions to increasing infirmities. Indeed,\napart from his [341] brain trouble, he had always been so well that\nany interruption to his physical vigor astonished and rather dismayed\nhim. His sleep was habitually good, and his waking was like that of\na child, frolicsome in the return to life. He was never merrier than\nearly in the morning, and his toilet was a very active one. He took\nan air-bath for fifteen minutes, during which he briskly exercised\nhimself,--and this custom he thought of great importance in hardening\nthe body against cold. Then, after washing, dressing, and shaving,\nbreakfast must come at once,--delay was not conducive to peace in the\nhousehold; and immediately after breakfast he sat down to his desk\nfor one, two, or three hours, as the case might be. He was singularly\ntolerant of little interruptions, although he did not like to have any\none in his room while he was writing, and when his morning's task was\ndone, especially if he were satisfied with it, he came out in excellent\nspirits, and ready for outdoor exercise. He walked a great deal in New\nYork, but never without an errand. It was very seldom, either in town\nor country, that he walked for the walk's sake; but at St. David's he\nspent an hour or two every day at hard work either in the garden or at\nthe wood-pile, and made a daily visit in all weathers to the village\nand the post-office.\n\nAfter his early dinner he invariably took a nap; and after tea, went\nagain to his desk for an hour, and then came to the parlor for the\nevening's [342] amusement, whether reading, or music, or talk, or a\ngame of whist, of which he was very fond; and in all these occupations\nhis animation was so unfailing, his interest so cordial, that family\nand guests gladly followed his leadership.\n\nBut in this spring of 1877 the rheumatic attack of which he speaks was\nthe beginning of a state of languor which in July became low bilious\nfever. He was not very ill; kept his bed only one day, and by the\nautumn recovered sufficiently to walk out; but from that time he was an\ninvalid, and he never again left his home.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, May 4, 1877. DEAR FRIEND, AND FRIENDS,--I see that I\ncannot do it. You ought to be glad, not that I cannot, and indeed\nthat would not be strictly true, but that I do not judge it best. I\nreally think that I myself should be afraid of a man, that is, of a\nman-visitor, in his eighty-fourth year. But what decides me now is that\nmy rheumatism still holds on to me, and does not seem inclined to let\nme go, or rather to let go of me. This weather, chilly and penetrating\nto the bones and marrow, is a clencher. I do not walk, but only creep\nabout the house, and can't easily dress myself yet; all which shows\nwhere I ought to be. What a curious thing it is! I had n't a bit of\nrheumatism all winter till March came, and never had any before. Was\nn't it the Amalekites that were smitten \"hip and thigh\"? Well, I am\nan Amalekite, and no more expected to be knocked over so than they\ndid.[343] I have read with extraordinary pleasure Frank Peabody's\nsermon on \"Faith and Freedom.\" I saw it in the \"Index.\" I don't know\nwhen I have read anything so fine, from any of our young men. . . .\nAs to the limitations of free-will, even more marked than those of\nheredity and association are those imposed by the law of our nature.\nI am not free to think that two and two make five, or that a wicked\naction is good and right. But am I not free to pursue the worst as well\nas the best? But I am not fit to discuss anything.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nDec. 13, 1877.\n\nYESTERDAY the mail brought me Furness's new book, \"The Power of\nSpirit,\" and I have already read half of it. It seems to be the\nfinishing up of what may be called his life-work, that is, the setting\nforth of the character of the Master. The book is very interesting,\nand not merely a repetition of what he has said before. To be sure, I\ncannot go along with him when he maintains that the power of Christ's\nspirit naturally produced those results which are called miracles.\nYou know what Stetson said,--that if that were true, Channing ought\nto be able to cure a cut finger. But the earnestness, the eloquence,\nthe spirit of faith pervading the book are very charming. Look into\nit, if you can get hold of it. The chapter on Faith in Christ is very\nadmirable, and that on Easter is a very curious and adroit piece of\ncriticism. I wish that Furness would not be so confident, considering\nthe grounds he goes upon, and that he would not write so darkly upon\nthe materialism of the age.\n\n\n[344]To the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Feb. 1, 1878.\n\nHow I should like to take such a professional bout as you have had! Now\nI wish you could sit down by my side and tell me all about it. I think\npreaching was always my greatest pleasure; and in my dreams now I think\nI am oftenest going to preach. People try to sum up the good that life\nis to them. I think it lies most in activity. Bartol, and that grand\nsoul, Clarke, discussed it much.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nMay 13, 1878.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,-I am so much indebted to your good long letters, that I am\nashamed to take my pen to reply. . . .\n\nYour Sanitary Commission Report came to hand two days ago, and I\nbegan at once to read it, and finished it without stopping, greatly\ninterested in all the details, and greatly pleased with the spirit.\nWhat a privilege to be allowed to take such a part in our great\nstruggle! I cannot write about it, nor anything else, as I want to. I\ndon't know why it is, but I have a strange reluctance to touch my pen.\nI see that the death of Miss Catherine Beecher is announced. There\nwere fine things about her. What must she not have suffered, of late\nyears! But I am disposed to say of the release of every aged person,\n\"Euthanasia.\"\n\n6th. I will finish this and get it off to you before Sunday. You have\na great deal to do before vacation. Let me enjoin it upon you to have\na vacation when the [345] time comes. Don't spend your strength and\nlife too fast. Live to educate those fine boys. Thank you for sending\nus their picture. See what Furness does. That article on Immortality\nis as good as anything he ever wrote. Did you read the paper on the\nRadiometer in the last \"Popular Science\"? What a (not world merely)\nbut universe do we live in! I am not willing to go out of the world\nwithout knowing all I can know of these wonders that fill alike the\nheavens above and every inch of space beneath. What a glorious future\nwill it be, if we may spend uncounted years in the study of them! And,\nnotwithstanding the weight of matter-of-fact that seems to lie against\nit, I think my hope of it increases. This blessed sense of what it is\nto be,--this sweetness of existence,-why should it be given us to be\nlost forever?\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, June 16, 1878.\n\n. . . ONE point in your letter strikes very deep into my\nexperience,--that in which you speak of my \"standing so long upon\nthe verge.\" To stand as I do, within easy reach of such stupendous\npossibilities,--that of being translated to another sphere of\nexistence, or of being cut off from existence altogether and\nforever,--does indeed fill me with awe, and make me wonder that I am\nnot depressed or overwhelmed by it. Habit is a stream which flows on\nthe same, no matter how the scenery changes. It seems as if routine\nwore away the very sense of the words we use. We speak often of\nimmortality; the word slides easily over our lips; but do we consider\nwhat it means? Do you ever ask yourself whether, after having lived a\nhundred thousands or [346] millions of years, you could still desire to\ngo on for millions more?--whether a limited, conscious existence could\nbear it?\n\nI read the foregoing, and said, \"I don't see any need of considering\nmatters so entirely out of our reach;\" but the question is, can we help\nit? Fearfully and wonderfully are we made, but in nothing, perhaps,\nmore than this,--that we are put upon considering questions concerning\nGod, immortality, the mystery of life, which are so entirely beyond our\nreach to comprehend.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, July 19, 1879.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--After our long silence, if it was the duty of the ghost\nto speak first, I think it should have been me, who am twenty years\nnearer to being one than you are; but it would be hardly becoming in\na ghost to be as funny as you are about Henry and the hot weather.\nA change has come now, and the dear little fellow may put as many\nquestions as he will. It is certainly a very extraordinary season. I\nremember nothing quite so remarkable.\n\nHave you Professor Brown's \"Life of Choate\" by you? If you have, do\nread what he says of Walter Scott, in vol. i., from p. 204 on. I often\nturn to Scott's pages now, in preference to almost anything else, as I\nshould to the old masters in painting.\n\nGood-by. Cold morning,--cold fingers,--cold everything, but my love for\nyou and yours.\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[347] To the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, April 14, 1880.\n\nMY DEAREST YOUNG FRIEND,\n\n--For three or four years I have thought your mind was having a new\nbirth, and now it is more evident than ever. Everybody will tell you\nthat your Newport word is not only finer than mine, but finer, I think,\nthan anything else that has been said of Channing. The first part was\ngrand and admirable; the last, more than admirable,--unequalled, I\nthink. . . .\n\nTake care of yourself. Don't write too much. Your long, pleasant letter\nto me shows how ready you are to do it. May you live to enjoy the\nbudding life around you. . . .\n\nMy writing tells you that I shan't last much longer. Then keep fresh\nthe memory of\n\nYour loving friend,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nJune 15, 1880.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--To think of answering such a letter as yours of June 5th\nis too much for me, let alone the effort to do it. It seems absurd for\nme to have such a correspondent, and would be, if he were not of the\ndearest of friends. For its pith and keenness, I have read over this\nlast letter two or three times. . . . I see that you won't come here in\nJune. Don't try. That is, don't let my condition influence you. I shall\nprobably, too probably, continue to live along for some time, as I have\ndone. No pain, sound sleep, good [348] digestion,--what must follow\nfrom all this, I dread to think of. Only the weakness in my limbs--in\nthe branches, so to say--admonishes me that the tree may fall sooner\nthan I expect.\n\nLove to all,\n\nO. D.\n\n\nTo his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Oct. 13, 1880.\n\nDEAREST SISTER,--Why do you tell me such \"tells,\" when I don't believe\na bit in them? However, I do make a reservation for my preaching ten\nyears in New Bedford and ten in New York. They could furnish about the\nonly \"tells\" in my life worth telling, if there were anybody to tell\n'em. Nobody seems to understand what preaching is. George Curtis does\nhis best two or three times a year. The preacher has to do it every\nSunday.\n\nI agree with you about Bryant's \"Forest Hymn.\" I enjoy it more than\nanything he ever wrote, except the \"Waterfowl.\"\n\nYours always,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Dec. 24, 1880.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--My wife must write you about the parcel of books which\ncame to hand yesterday and was opened in the midst of us with due\nadmiration, and with pleasure at the prospect it held out for the\nwinter. My wife, I say; for she is the great reader, while I am, in\ncomparison, like the owl, which the showman said kept up-you remember\nwhat sort of a thinking. But, comparisons [349] apart, it is really\ninteresting to see how much she reads; how she keeps acquainted with\nwhat is going on in the world, especially in its philanthropic and\nreligious work.\n\nThen, in the old Bible books she is the greatest reader that I know.\nI wish you could hear her expatiate on David and Isaiah; and she is\nin the right, too. They leave behind them, in a rude barbarism of\nreligious ideas, Egypt and Greece. By the bye, is it not strange that\nthe two great literatures of antiquity, the Hebrew and Grecian, should\nhave appeared in territories not larger than Rhode Island? This is\ncontrary to Buckle's view, who says, if I remember rightly, that the\nliterature of genius naturally springs from a rich soil, from great\nwealth and leisure demanding intellectual entertainment.\n\n\nTo his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.\n\nST. DAVID'S, April 4, 1881.\n\nDEAREST RUSHE,--. . . I am glad at what you are doing about the\n\"Helps,\" and especially at your taking in the \"Bugle Notes.\" Of course\nit gives you trouble, but don't be anxious about it; 't will all\ncome out right. The book has met with great favor, whereat I am much\npleased, as you must be.\n\nYes, Carlyle's \"Reminiscences\" must be admired; but it will take all\nthe sweets about his wife to neutralize his\n\n\"Helps to Devout Living\" is the name of a collection of beautiful and\nvaluable passages, in prose and verse, compiled by Miss J. Dewey, in\nthe second edition of which she included, at her brother's request,\nMr. Wasson's \"Bugle Notes,\" a poem which had been for years one of\nhis peculiar favorites. [350] supreme care for himself, and careless\ndisparagement of almost everybody else. Genius is said to be, in its\nvery nature, loving and generous; it seems but the fit recognition of\nits own blessedness; was his so? I have been reading again \"Adam Bede,\"\nand I think that the author is decidedly and unquestionably superior to\nall her contemporary novel-writers. One can forgive such a mind almost\nanything. But alas! for this one--. . . It is an almost unpardonable\nviolation of one of the great laws on which social virtue rests. . . .\n\nEver yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.\n\nST. DAVID'S, June 30, 1881.\n\n. . . SINCE reading Freeman Clarke's book, I have been thinking of the\nsteps of the world's religious progress. The Aryan idea, so far as we\nknow anything of it, was probably to worship nature. The Greek idolatry\nwas a step beyond that, substituting intelligent beings for it. Far\nhigher was the Hebrew spiritualism, and worship of One Supreme, and\nfar higher is Isaiah than Homer, David than Sophocles; and no Hebrew\nprophet ever said, \"Offer a cock to Esculapius.\" So is Christianity\nfar beyond Buddhism; and far beyond Sakya Muni, dim and obscure as he\nis, are the concrete realities of the life of Jesus. Whether anything\nfurther is to come, I tremble to ask; and yet I do ask it.[351]\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nJuly 23, 1881.\n\nDEAR, NAY, DEAREST FRIEND,--What shall I say, in what language express\nthe sense of comfort and satisfaction which, first your sermon years\nago,' and now your letter of yesterday, have given me? Ah! there is a\nspot in every human soul, I guess, where approbation is the sweetest\ndrop that can fall. I will not imbitter it with a word of doubt or\ndebate. . . .\n\nCome here when you can. With love to all, Ever yours,\n\nO. D.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Sept. 23, 1881.\n\nDEAR FRIEND,--I am waiting with what patience I can, to hear whether\nyou have been to Meadville or not. . . . In that lovely but just\npicture which you draw of my wife, and praise her patience at the\nexpense of mine, I doubt whether you fairly take into account the\ndifference between the sexes, not only in their nature, but in their\nfunctions. We men take a forward, leading, decisive part in affairs,\nthe women an acquiescent part. The consequence is that they are more\nyielding, gentler under defeat, than we. When I said, yesterday, \"It\ncosts men more to be patient, to be virtuous, than it costs you,\"--\"Oh!\noh!\" they exclaimed. But it is true. . . .\n\nSept. 26. 1881\n\nWHAT a day is this! A weeping nation [See p. 358], in all its thousand\nchurches and million homes, participates in the [352] mournful\nsolemnities at Cleveland. A great kindred nation takes part in our\nsorrow. Its queen, the Queen of England, sends her sympathy, deeper\nthan words, to the mourning, queenly relict of our noble President.\nNever shall I, or my children to the fourth generation, probably, see\nsuch a day. Never was the whole world girdled in by one sentiment like\nthis of to-day.\n\n\nTo the Same.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Jan. 1, 1882.\n\n. . . FOR a month or two I have been feeling as if the year would never\nend. But it has come, and here is the beginning of a new. And of what\nyear of the world? Who knows anything about it? Do you? does anybody?\nWhat is, or can be, known of a human race on this globe more than 4,000\nyears ago--or 4,000,000? Oh! this dreadful ignorance! Fain would I go\nto another world, if it would clear up the problems of this.\n\n. . . .\n\nAll I can do is to fall upon the knees of my heart and say, \"0 God, let\nthe vision of Thy glory never be hidden from my eyes in this world or\nany other, but forever grow brighter and brighter!\"\n\nWe have had some bad and some sad times here. M. must tell you about\nthem.\n\nHappy New Year to you all.\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nIt was now nearly five years that my father had trod the weary path of\ninvalidism, slowly weaning him from the familiar life and ties he loved\nso [353] well. The master's interest was as large, as keen as ever;\nfriendship, patriotism, religion, were even dearer to him than when he\nwas strong to work in their service; but the ready servants that had\nso long stood by him,--the ear, always open to each new word of hope\nand promise for humanity; the eye, that looked with eager pleasure on\nevery noble work of man and on every natural object, seeing in all,\nmanifestations of the Divine Goodness and Wisdom; the feet, that had\ncarried him so often on errands of kindness; the hands, whose clasp\nhad cheered many a sad heart, and whose hold upon the pen had sent\nstrong and stirring words through the land,-these gradually resigned\ntheir functions, and the active but tired brain, which had held on so\nbravely, notwithstanding the injury it had received in early life,\nbegan to share in the general decline of the vital powers. There was no\ndisease, no deflection of aim nor confusion of thought, but a gentle\nfailure of faculties used up by near a century's wear and tear.\n\nHe was somewhat grieved and harassed by the spiritual problems which\nwere always the chief occupation of his mind, and which he now\nperceived, without being able to grapple with them; and life, with such\nmental and physical limitations, became very weary to him. But his\nconstitution was so sound, and his health so perfect, that he might\nhave lingered yet a long time, but for his grief and disappointment in\nthe unexpected death [354] of Dr. Bellows, Jan. 30, 1882. When that\nbeloved friend, upon whose inspiring ministrations he had counted to\nsoothe his own last hours, was called first, the shock perceptibly\nloosened his feeble hold on life; and truly it seemed as if the\ndeparting spirit did his last service of love by helping to set free\nthe elder friend whom he could no longer comfort on earth. He \"Allured\nto brighter worlds, and led the way;\" nor was my father long in\nfollowing him. For a few weeks there was little outward change in his\nhabits; he ate as usual the few morsels we could induce him to taste;\nhe slept several hours every night, and, supported by faithful arms,\nhe came to the table for each meal till within four days of his death.\nBut he grew visibly weaker, and would sit long silent, his head bent\non his breast. We gathered together in those sad days, and read aloud\nthe precious series of Dr. Bellows's letters to us all, but principally\nto him,-letters radiant with beauty, vigor, wit, and affection; we\nread them with thankfulness and with sorrow, with laughter and with\ntears, and he joined in it all, but grew too weary to listen, and never\nheard the whole. He was confined to his bed but three days. A slight\nindigestion, which yielded to remedies, left him too weak to rally. He\nwas delirious most of the time when awake, and was soothed by anodynes;\nbut though he knew us all, he was too sick and restless for talk,\ntrying [355] sometimes to smile in answer to his wife's caresses, but\nhardly noticing anything. At one o'clock in the morning of March 21st,\nhis sad moans suddenly ceased, and he opened his sunken eyes wide,--so\nwide that even in the dim light we saw their clear blue,--looked\nforward for a moment with an earnest gaze, as if seeing something afar\noff, then closed them, and with one or two quiet breaths left pain and\nsuffering behind, and entered into life.\n\nFor a few days his body lay at rest in his pleasant study, surrounded\nby the flowers he loved, and the place was a sweet domestic shrine. A\ngrand serenity had returned to the brow, and all the features wore a\nlook of peace and happiness unspeakably beautiful and comforting. Then,\nwith a quiet attendance of friends and neighbors, it was borne to the\ngrave in the shadow of his native hills.\n\nIn those last weeks he wrote still a few letters, almost illegible, and\nwritten a few lines at a time, as his strength permitted.\n\n\nTo Rev. John W. Chadwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 2, 1882.\n\nMY DEAR BROTHER CHADWICK,\n\n--A few lines are all that I can write, though many would hardly\nsuffice to express the feeling of what I owe you for your kind letter,\nand the sympathy it expresses for the loss of my friend. [356] You will\nbetter understand what that is, when I tell you that for the last two\nor three years he has written me every week.\n\nI have also to thank you for the many sermons you have directed to be\nsent to me. Through others, I know their extraordinary merit, though my\nbrain is too weak for them.\n\nDo you remember a brief interview I had with you and Mrs. Chadwick at\nthe \"Messiah\" on the evening of the [Semi-] Centennial? It gave me so\nmuch pleasure that it sticks in my memory, and emboldens me to send my\nlove to you both.\n\nEver yours truly,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\nTo his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.\n\nST. DAVID'S, Feb. 7, 1882.\n\nDEAREST RUSHE,--Your precious, sweet little letter came in due time,\nand was all that a letter could be. I have not written a word since\nthat came upon us which we so sorrow for, except a letter to his\nstricken partner, from whom we have a reply last evening, in which she\nsays his resignation was marvellous; that he soon fell into a drowse\nfrom morphine, and said but little, but, being told there were letters\nfrom me, desired them to keep them carefully for him,--which, alas! he\nwas never to see.\n\nDear, I can write no more. I am all the time about the same. Give my\nlove to Pamela.\n\nEver your loving brother,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[357]To Rev. John Chadwick.\n\nSHEFFIELD, Feb. 26, 1882.\n\nMY DEAR CHADWICK,--When Mary wrote to you, expressing the feelings\nof us all concerning the Memorial Sermon,' I thought it unnecessary\nto write myself, especially as I could but so poorly say what I\nwanted to say. But I feel that I must tell you what satisfaction it\ngave me,--more than I have elsewhere seen or expect to see. I feel,\nfor myself, that I most mourn the loss of the holy fidelity of his\nfriendship. All speak rightly of his incessant activity in every good\nwork, and I knew much of what he did to build up a grand School of\nTheology at Cleveland.\n\nYou ask what is my outlook from the summit of my years. This reminds\nme of that wonderful burst of his eloquence, at the formation of our\nNational Conference, against the admission to it, by Constitution, of\nthe extremest Radicalism. I wanted to get up and shortly reply,--\"You\nmay say what you will, but I tell you that the movement of this body\nfor twenty years to come will be in the Radical direction.\" In fact, I\nfind it to be so in myself. I rely more upon my own thought and reason,\nmy own mind and being, for my convictions than upon anything else.\nAgain warmly thanking you for your grand sermon, [on Dr. Bellows] I am,\n\nAffectionately yours,\n\nORVILLE DEWEY.\n\n\n[358]I feel that I cannot close this memoir without reprinting the\nbeautiful tribute paid to my father by Dr. Bellows, in his address\nat the fifty-fourth anniversary of the founding of the Church of the\nMessiah, in New York, in 1879. After comparing him with Dr. Channing,\nand describing the fragile appearance of the latter, he said:\n\n\"Dewey, reared in the country, among plain but not common people,\nsquarely built, and in the enjoyment of what seemed robust health,\nhad, when I first saw him, at forty years of age, a massive dignity\nof person; strong features, a magnificent height of head, a carriage\nalmost royal; a voice deep and solemn; a face capable of the utmost\nexpression, and an action which the greatest tragedian could not have\nmuch improved. These were not arts and attainments, but native gifts of\nperson and temperament. An intellect of the first class had fallen upon\na spiritual nature tenderly alive to the sense of divine realities. His\nawe and reverence were native, and they have proved indestructible. He\ndid not so much seek religion as religion sought him. His nature was\ncharacterized from early youth by a union of massive intellectual power\nwith an almost feminine sensibility; a poetic imagination with a rare\ndramatic faculty of representation. Diligent as a scholar, a careful\nthinker, accustomed to test his own impressions by patient meditation,\na reasoner of the most cautious kind; capable of holding doubtful\nconclusions, however inviting, in suspense; devout and reverent by\nnature,--he had every qualification for a great preacher, in a time\nwhen the old foundations were broken up and men's minds were demanding\nguidance and support in the critical transition from the [359] days of\npure authority to the days of personal conviction by rational evidence.\n\n\"Dewey has from the beginning been the most truly human of our\npreachers. Nobody has felt so fully the providential variety of mortal\npassions, exposures, the beauty and happiness of our earthly life,\nthe lawfulness of our ordinary pursuits, the significance of home, of\nbusiness, of pleasure, of society, of politics. He has made himself\nthe attorney of human nature, defending and justifying it in all the\nhostile suits brought against it by imperfect sympathy, by theological\nacrimony, by false dogmas. Yet he never was for a moment the apologist\nof selfishness, vice, or folly; no stricter moralist than he is to\nbe found; no worshipper of veracity more faithful; no wiser or more\ntender pleader of the claims of reverence and self-consecration! In\nfact, it was the richness of his reverence and the breadth of his\nreligion that enabled him to throw the mantle of his sympathy over\nthe whole of human life. He has accordingly, of all preachers in this\ncountry, been the one most approved by the few who may be called\nwhole men,--men who rise above the prejudice of sect and the halfness\nof pietism,--lawyers and judges, statesmen and great merchants, and\nstrong men of all professions. He could stir and awe and instruct the\nstudents of Cambridge, as no man I ever heard in that pulpit, not\neven Dr. Walker,--who satisfied conscience and intellect, but was not\nwholly fair either to passion or to sentiment, much less to the human\nbody and the world. Of all religious men I have known, the broadest\nand most catholic is Dewey,--I say religious men, for it is easy to be\nbroad and catholic, with indifference and apathy at the heart. Dewey\nhas cared unspeakably for divine [360] things,-thirsted for God, and\ndwelt in daily reverence and aspiration before him; and out of his awe\nand his devotion he has looked with the tenderest eyes of sympathy,\nforbearance, and patience upon the world and the ways of men; slow to\nrebuke utterly, always finding the soul of goodness in things evil, and\nnever assuming any sanctimonious ways, or thinking himself better than\nhis brethren.\n\n\"Dewey is undoubtedly the founder and most conspicuous example of\nwhat is best in the modern school of preaching. The characteristic\nfeature is the effort to carry the inspiration, the correction, and\nthe riches of Christian faith into the whole sphere of human life; to\nmake religion practical, without lowering its ideal; to proclaim our\npresent world and our mortal life as the field of its influence and\nrealization, trusting that what best fits men to live and employ and\nenjoy their spiritual nature here, is what best prepares them for the\nfuture life. Dewey, like Franklin, who trained the lightning of the\nsky to respect the safety, and finally to run the errands of men on\nearth, brought religion from its remote home and domesticated it in\nthe immediate present. He first successfully taught its application\nto the business of the market and the street, to the offices of home\nand the pleasures of society. We are so familiar with this method, now\nprevalent in the best pulpits of all Christian bodies, that we forget\nthe originality and boldness of the hand that first turned the current\nof religion into the ordinary channel of life, and upon the working\nwheels of daily business. The glory of the achievement is lost in the\nmagnificence of its success. Practical preaching, when it means, as it\noften does, a mere prosaic recommendation of ordinary duties, a sort of\nPoor Richard's prudential [361] maxims, is a shallow and nearly useless\nthing. It is a kind of social and moral agriculture with the plough\nand the spade, but with little regard to the enrichment of the soil,\nor drainage from the depths or irrigation from the heights. The true,\npractical preaching is that which brings the celestial truths of our\nnature and our destiny, the powers of the world to come and the terrors\nand promises of our relationship to the Divine Being, to bear upon our\npresent duties, to animate and elevate our daily life, to sanctify the\nsecular, to redeem the common from its loss of wonder and praise, to\nmake the familiar give up its superficial tameness, to awaken the sense\nof awe in those who have lost or never acquired the proper feeling of\nthe spiritual mystery that envelops our ordinary life. This was Dewey's\npeculiar skill. Poets had already done it for poets, and in a sense\nneither strictly religious nor expected to be made practical. But for\npreachers to carry `the vision and faculty divine' of the poet into\nthe pulpit, and with the authority of messengers of God, demand of men\nin their business and domestic service, their mechanical labors, their\nnecessary tasks, to see God's spirit and feel God's laws everywhere\ntouching, inspiring, and elevating their ordinary life and lot, was\nsomething new and glorious. Thus Dewey revitalized the doctrine of\nRetribution by bringing it from the realms a futurity down to the\nimmediate bosoms of men; and nothing more solemn, affecting, and\ntrue is to be found in all literature than his famous two sermons on\nRetribution, in the first volume of his published works. Spirituality,\nin the same manner, he called away from its ghostly churchyard haunts,\nand made it a cheerful angel of God's presence in the house and the\nshop, where the sense and feeling of God's holiness [362] and love\nmake every duty an act of worship, and every commonest experience\nan opportunity of divine service. Under the thoughtful, tender\nyet searching, rational but profoundly spiritual preaching of Dr.\nDewey,--where men's souls found an holiest and powerful interpreter,\nand nature, business, pleasure, domestic ties, received a fresh\nconsecration,-who can wonder that thousands of men and women, hitherto\ndissatisfied, hungry, but with no appetite for the bread' called of\nlife,' furnished at the ordinary churches, were, for the first time,\nmade to realize the beauty of holiness and the power of the gospel of\nsalvation?\n\n\"The persuasiveness of Dewey was another of his greatest\ncharacteristics. His yearning to convince, his longing to impart his\nown convictions, gave a candor and patient and sweet reasonableness to\nhis preaching, which has, I think, never been equalled in any preacher\nof his measure of intellect, height of imagination, and reverence of\nsoul. For he could never lower his ideals to please or propitiate.\nHe was working for no immediate and transitory effects. He could use\nno arts that entangled, dazzled, or frightened; nothing but truth,\nand truth cautiously discriminated. His sermons were born of the most\npainful labors of his spirit; they were careful and finished works,\nwritten and rewritten, revised, corrected, improved, almost as if they\nhad been poems addressed to the deliberate judgment of posterity.\nThey possess that claim upon coming generations, and will, one day,\nrediscovered by a deeper and better spiritual taste, take their place\namong the noblest and most exquisite of the intellectual and spiritual\nproducts of this century. There are thousands of the best minds in\nthis country that owe whatever interest they have in religion [363] to\nOrville Dewey. The majesty of his manner, the dramatic power of his\naction, the poetic beauty of his illustrations, the logical clearness\nand fairness of his reasoning, the depth and grasp of his hold on all\nthe facts, human and divine, material and spiritual, that belonged to\nthe theme he treated, gave him a surpassing power and splendor, and an\nequal persuasiveness as a preacher. But what is most rare, his sermons,\nthough they gained much by delivery, lose little in reading, for those\nwho never heard them. They are admirably adapted to the pulpit, none\nmore so; but just as wonderfully suited to the library and to solitary\nperusal. I am not extravagant or alone in this opinion. I know that so\ncompetent a critic as James Martineau holds them in equal admiration.\n\n\"I shall make no excuse for dwelling so long upon Orville Dewey's\ngenius as a preacher. No plainer duty exists than to commend his\nexample to the study and imitation of our own preachers; and no\nexaltation that the Church of the Messiah will ever attain can in any\nprobability equal that which will always be given to it as the seat\nof Dr. Dewey's thirteen years' ministry in the city of New York. Of\nthe tenderness, modesty, truthfulness, devotion, and spotless purity\nof his life and character, it is too soon to utter all that my heart\nand knowledge prompt me to say. But, when expression shall finally\nbe allowed to the testimony which cannot very long be denied free\nutterance, it will fully appear that only a man whose soul was haunted\nby God's spirit from early youth to extreme old age could have produced\nthe works that stand in his name. The man is greater than his works.\"\n\n[364]In the August following my father's death, an appropriate service\nwas held in his memory at the old Congregational Church in his native\nvillage. It was the church of his childhood, from whose galleries he\nhad looked down with childish pity upon the sad-browed communicants;\n[see p. 16] it was the church to which he had joined himself in the\nreligious fervor of his youth; from it he had been thrust out as a\nheretic, and for years was not permitted to speak within its walls,\nthe first time being in 1876, when the town celebrated the hundredth\nanniversary of the Resolution that had marked its Revolutionary ardor,\nand called upon him, as one of its most distinguished citizens, to\npreach upon the occasion; and now the old church opened wide its doors\nin affectionate respect to his memory, and his mourning townspeople met\nto honor the man they had learned to love, if not to follow.\n\nIt was a lovely summer day, full of calm and sunny sweetness. The\nearlier harvests had been gathered in, and the beautiful valley lay in\nperfect rest,-\"Like a full heart, having prayed.\"\n\nTaghkonic brooded above it in gentle majesty, and the scarce seen river\nwound its quiet course among the meadows. No touch of drought or decay\nhad yet passed upon the luxuriant foliage; but the autumnal flowers\nwere already glowing [365] in the fields and on the waysides, and,\nmingled with ferns and ripened grain, were heaped in rich profusion by\nthe loving hands of young girls to adorn the church. It was Sunday,\nand people and friends came from far and near, till the building was\nfilled; and in the pervading atmosphere of tender respect and sympathy,\nthe warm-hearted words spoken from the pulpit seemed like the utterance\nof the common feeling. The choir sang, with much expression, one of my\nfather's favorite hymns,-\"When, as returns this solemn day;\" and the\nprayer, from Dr. Eddy, the pastor of the church, was a true uplifting\nof hearts to the Father of all. The fervent and touching discourse\nwhich followed, by Rev. Robert Collyer, minister of my father's old\nparish, the Church of the Messiah, in New York, recalled the early\ndays of Dr. Dewey's life, and the influences from home and from nature\nthat had borne upon his character, and described the man and his work\nin terms of warm and not indiscriminate eulogy. The speaker's brow\nlightened, and his cheek glowed with the strength of his own feeling,\nand among his listeners there was an answering thrill of gratitude and\nof aspiration.\n\nDr. Powers, an Episcopal clergyman, then read a short and graceful\noriginal poem, and some cordial and earnest words were said by\nthe two Orthodox ministers present. Another hymn was sung by the\nwhole congregation; and thus fitly closed the simple and reverent\nservice, typical throughout of the kindly human brotherhood which,\nnotwithstanding inevitable differences of opinion, binds together\nhearts that throb with one common need, that rest upon one Eternal Love\nand Wisdom.\n\nSo would my father have wished it. So may it be more and more!","title":"Autobiography and Letters of Orville Dewey, D.D.: Edited by His Daughter","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":98162}