To the Same.
NEW YORK, May. 2, 1837.
. . . A WEEK ago to-day I sat down at my desk, spread before me a sheet
of paper, grasped my pen energetically, and had almost committed myself
for a letter to you, when suddenly it occurred to me that Mrs. Schuyler
was in Boston, and would have told you just what it was my special
design to write; that is, all about the congregation of the faithful
in Chambers Street. Well, I suppose she has; but I shall have my say.
The congregation has certainly not improved, as you seem, in your
preposterous modesty, to suppose, but suffered by your leaving it. The
attendance, I should think, is about the same. . . . But I am afraid
that the society is gradually losing strength.
I have been preaching some Sunday-evening sermons to the merchants.
Have n't you heard of them? And if you have n't, do you pretend that
Brookline is a place? Take my word, Sir, that it is not to be found on
the map of the world,--not known either to the ancients or the moderns.
You are not in existence, Sir, take my word [162] for it, if you have
not heard of these crowded, listening, etc. assemblies at the Mercer
Street Church. Well, really, I have seen a packed audience there, and
even the galleries pretty well filled. I have thoughts of publishing
the discourses (only three, more than an hour long, however), and if I
could only write three more, I would; but my brain got into a pretty
bad condition by the third week, and I don't know whether I can go On
at present.
To the Same.
NEW YORK, March 27, 1837.
MY DEAR WARE,--I should like to know what you mean by not letting me
hear from you these three months. Do you not know that you are in my
debt for a letter at least twenty lines long, which it took me three
minutes to write? And three minutes and twenty lines, in this Babel,
are equal to one hour and two sheets in Brookline. Do you not know
that everybody is saying, "When have you heard from Mr. Ware?" Do you
not know that ugly and choking weeds will spring up on the desolation
you have made here if you do not scatter some flower-seeds upon it?
Consider and tremble. Or, respect this and repent, as the Chinese say.
Well, Dr. Follen is to be here for a twelvemonth, and we shall not get
you back again,--oh me!
Dr. Follen has quite filled the church at some evening lectures on
Unitarianism. Good! and everything about him is good, but that he comes
after you. [163]
To the Same.
NEW YORK, July 10, 1837.
MY DEAR WARE,--I can scarcely moderate my expressions to the tone of
wisdom in telling you how much pleasure I have had in reading your
book,--how much I am delighted with you and for you. There is no
person to whom I would more gladly have had the honor fall of writing
the "Letters from Palmyra." And it is a distinction that places your
name among the highest in our--good-for-nothing--literature, as
the Martineau considers it. By the bye, you need n't think you are
a-going to stand at the head of everything, as she will have it. Have
not I written a book too, to say nothing of the names less known of
Channing, Irving, Bryant, etc.? And, by the bye, again, speaking of
the Martineau, she is a woman of one idea,--takes one view, that is,
and knows nothing of qualification,--and hence is opinionated and
confident to a degree that I think I never saw equalled. Julia, Fausta,
nay, Zenobia, for me, rather. How beautifully have you shown them up!
And Gracchus and Longinus as nobly. What things is literature doing to
gratify ambition,--things beyond its proudest hope! How little thought
Zenobia that her character, two thousand years after she lived, would
be illustrated by the genius of a clime that she dreamed not of!
My love and congratulations to your wife; my love and envy to you.