To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, Dec. 24, 1880.
DEAR FRIEND,--My wife must write you about the parcel of books which
came to hand yesterday and was opened in the midst of us with due
admiration, and with pleasure at the prospect it held out for the
winter. My wife, I say; for she is the great reader, while I am, in
comparison, like the owl, which the showman said kept up-you remember
what sort of a thinking. But, comparisons [349] apart, it is really
interesting to see how much she reads; how she keeps acquainted with
what is going on in the world, especially in its philanthropic and
religious work.
Then, in the old Bible books she is the greatest reader that I know.
I wish you could hear her expatiate on David and Isaiah; and she is
in the right, too. They leave behind them, in a rude barbarism of
religious ideas, Egypt and Greece. By the bye, is it not strange that
the two great literatures of antiquity, the Hebrew and Grecian, should
have appeared in territories not larger than Rhode Island? This is
contrary to Buckle's view, who says, if I remember rightly, that the
literature of genius naturally springs from a rich soil, from great
wealth and leisure demanding intellectual entertainment.
To his Sister, Miss J. Dewey.
ST. DAVID'S, April 4, 1881.
DEAREST RUSHE,--. . . I am glad at what you are doing about the
"Helps," and especially at your taking in the "Bugle Notes." Of course
it gives you trouble, but don't be anxious about it; 't will all
come out right. The book has met with great favor, whereat I am much
pleased, as you must be.
Yes, Carlyle's "Reminiscences" must be admired; but it will take all
the sweets about his wife to neutralize his
"Helps to Devout Living" is the name of a collection of beautiful and
valuable passages, in prose and verse, compiled by Miss J. Dewey, in
the second edition of which she included, at her brother's request,
Mr. Wasson's "Bugle Notes," a poem which had been for years one of
his peculiar favorites. [350] supreme care for himself, and careless
disparagement of almost everybody else. Genius is said to be, in its
very nature, loving and generous; it seems but the fit recognition of
its own blessedness; was his so? I have been reading again "Adam Bede,"
and I think that the author is decidedly and unquestionably superior to
all her contemporary novel-writers. One can forgive such a mind almost
anything. But alas! for this one--. . . It is an almost unpardonable
violation of one of the great laws on which social virtue rests. . . .
Ever yours,