STATEN ISLAND, August 7, 1843.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I fear I have nothing to send you worthy of so good
an opportunity. Of New York I still know but little, though out of so
many thousands there are no doubt many units whom it would be worth my
while to know. Mr. James[30] talks of going to Germany soon with his
wife to learn the language. He says he must know it; can never learn
it here; there he may absorb it; and is very anxious to learn
beforehand where he had best locate himself to enjoy the advantage of
the highest culture, learn the language in its purity, and not exceed
his limited means. I referred him to Longfellow. Perhaps you can help
him.
I have had a pleasant talk with Channing; and Greeley, too, it was
refreshing to meet. They were both much pleased with your criticism on
Carlyle, but thought that you had overlooked what chiefly concerned
them in the book,--its practical aim and merits.
I have also spent some pleasant hours with Waldo and Tappan at their
counting-room, or rather intelligence office.
I must still reckon myself with the innumerable army of
invalids,--undoubtedly in a fair field they would rout the
well,--though I am tougher than formerly. Methinks I could paint the
sleepy god more truly than the poets have done, from more intimate
experience. Indeed, I have not kept my eyes very steadily open to the
things of this world of late, and hence have little to report
concerning them. However, I trust the awakening will come before the
last trump,--and then perhaps I may remember some of my dreams.
I study the aspects of commerce at its Narrows here, where it passes
in review before me, and this seems to be beginning at the right end
to understand this Babylon. I have made a very rude translation of the
Seven against Thebes, and Pindar too I have looked at, and wish he was
better worth translating. I believe even the best things are not equal
to their fame. Perhaps it would be better to translate fame
itself,--or is not that what the poets themselves do? However, I have
not done with Pindar yet. I sent a long article on Etzler's book to
the _Democratic Review_ six weeks ago, which at length they have
determined not to accept, as they could not subscribe to all the
opinions, but asked for other matter,--purely literary, I suppose.
O'Sullivan wrote me that articles of this kind have to be referred to
the circle who, it seems, are represented by this journal, and said
something about "collective we" and "homogeneity."