MY DEAR WARE,—Shall I brood over my regrets in secret, or shall I tell you of them? I sometimes do not care whether any human being knows what is passing in [159] me; and then again my feelings are all up in arms for sympathy, as if they would take it by storm. I declare I have a good deal of liking for that other,—that sullenness, or sadness, or what you will; it is calmer and more independent. So I shall say nothing, only that I miss you even more than I expected.' Never, in all this great city, will a face come through my door that I shall like to see better than yours,—I doubt if so well.
The next nearest thing to you is Furness's book. Have you got it? Is it not charming? It is a book of beauty and life. Spots there are upon it,—they say there are upon the sun. Certes, there are tendencies to naturalism in Furness's mind which I do not like,—do not think the true philosophy; but it is full of beauty, and hath much wisdom in it too.
I write on the gallop. My dinner is coming in three minutes, and a wagon is coming after that to carry me to Berkshire, that is, by steamboat to Hudson as usual. But I am going to send this, though it be worth nothing but to get a letter from you.
If letters, like dreams, came from the multitude of business, I should write of nothing but that tragedy extempore,-for I am sure it was got up in a minute,-the argument whereof was your running away. It positively is the staple of conversation. And I think it is rather hard upon me, too. I am here; but that seems to go for nothing. All their talk is of your going away,—running away, I say,—desertion,—and help yourself if you can. . . .
My love to Henry Ware, and the love of me and mine to you and yours.
Yours ever,
O. DEWEY.
[See p. 86.]
[160] To the Same.
NEW YORK, Dec. 1, 1836.