posite scale his having stolen away the hearts of my children.

If you had heard him last evening, I think you would have been
satisfied, though wives are hard to please. It was a majestical and
touching ministration; I have never felt anything from the pulpit to be
more so. The hearty, honest, terrible tears it wrung from me were [181]
such as I have given to no sermon this many a day, I think, never. I
hope you are better; and with all other good wishes, I am, Yours very
truly,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. William Ware.

NEW YORK, Jan. 27, 1846.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--This week is a little breathing-time, the first I have
allowed myself for five months; and my old pile of sermons shows such a
sprinkling of new ones as it has not in any equal time these ten years.
Sometimes I have thought I might get my head strong and clear again,
and good as anybody's; but this last week has brought me to a stand, and
made me think of that monitory prediction of yours when I came home, two
years ago. . . . To be sure, I do not usually think of any retreat that
will separate me entirely from New York. I have expected to live and die
in connection with this church; but I have had a feeling this winter as
if a new voice might be better for them; and any way it may be better
for them to have one man than two; that is, myself and a colleague.
Somewhere, indeed, I expect to preach as long as I can do anything,
for I suppose this is my vocation, if I have any, poorly as it is
discharged. Poorly; alas! how does this eternal ideal fly before us, and
leave us ever restless and unsatisfied! How much Henry felt it! more,
indeed, than I had thought, well as I knew his humility. And indeed I
cannot help thinking that he did not sufficiently distinguish between
outward and inward defect. I can very well understand how, in any right
mind, the latter should give deep pain. But for Henry Ware to charge
himself with indolence [182] and idleness,--with not doing enough! Why,
he was ever doing more than his health would bear. The Memoir, I hardly
need say, is read here with deep interest. Tell your brother, with my
regards and thanks to him, that it appears to me a perfect biography in
this,--that it placed me in the very presence of my friend, and made me
feel, all the while I was reading it, as if he were with me. I laid it
down, however, I may confess to you, with one sad feeling beyond that
of the general loss; and that was that nowhere throughout was th