ere one
recognition of the friendship that bound me and Henry Ware together. It
is nobody's fault, unless it be mine. And I am led sometimes to
query whether there be not something strange about me in my friendly
relations; some apparent repulsion, or some want of visible kindliness.
One thing I do know; that we are all crushed down under this great wheel
of modern life and labor, and friendships seem to have but poor chance
of culture and expression.

To pass on; with regard to our New York churches, we have more visible
activity this winter than usual. I hold a weekly evening meeting in
the library of our church; Mr. Bellows also. Our Sunday school is
reorganized, being divided into two, and the numbers are more than
doubled; and we have formed a Unitarian Association for the State of New
York, with headquarters in the hall over the entrance to the Church of
the Divine Unity.

To the Same.

NEW YORK, May 4, 1846.

MY DEAR not "rugged and dangerous," but gentle and good-natured,--I
foresee a biography (far be the [183] day when it shall be required!)
in which it is not difficult to anticipate a passage running somewhat
as follows: "He seemed to possess every attribute of genius but
self-reliance. From this cause, doubtless, he failed to some extent of
what he might otherwise have accomplished. He himself thought that the
choice of his profession was the fatal mistake of his life; and perhaps
he might have found a more congenial sphere. But it may be doubted
whether his self-distrust might not have prevented him from putting
forth his full strength, or rather, perhaps, from giving full play
to his mind in any walk of literature or art. Even in those beautiful
Oriental and Roman fictions there is a certain staidness, a measured
step, from which he never departs. Even in some of those chapters
of Zenobia, which a critic of the day pronounced to be `absolute
inspiration,' the light glows through the smooth and polished sentences
as through the crevices of plated armor. In fact, it was only in his
familiar letters that his genius seemed to break out into perfect
freedom. In these he approached the letters of Charles Lamb nearer than
any writer of his day.

"There is a curious and really amusing specimen of his modesty in a
letter of his to a friend of the name of Dewey,--if we read the name
rightly in his somewhat illegible manuscripts. This Dewey, it seems, had
published some sermons, or volumes of sermons, we know