supposed the end of the world to be at hand, and that he should
come in the clouds of heaven, and be seated with his disciples on
airy thrones, to judge the nations. No; the false double ethics of the
pulpit, which I have labored, though less successfully, all my life to
expose, has its origin, I believe, in later superstition, and not in the
teachings of Christ.

The passages referred to by the writer, I conceive to be more
imaginative, and less formalistic and logical, than he supposes.

To the Same.

WASHINGTON, Dec. 28, 1852.

MY DEAR BELLOWS,--I will wish you all a happy New York, (ahem! you
see how naturally and affectionately my pen turns out the old beloved
name)--a happy New Year. After all, it isn't so bad; a happy New Year
and a happy New York must be very near neighbors with you. I sometimes
wish they could have continued to be so with me, for those I have learnt
to live with most easily and happily are generally in New York. Our
beloved artists, the goodly Club, were a host to me by themselves. I
wish I could be a host to them sometimes.

Well, heigho! (pretty ejaculation to come into a New Year's
greeting--but they come everywhere!) Heigho! I say submissively
--things meet and match us, perhaps, better than we mean. I am not a
clergyman--perhaps was never meant for one. I question our position more
and more. We are not fairly thrown into the field of life. We do not
fairly take the free and [231] unobstructed pressure of all surrounding
society. We are hedged around with artificial barriers, built up by
superstitious reverence and false respect. We are cased in peculiarity.
We meet and mingle with trouble and sorrow,--enough of them, too
much,--but our treatment of them gets hackneyed, worn, weary, and
reluctant. They grapple with the world's strife and trial, but it is an
armor. Our excision from the world's pleasure and intercourse, I doubt,
is not good for us. We are a sort of moral eunuchs.

To his Daughter Mary.

WASHINGTON, June 19, 1853.

THOUGH it is very hot,

Though bladed corn faint in the noontide ray, And thermometers stand at
ninety-three, And fingers feel like sticks of sealing-wax, Yet I will
write thee.

This evening I saw Professor Henry, who said he saw you at the Century
Club last Wednesday evening; that le did not speak to you, but that you
seemed to be enjoying yourself. I felt like shaking hands with him on
the occasion, but restrained myself. But where are you, child,