I don't think the stubborn resistance of the
tide of ill-fortune can be called rebellion against Providence. "Help
yourself and Heaven will help you," says the proverb....

There hangs before me a print of the Bunker Hill Monument. Pray be judge
between me and the building committee of that monument. There you observe
that my model was founded solidly, and on each of its square plinths were
trophies, or groups, or cannon, as might be thought fit. (No. I.)

Well, they have taken away the foundation, made the shaft start sheer
from the dirt like a spear of asparagus, and, instead of an acute angle,
by which I hoped to show the work was done and lead off the eye, they
have made an obtuse one, producing the broken-chimney-like effect which
your eye will not fail to condemn in No. II. Then they have enclosed
theirs with a light, elegant fence, _a la Parigina_, as though the
austere forms of Egypt were compatible with the decorative flummery of
the boulevards. Let 'em go for dunderheads as they are....

I congratulate you on your sound conscience with regard to the affair
that you wot of. As for your remaining free, that's all very well to
think during the interregnum, but a man without a true love is a ship
without ballast, a one-tined fork, half a pair of scissors, an utter
flash in the pan.... So you are going home, my dear Morse, and God knows
if ever I shall see you again. Pardon, I pray you, anything of levity
which you may have been offended at in me. Believe me it arose from my so
rarely finding one to whom I could be natural and give loose without fear
of good faith or good nature ever failing. Wherever I am your approbation
will be dearer to me than the hurrah of a world. I shall write to
glorious Fenimore in a few days. My love to Allston and Dana. God bless
you,

H. GREENOUGH.

These extracts are from different letters, but they show, I think, the
charming character of the man and reflect his admiration for Morse. From
the letters of James Fenimore Cooper, written while they were both in
Europe, I select the two following as characteristic:

July 31, 1832.

My dear Morse,--Here we are at Spa--the famous hard-drinking, dissipated,
gambling, intriguing Spa--where so much folly has been committed, so many
fortunes squandered, and so many women ruined! How are the mighty fallen!
We have just returned from a ramble in the environs, among deserted
reception-houses and along silent roads. The country is not unlike