There is something that pleases me much in the united works of young
authors. Sands and who? in our country published "Yamoyden" and some other
poems together. C. Lamb and Lloyd (was not Coleridge one?) published some
small verses in company. There is a sort of meanness in it, too, as if
they should say, "Here we come, two scribblers, not worthy singly to
attract your attention, but together making out something worth your
money." After all, a single failure may be better than a double
respectability. Imagine the united literary works of Dwight and Curtis
rotting in an odd drawer of Ticknor's or James Munroe's; could we ever
look each other in the face again? What a still, perpetual suspicion there
would be that the one swamped the other.

Do you not mean some day to gather your musical essays together, like a
whorl of leaves, and suffer them to expand into a book, though not with
the cream--colored calyx that Ticknor affects, I beg. Nay, might you not
make some arrangements with Greeley to publish them here, in a cheap way,
if you would make money, for those who valued them would of course obtain
more durable copies. If not, and you would think dignity compromitted,
some of the regular publishers might be diplomatized with. They would make
an unique work. You know we have nothing similar in American literature,
no book of artistic criticism, have we? Why will you not think of it, if
you have not done so? And what so poor a man as Hamlet is may do, you
shall command. How recreant am I to this noble art, that listen only and
celebrate with feeble voice its charms.

Tuesday evening, at a small musical party, I heard Euphrasia Borghese
sing, whom you may have heard, and who is to be Prima Donna at the new
Opera-house, which opens on the 25th or 2eth of the present month. They
begin with the "Puritani." It will be altogether devoted to Italian music,