from nature, that were very striking. If I should find fault, I should say
they were too warmly colored; and I suspect that is his error, if he has
any, from what his wife told me he said of one of Durand's.

Mr. Furness preached finely for us on Sunday. Mr. Dewey does not charm me
at all. Have heard W.H.C. once, as Charles will have told you. Have not
yet seen him, for I have been out to see people hardly at all. Met Isaac
at the Saturday concert. He looks fresh and well. Seems better every way
than I ever knew him. Has he not found his place? I must see him again to
discern the direction of Almira, to whom I have a letter written partly,
and know not how to address it.

Are you singing Eastward ho! or do you remain? Remember that he who
criticises Handel and Mozart, as the "Democratic" witnesseth, owes
something to the art--shall I say _his life_? What literary work are you
about, or have you still the same reluctance to assume the pen that you
had? Let the consideration that the pen is so invaluable a minister to
friendship tempt you to honor it more by use.

I have squeezed myself into such little space that I must defer an outline
of my days till I write again. One moral inquiry for your wits, and I will
withdraw into silence and the infinite. Does not one friend who indites
many letters, unanswered, to another, thereby heap coals of fire upon
somebody's head as effectually as if he fed the hungry? Scatter my love as
broadly as you think it will bear, and reserve the carver's share for
yourself.

G.W.C.