Autobiography and Letters of Orville Dewey, D.D Part 12

Yours ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. William Ware.

SHEFFIELD, May 25, 1849. MY DEARLY BELOVED AND LONGED FOR,--I can't have you go to New York and not come here; and my special intent in writing now is to show you how little out of your way it is to return to Cambridge by Berkshire, and how little more expense it is. I trust that Mrs. Ware is to be with you.

There! it's a short argument, but a long conclusion shall follow,--a week long of talk and pleasure, which shall be as good as forty weeks long, by the heart's measurement. [213]Alas! these college prayers! If I had anything to do with them, it would be upon the plan of remodelling hem entirely. I would have them but once in a day, it a convenient hour, say eight or nine o'clock in the morning. I would have leave to do what my heart night prompt in the great hours of adoration. Reading the Scriptures with a word of comment, sometimes, or t word uttered as the spirit moved, without reading; or instead, a matin hymn or old Gregorian chant, solemn seasons, free breathings of veneration and joy; sometimes he reading of a prayer of the Episcopal Church, or of he venerable olden time, always a bringing down A the great sentiment of devotion into young life, to De its guidance and strength,--this should be college prayers. . . .

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows.

SHEFFIELD, Feb. II, 1850.

My DEAR FRIEND,--In the first place, La Bruyere was the name of the French satirist that I could not remember the other day. In the second place, I have a letter from Mr. Lowell, inviting me to deliver the second course of lectures, and the time fixed upon is the winter after next; I can't be prepared by next winter. As to the t.i.tle, I think, after all, Herder's is the best: "Philosophy of Humanity," or I should as lief say, "On the Problem of Evil in the World." You said of me once in some critique, I believe, that I always seemed to write as in the presence of objectors. I shall be very likely to do so now. Well, here is work for me for two years ahead, if I have life and health, and work that I like above all other. In the third place, I don't think I shall do much for the "Inquirer." My name has really [214] no business on the first page; in fact, I never thought of its standing there as a fixture.

I supposed you would say for once in your opening that such and such persons would help you. With my habits of writing, I am better able to write long articles than short ones; and the "Christian Examiner" pays more than you, and I am obliged to regard that consideration. I must have three or four hundred dollars a year beyond my income, or sell stock,--a terrible alternative. In the fourth place, every man is right in his own eyes; I am a man: therefore I am right in my eyes. I am very unprofessional; that is, in regard to the etiquette and custom of the profession. I am; and in regard to the professional mannerism and spirit of routine, I am very much afraid of it. But I do not think that many persons have ever enjoyed the religious services of our profession more than I have; the spiritual communion, which is its special function, and that, not through sermons alone, but in sacraments, in baptisms, in fireside conference with darkened and troubled minds, has long been to me a matter of the profoundest interest and satisfaction. It is the one reigning thought of my life now to see and to show how the Infinite Wisdom and Loveliness shine through this universe of forms. To this will I devote myself; nay, am devoted, whether I will or not. This will I pursue, and will preach it. I will preach it in the Lowell Lectures.

Shall I be wrong if I give up other preaching for the time? You think so. Perhaps you are right. Any way, it is not a matter of much importance, I suppose. There is a great deal too much of preaching, such as it is. The world is in danger of being preached out of all hearty and spontaneous religion. What would you think, if the love of parents and chil-[215] dren were made the subject of a weekly lecture in the family, and of such lecture as the ordinary preaching is? Oh if a Saint Chrysostom, or even a Saint Cesarius, or a Robert Hall could come along and speak to us once in half a year, they would leave, perhaps, a deeper imprint than this perpetual and petrifying drop-dropping of the sanctuary.

By the bye, read those extracts from the sermons of Saint Cesarius, in the sixteenth lecture of Guizot on French civilization, and see if they are not worth inserting in the "Inquirer." The picture which Guizot gives in that and the following lecture, of Christianity struggling in the bosom of all-surrounding wrong, cruelty, and sensualism, is very beautiful. It is one of the indications of the raging ultraism of the time, that the calm wisdom and piety of such a man as Guizot should be so little appreciated.

When I read such writers as this, I am rather frightened at my undertaking; but I believe there is a great deal to be said to the people that is not beyond me, and I shall modestly do what I can. I began yesterday to study Hegel's "Philosophy of History," and though I can read but a few pages a day, I believe I shall master it; and after one gets through with his theory, I imagine, in looking at his topics ahead, that I shall find matters that are intelligible and practical. I am, as ever,

Yours,

ORVILLE DEWEY. To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.

SHEFFIELD, Feb. 25, 1850.

MY DEAR BRYANT,--You will remember, perhaps, our conversation when you were last up here, about our Club [216] of the XXI. You know my attachment to it. The loss of those pleasant meetings is indeed one of the things I most regret in leaving the city. I cannot bear to forfeit my place in that good company. In this feeling I am about to make a proposition which I beg you will present for me, and that you will, as my advocate, try to explain and show that it is not so enormous as at first it may seem. I pray, then, my dear Magnus, [FN 1] that you will turn your poetical genius to account by describing the beautiful ride up the valley of the Housatonic, and this our beautiful Berkshire, and will put in the statistical fact that it is but six hours and a half from New York to Sheffield, [FN 2] and then will request the Club to meet at my house some day in the coming summer. I name Wednesday, the 9th of June.

I propose that the proper Club-meeting be on the evening of that day.

The next day I propose that we shall spend among the mountains,-seeing Bashpish, and, if possible, the Salisbury Lakes. And I will thank you, as my faithful solicitor, that, if you are obliged of your knowledge to confess to the fact of my very humble housekeeping, you will also courageously maintain that with the aid of my friends I can make our brethren as comfortable as people expect to be on a frolicking bout, and that I can easily get good country wagons to take them on a jaunt among the mountains. You will tell me, I hope, how my proposition is received; and by received, I do not mean any vote or resolution, but whether the gentlemen seem to think it would be a pleasant thing.

And when you write, tell me whether you or Mrs. Bryant chance to know of any person who would like to [217] come up here this summer and teach French in my sister's school an hour or two a day for a moderate compensation. It must be a French person,--one that can speak the language. Her school is increasing, and she must have more help.

[FN 1: Mr. Dewey was wont to call his friend "our Magnus Apollo."]

[FN 2: Now lessened to five hours.]

With mine and all our kindest regards to Mrs. Bryant and Julia and f.a.n.n.y, I am, as ever,

Yours truly,

ORVILLE DEWEY. Tell Mrs. Bryant we depend on her at the Club.

To his Daughter Mary.

SHEFFIELD, March 4, 1850.

. . . As I suppose you are tormented with the question, "What's your father doing in Sheffield?" you may tell them that I have taken to lecturing the people, and that I give a second lecture to-morrow evening, and mean to give a third. Forbye reading Hegel every morning, and what do you think he said this morning? Why, that he had read of a government of women, "ein Weiberstaat," in Africa, where they killed all the men in the first place, and then all the male children, and finally destined all that should be born to the same fate. And what do you think your mother said when I told her of these atrocities? Even this: "That shows what bad creatures the men must have been." And that's all I get when trying to enlighten her upon the wickedness of her s.e.x.

And I'm just getting through with Guizot's four volumes, too. Oh, a very magnificent, calm, and beautiful course of lectures. You must read them.

It's the best French history, so far as it goes.

[218] To Rev. Henry W. Bellows.

SHEFFIELD, March 6, 1850.

. . . To my poor apprehension this is an awful crisis, especially if pushed in the way the Northern doctrinaires desire. I feel it so from what I saw of Southern feeling in Washington the winter I pa.s.sed there. I fear disunion, and no mortal line can sound the depth of that calamity. I sometimes think that it would be well if we could wear around this last, terrible, black headland by sounding, and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g sails, rather than attempt to sail by compa.s.s and quadrant. Do not mistake my figure. I am no moral trimmer, and that you know. Conscience must be obeyed. But conscience does not forbid that we should treat the Southern people with great consideration. What we must do, we may do in the spirit of love, and not of wrath or scorn. Oh, what a mystery of Providence, that this terrible burden--I had almost said millstone--should ever have been hung around the neck of this Confederation!

To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.

SHEFFIELD, June 7, 1850.

MY DEAR SIR,--You should n't have lived in New York, and you should n't have been master of the French language, and you should n't have been Mr. Bryant, and, in fact, you should n't have been at all, if you expected to escape all sorts of trouble in this world! Since all these conditions pertain to you, see the inference, which, stated in the most skilfully inoffensive way I am able, stands or runs thus:

[Here followed a request that Mr. Bryant would make [219] some inquiries concerning a French teacher who had applied, and the letter continued:]

Now, in fine, if you don't see that all this letter is strictly logical,--an inference from the premises at the beginning,--I am sorry for you; and if you do see it, I am sorry for you. So you are pitied at any rate.

The 19th draws nigh. If any of the Club are with you and Mrs. Bryant in coming up, do not any of you be so deluded as to listen to any invitation to dine at Kent, but come right along, hollow and merry, and--I don't say I promise you a dinner, but what will suffice for natzir, anyhow. Art, to be sure, is out of the question, as it is when I subscribe myself, and ourselves, to you and Mrs. Bryant, with affectionate regard,

Yours truly,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Rev. William Ware.

SHEFFIELD, Oct. 13, 1850.

"THAT'S what I will," I said, as I took up your letter just now, to read it again, thinking you had desired me to write immediately. "How affectionate!" thinks I to myself; "that must have been a good letter that I wrote him last; I really think some of my letters must be pretty good ones, after all; I hate conceit,--I really believe my tendency is the other way,-but, hang it! who knows but I may turn out, upon myself, a fine letter after all? But at any rate Ware loves me, does n't he?

He wants me to write a few lines, at least, very soon. It's evident he would be pleased to have me, pleased as the Laird of Ellangowan said of the king's commission,--good honest gentle-[220] man, he can't be more pleased than I am!" But oh! the slips of those who are shodden with vanity! I read on, thinking it was a nice letter of yours,--feeling something startled, to be sure, at the compellation, as if you were mesmerise, and had got an insight (calls me bambino half of the time)--looking at your mood reverential as a droll jest,--vexed at first, but then reconciled, about the book and the lecturing,--charmed and grateful beyond measure at what you say about your health,--when!

at last!! I fell upon your request: "Now give me one brief epistle between this and our seeing you."!!! BETWEEN! what a word! what a hiatus! what a gulf! Down into it tumbled pride, vanity, pleasure, everything. Well, great occasions call out virtue. As I emerged, as I came up, I came up a hero; the vanities of this world were all struck off from me in my fall, and I came up a hero; for I determined I would write to you immediately. There! beat that if you can! I give you a chance,-one chance,--I don't ask YOU to write at all.

What is it you call my study now-a-days,--"terrible moral metaphysics "?

You may well say "weighed down" with them. I was never in my life before quite so modest as I am now. Not that I have n't enough to say, and all my faculties leap to the task; but all the while there looms up before me an ideal of what such a course of lectures might be, that I fear I shall never reach up to, no, nor one twentieth part of the way to it. . . .

[221]To Mrs. David Lane.

SHEFFIELD, Jan. 25, 1851.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--You won't come, and I will write to you! See the difference. See how I return good for evil!

I say, you won't come; for I have a letter from Mrs. Curtis, from which it is evident the will not, and so I suppose that laudable conspiracy falls to the ground. However, we shall sort o' look for you all the week. But you won't come. I know it to my fingers' ends. Cradled in luxury, wrapped in comfort, enervated by city indulgences, sophisticated by fashionable society--well, I won't finish the essay; but you won't come.

Ah! speaking of fashionable society,--that reminds me,--you ask a question, and say, "Answer me." Well, then,--society we must have; and all the question I should have to ask about it would be whether it pleased me,--not whether everybody in it pleased me, but whether its general tone did not offend me, and then, whether I could find persons in it with whose minds I could have grateful and good intercourse. If I could, I don't think the word "fashion," or the word "world," would scare me. As to the time given to it, and the time to be reserved for weightier matters, that is, to be sure, very material. But the chief thing is a reigning spirit in our life, gained from communion with the highest thoughts and themes, which consecrates all time, and subordinates all events and circ.u.mstances, and hallows all intercourse, and turns the dust of life into golden treasures.

I have no thoughts of going to New York or anywhere [222] else at present. I finished my eighth lecture yesterday. This is my poor service to the world in these days,-since you insist that I have relations to the world.

I reciprocate Mr. Lane's kind wishes, and am, as ever,