I have been preaching some Sunday-evening sermons to the merchants. Have n't you heard of them? And if you have n't, do you pretend that Brookline is a place? Take my word, Sir, that it is not to be found on the map of the world,--not known either to the ancients or the moderns. You are not in existence, Sir, take my word [162] for it, if you have not heard of these crowded, listening, etc. assemblies at the Mercer Street Church. Well, really, I have seen a packed audience there, and even the galleries pretty well filled. I have thoughts of publishing the discourses (only three, more than an hour long, however), and if I could only write three more, I would; but my brain got into a pretty bad condition by the third week, and I don't know whether I can go On at present. To the Same. NEW YORK, March 27, 1837. MY DEAR WARE,--I should like to know what you mean by not letting me hear from you these three months. Do you not know that you are in my debt for a letter at least twenty lines long, which it took me three minutes to write? And three minutes and twenty lines, in this Babel, are equal to one hour and two sheets in Brookline. Do you not know that everybody is saying, "When have you heard from Mr. Ware?" Do you not know that ugly and choking weeds will spring up on the desolation you have made here if you do not scatter some flower-seeds upon it? Consider and tremble. Or, respect this and repent, as the Chinese say. Well, Dr. Follen is to be here for a twelvemonth, and we shall not get you back again,--oh me! Dr. Follen has quite filled the church at some evening lectures on Unitarianism. Good! and everything about him is good, but that he comes after you. [163] To the Same. NEW YORK, July 10, 1837. MY DEAR WARE,--I can scarcely moderate my expressions to the tone of wisdom in telling you how much pleasure I have had in reading your book,--how much I am delighted with you and for you. There is no person to whom I would more gladly have had the honor fall of writing the "Letters from Palmyra." And it is a distinction that places your name among the highest in our--good-for-nothing--literature, as the Martineau considers it. By the bye, you need n't think you are a-going to stand at the head of everything, as she will have it. Have not I written a book too, to say nothing of the names less known of Channing, Irving, Bryant, etc.? And, by the bye, again, speaking of the Martineau, she is a woman of one idea,--takes one view, that is, and knows nothing of qualification,--and hence is opinionated and confident to a degree that I think I never saw equalled. Julia, Fausta, nay, Zenobia, for me, rather. How beautifully have you shown them up! And Gracchus and Longinus as nobly. What things is literature doing to gratify ambition,--things beyond its proudest hope! How little thought Zenobia that her character, two thousand years after she lived, would be illustrated by the genius of a clime that she dreamed not of!