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[305] manner in which it is restored. Only a very curious observer would know that it had ever been broken. . . .

Howe's soul is instinct with benevolence; he does good, and blushes to find it fame. If he has ambition, it is of that noble kind which has no regard to self, except indirectly. His desire is for that fame which follows, not which is followed after. I know that his sympathies are keenly aroused by the thought of human distress, and he devotes his best energies to its solace. He is a noble character, and will leave a name in the history of his country and of his race. I hope he sat to you for his bust.

Ever sincerely yours,


To his brother George.

Boston, May 1, 1844.
my dear George,—Poor Mary has gone away from these unkindly winds. She is fading fast. Her cheeks have lost their freshness and fulness. She longs to enjoy the opening blossoms of spring, but I hardly venture to hope that she will see them pass into the fruits of autumn. I wish you were at home to warm her by your presence. She enjoys life. I wish I could pour into her veins some of my redundant health. . . .

You will read of the atrocious immorality of John Tyler in seeking to absorb Texas, and the disgusting vindication of Slavery by Mr. Calhoun in his correspondence with Pakenham. If I were not heavily laden with labors, I would write a reply to Calhoun.

Hillard has just completed the memorials of Cleveland. It is a beautiful little volume, and there are few men in our country who have left behind the materials for so interesting a collection, wherein there is so much elevation of sentiment, so much richness of style, and the display of such various literary treasures. Few can be so fortunate in a biographer, for Hillard's memoir is an exquisite production.

What are you about in Paris? Are you writing? You will read Milnes' article on Custine in the ‘Edinburgh,’ and Lockhart's in the ‘Quarterly.’ What say you to Custine?1 . . .

Pray write long and cheerful letters to Mary.

Ever yours,


To his brother George.

Boston, May 15, 1844.
dear George,—Mary is at Springfield, and near pleasant friends; enjoys the alleys green and drives down to the river. But we are long without news of her; and from silence I infer what is melancholy. She is fading like a flower which will never bloom again, except in Paradise.

We have agreeable letters from Horace, written from the top of the mountains


1 ‘The Marquis de Custine's Russia,’ April, 1844.

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