r Waldo, in love and prayer,
yours,

O. DEWEY.

Everybody mourns with you. Dr. Channing said yesterday, "I think
Massachusetts could not have met with a greater loss than of that young
man."

Mr. Emerson's letter in reply is beautiful in itself, and has the added
interest attaching now to every word of his:--

CONCORD, May 23, 1836,

MY DEAR SIR,--I received the last week your kind letter, and the copy
of your affectionate notice of Charles A Chauncey Place. I remember
how little while ago you consoled us by your sympathy at Edward's
departure,--a kind, elevating letter, which I have never acknowledged.
I feel as if it was kind, even compassionate, to remember me now that
these my claims of remembrance are gone.

Charles's mind was healthy, and had opened steadily with a growth that
never ceased from month to month [157] under favorable circumstances.
His critical eye was so acute, his rest on himself so absolute, and
his power of illustrating his thought by an endless procession of fine
images so excellent, that his conversation came to be depended on at
home as daily bread, and made a very large part of the value of life
to me. His standard of action was heroic,--I believe he never had even
temptations to anything mean or gross. With great value for the opinion
of plain men, whose habits of life precluded compliment and made their
verdict unquestionable, he held perhaps at too low a rate the praise of
fashionable people,--so that he steadily withdrew from display, and
I felt as if nobody knew my treasure. Meantime, like Aaron, "he could
speak well." He had every gift for public debate, and I thought we had
an orator in training for the necessities of the country, who should
deserve the name and the rewards of eloquence. But it has pleased God
not to use him here. The Commonwealth, if it be a loser, knows it not;
but I feel as if bereaved of so much of my sight and hearing.

His judgment of men, his views of society, of politics, of religion,
of books, of manners, were so original and wise and progressive, that I
feel--of course nobody can think as I do--as if an oracle were silent.

I am very sorry that I cannot see you,--did not when we were both in
Boston. My mother and brother rejoice in your success in New York, and
I with them. They have had their part in the benefit. I hear nothing
of the aching head, and hope it does not ache. . . . Cannot I see you in
Concord during some of your Boston visits? I will