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DEDICATORY LETTER
ADDRESSED TO
WASHINGTON IRVING.
I do not know to whom I could more
appropriately dedicate this little book than to
one who has been so long my teacher; and
who has seemed to be, so long, my friend.
It is true, that until six months ago, I had
never the honor of meeting with you: but,
there are thousands, Sir, who have never seen
you who yet know you, and esteem you, as
fully as myself.
If I have attained to any facility in the use
of language, or have gained any fitness of
expression, in which to dress my thoughts,—I
know not to what writer of the English
language, I am more indebted, than to you.
And if I have shown—as I have tried to
show—a truthfulness of feeling, that is not
lighted by any counterfeit of passion, but
rather, by a close watchfulness of nature, and a
cordial sympathy with human suffering—I
know not to what man's heart, that truthfulness
will come home sooner, than to your's.
Believe me, Dear Sir, it is from no wish to
associate my name with the names of the
great, that I ask your acceptance of this little
token of respect. My aims are humbler than
this: I would simply pay homage to the
Author, who has wrought our language into
the most exquisite forms of beauty; and to the
man, who has touched our hearts, with the
tenderness of a friend.
And if I might hope, that this simple mark
of my admiration, and of my esteem, would
commend me to your charity—to say nothing
of your regard—it is all that I would ask.
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