melting away in a depth of sadness, as if it would pacify its own sorrow,
and found newer grief in that need. The clouds break and roll away in the
sky, and the wan moon sails up as if to a weary duty. Yet so calm it is,
so pure, that it chides weariness and preaches a deep, still hope. In the
city I seem not to breathe quite freely yet, but daily I gain ground and
air. It is so different, even more than I tho't; so new, tho' I had seen
it for years; so full, tho' I walk miles without speaking or seeing a face
seen before. I must constantly say to myself, "Be quiet, be quiet. This
huge enigma will gradually explain itself, and out of these conventions
and courtesies you shall see the same tender Nature looking that so
enchanted your country life."
Here is Burrill, and we are of more worth to each other than ever before.
Sometimes I fear to think how much. He was as glad to see me as the old
Christians a prophet, for I know him best of all.
The aspect of things here impresses me mainly with the absolute necessity
and duty of making our place good. The stern, stirring activity around me
compels me to give account to myself of my silence and repose. The answer
is always clear and steady. I have not heard the voice. Yet my mind begins
to shape some outline of life. Of this I am assured, that in this world of
work, where the hum of business makes music with the stars, I must work
too. And how I must work, by what handle I shall grasp the world and
justify my consumption of its food, that begins to appear. My Genius is
not decided enough to lead me unquestioning in any one direction, and my
taste is so equally cultivated and developed that choice seems somewhat
arbitrary. Yet it is not so. Above all, I regret no culture, tho' it may
have thus multiplied the roads to be chosen. It is a tinge and charm to
whatever is performed.
A gentleman in never so ragged clothes is a gentleman still. You may be
sure nothing has charmed me more than my meeting with Isaac in his mealy
clothes and brown-paper cap. His manner had a grand dignity, because he
was universally related by his diligent labor, and my conversation with
him was as earnest and happy as any intercourse I have had with him. This
general activity does not reprove me, for my silence respects itself and
gives good reasons why judgment should not proceed. And therefore it views
more lovingly what surrounds it. The God stirs within, and presently will
say something. Let us plant ourselves there and be lawyers that we may so
dispense justice, not that we may get bread; and priests, because the
Divine will speaks thro' us; and merchants and doctors and shoemakers and
bakers, from the same reason. If we honestly serve in any such profession,
bread will come of course.
Your letter has quickened my thought upon these things, quite active
before. My impulse is to say at once, go. The worst and all you can dread
is the foul breath that will befog your fair name, because E.W. has done
what he has, because you _were_ a minister and _are_ a Transcendentalist
and a seceder from the holy office, and a dweller at _that place_, unknown
to perfumed respectability and condemned of prejudice and error. This is
the first great reason, and the second is not unlike unto it. It is that
you retard your preparation for any permanent pursuit, as a centre of your
sensuous life, by passing two or three years in Europe. With respect to
the first reason, not your own feelings, but those of your friends, demand
some consideration. In Heaven's court will their sorrow at your departure
and intimacy with E.W. at this time outweigh your own happiness at the
trip, and because so you lend your own good character to one perhaps
unjustly condemned. Such a sudden departure and intimacy with him might
have an indirect influence upon your future attempts to base yourself in
some way. If your mind is determining itself towards no pursuit, and you
anticipate the same general employment that has filled the last year or
two, I should say go. If God doesn't call here, he may in Europe; and if
not for years, your voyage cannot interfere with him. There are privater
reasons, which you know, of his character and of your probability of
assimilation, and of your independence in intimacies. Perhaps you may link
little fingers, if you cannot clasp the whole hand. On the whole, I should
say go, though not without due thought of friends, to whom your name and
relation may be more than your friendship. You will soon let me know of
your movements, will you not?
For a week or two, I am man of the house for my cousin, whose husband is
in Boston. Burrill fulfils the same duty for an aunt. It is a great
separation, though only a step separates us when I am at home; but the
fine social sympathy of actual contact, in the early morning and late
night, the kind deeds that link the minutes and adorn the hours, the
tender sweets of the dignity of friendship without its form--these are
buds that bloom only in the warmth of hands perpetually united.
To-night Charles Dana and Isaac and Burrill came to see me. I smelled
summer leaves and heard summer flutes as I stood with them and talked.
Charles was never so important to me; he was himself and all Brook Farm
beside. We are all going to hear William Henry Channing in the morning.
Last Sunday at the church door I met C.P. Cranch and his wife. I mean to
go and see them very soon, though they live _streets_ away. Of Isaac I
have seen much for a week's space. He lives two miles or more from us.
I have heard no music yet. Max Bohrer concerts on Monday with Timm, Mrs.
Sutton, Antogigni, and Schafenberg; I mean to go. The Philharmonic
concerts begin a week from this evening. They have four concerts, and the
subscription is $10, for which one obtains three tickets to each concert,
and the privilege of buying two occasional tickets at $1.50 each. A
singular arrangement. They are to play the 8th Symphony next Saturday. I
know not what else.
Give Almira a great deal of love from me. I shall sing a song to her
solitude and patiently await the response. I have begun to read "Wilhelm
Meister" in German. I read about three or four hours a day, then an hour
or two in Latin, and the rest to poetical reading--Beaumont and Fletcher,
Ford, Massinger, Shakespeare, and the Bible, at present. In Worcester I
found Montaigne, whom I devoured. What cheerful good sense! I have begun
also to learn two or three of B.'s waltzes from note. "La Dobur" I have
almost accomplished. Possibly I shall thus pick up some _note_ knowledge,
though I do not build any castles. Good-night. Could I but send myself in
my letter! Your friend,
G.W.C.
Tuesday morning. I concluded to retain my letter for Charles, who leaves
to-day. Charles and Isaac and Burrill and I all went to Max Bohrer's
concert last evening. The hall was full, 1000 or 1500 people present. I
was glad to go, for he introduced me to the Instrument, but no more. He
has great skill, and has fully mastered it. That is what persevering
talent can always do. Bohrer loved his instrument because he could display
himself by its aid, not because it was through his genius a minister and
revealer of the art to himself and others. His conceit is sublime. It was
entire and unique. His posture and air were ridiculously Olympian. Mrs.
Sutton is very fat and has a thin voice. There are some good tones in it,
but she undertakes the most difficult music. Antignini sings pleasantly
but with great effort. All his songs were his own composition, and all Max
Bohrer's his. In fact, it was not a musical festival so much as a
gymnasium for musical instruments, both mechanical and human. Timm and
Scharfenberg both played admirably. I saw Fred'k Rakemann in the crowd;
could not conveniently speak to him, and am going, as soon as I can find
out where he lives, to see him. His face was so sad that I wanted to go to
him and say some tenderer word than I should have said had I spoken. Yet
after all he doesn't need tender words, but a calm, grateful demeanor
towards him.
I wish that I could tell all the glories of my trip to New York. I went
from Worcester over the Western R.R. to Albany and down the river. Some
other day shall be consecrated to their fit celebration when the
recollection may be pleasant and soothing among cares that disturb. Now I
expect Charles every moment to go with me to see Cranch.
Ask Charles for all news about our "externe." Remember me most tenderly to
my many friends at Brook Farm.
G.W.C.
IV
NEW YORK, _November 20, '43._
Certainly, my dear Friend, the concert of the Philharmonic Society on
Saturday evening was the finest concert ever given in the country. It is
pleasant to see the homage paid to the art indirectly by the whole style
of the concert. The room is small, holding 1000 people. Every gentleman
goes in full-dress, and the ladies in half-dress. Various members of the
society are appointed managers, distinguished by a ribboned button-hole,
and they provide seats for the audience. No bills are issued before the
night, so there are only rumors of what the _particular_ will be, with a
quiet consciousness that the _general_ will be fine. So we arrived on
Saturday evening and found the following bill: Symphony No. 7 in A minor
(Beethoven); Cavatina from an opera of Nini's (Signora Castellan);
Overture to "Zauberflote" (Mozart); Cavatina from Donizetti (Signora
Castellan); Overture to "The Jubilee" (Weber). I think we have not had
many such concerts.
The symphony was interpreted upon the bills as a musical presentment of
the mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydicc. That did very well as a
figure to represent it, but it was taken by the audience as a theme; and
they all fixed their eyes upon the explanation, thereby to judge the
symphony. It was grand, and full of his genius. It was another of those
earnest, hopeless questionings of Destiny. The very first bars were full
of this. It opens with a crash of the whole orchestra, determined and
inexorable. Then follows a low deep wailing of the flutes and horns, full
of tenderness, of aspiration, of subdued hope; and another crash of the
whole, like a lightning flash, instantaneous and scathing the world,
sweeps across the plaintiveness of the wind instruments and as instantly
is gone. The sad inquiry continues, the determined Thunder of Fate drowns
it constantly, and it is lost. Then it becomes more imperious and active,
and the call upon the Invisible and the Unanswerable sounds on every side,
rises to the top of the flutes, sinks to the lowest bases, appears now
among the violins, now vanishes to the rest, until it has disciplined the
whole, and the whole orchestra together thunders out the call. Then comes
the adagio, where, as always, the mystery seems to be developing itself,
where the earnest-seeking solemnly consecrates itself to success; and the
minuet and finale conclude--the soaring, mocking, hellish laughter of
fiends and demons of the air, at baffled curiosity and blighted hope. Is
not that what these symphonies express? The pith of the matter is never
reached. The very movement of the adagio, while it expresses a deep,
solemn hope, seems to mourn with unutterable sorrow that the hope must be
only consecrated and profound, never realized. The climax of the music and
the sentiment seems to be always in the adagio.
What remained for such a man as he, separate from all others and alone
with his life, but to question the Fate that impelled him, now in this
tone and now in that? What remained for such unsatisfied, joyless strength
but the stern, wild laughter of fiends that the question could not be
answered--and the deep wail of Fate, which also is sung in his music, that
such strength should have the ruggedness of endurance but not the
gracefulness of Faith? How I wished you had been there!
Castellan's voice is full and rich; it was very sweet, and she sang with
warmth but no passion. She needs some cultivation yet, for her shake is
not good. Why did we not hear Mali-bran? who was also so great an actor
that she would have been famous without a voice. I could not for a moment
suffer my idea of her to be compared with Castellan. Malibran must have
been so lovely from her sensibility and passion, so commanding from the
majesty of her voice, that the art and not the woman must have found newer
worshippers with every new audience.
I hope to hear Cinto Damoreau this week. You have heard "The Magic Flute"
overture, I think, so fairy-like and graceful, full of tender shadows and
heart-rejoicing sunlight and aerial shapes that fade and glint like stars.
And the magnificent "Jubilee" concluded with "God save the King."
Evening. My aunt sent for me to hear Timm play the "Pathetique." His
playing is wonderfully graceful, his touch more delicate than either of
the R.'s. But he lacks genius; and time and practice will give Fred. R.
all that Timm has. He is very enthusiastic. I spoke to him of "Egmont;" he
seemed delighted, said he hadn't heard it for 12 years, but instantly sat
down and played portions of it. He promised to play the adagio of the
"Pathetique" on the organ next Sunday. We had but a few moments, for his
time is all devoted to teaching, or I should have kept him till midnight.
He is so simple and natural about the matter that it is very pleasant to
be with him. If you mention anything to him, he instantly runs to the
piano and plays something from it. Imagine him the other evening standing
up straddling the stool, a roll of music under each arm, gloves in hand,
and playing a movement from one of the symphonies!
I have been to see Cranch; found his wife at home, whom I have not seen
since January. They are pleasantly situated, though a good way off. He has
a room in the house where he paints. I saw two of his landscapes, views
from nature, that were very striking. If I should find fault, I should say
they were too warmly colored; and I suspect that is his error, if he has
any, from what his wife told me he said of one of Durand's.
Mr. Furness preached finely for us on Sunday. Mr. Dewey does not charm me
at all. Have heard W.H.C. once, as Charles will have told you. Have not
yet seen him, for I have been out to see people hardly at all. Met Isaac
at the Saturday concert. He looks fresh and well. Seems better every way
than I ever knew him. Has he not found his place? I must see him again to
discern the direction of Almira, to whom I have a letter written partly,
and know not how to address it.
Are you singing Eastward ho! or do you remain? Remember that he who
criticises Handel and Mozart, as the "Democratic" witnesseth, owes
something to the art--shall I say _his life_? What literary work are you
about, or have you still the same reluctance to assume the pen that you
had? Let the consideration that the pen is so invaluable a minister to
friendship tempt you to honor it more by use.
I have squeezed myself into such little space that I must defer an outline
of my days till I write again. One moral inquiry for your wits, and I will
withdraw into silence and the infinite. Does not one friend who indites
many letters, unanswered, to another, thereby heap coals of fire upon
somebody's head as effectually as if he fed the hungry? Scatter my love as
broadly as you think it will bear, and reserve the carver's share for
yourself.
G.W.C.
V
_Saturday night, November 25, '43._
Why do I love music enough to be only a lover, and cannot offer it a
life-devoted service? Yet the lover serves in his sort, and if I may not
minister to it, it cannot fail to dignify and ennoble my life. I am just
from hearing Ole Bull, who this evening made his first appearance in
America. How shall I fitly speak to you of him, how can I now, while the
new vision of beauty that he caused to sweep by still lingers? Yet itself
shall inspire me. The presence of so noble a man allures to light whatever
nobility lies in us.
He came forward to a house crowded in every part with the calm simplicity
of Genius. There was no grimace, no graces, but a fine grace that adorned
his presence and assured one that nothing could disappoint--that the
simplicity of the man was the seal and crown of his genius. A fair-haired,
robust, finely formed man, the full bloom of health shining on his face,
he appeared as the master of the great instrument, as the successor, in
point of time, of the world-famous Paganini. Yet was one confident that
here was no imitator, but a pupil who had sat thoughtfully at the master's
feet and felt that beneath the depth of his expression there was yet a
lower depth, who knew himself consecrated by a will grander than his will
to the service of an art so divine and so loved. In him there was that
sure prophecy of latent power which surrounds genius, and assures us that
the thing done is an echo only and shadow of the possible performance.
The playing followed this simple, majestic appearance. It was full of
music, irregular, wild, yearning, trembling. His violin lay upon his arm
tenderly as a living thing; and such rich, mellow, silver, shining tones
followed his motion that one seemed to catch echoes of that eternal melody
whereof music itself is but the shadow and presentment. The adagios
reminded me of Beethoven, not as they were imitated, but as all the great
ones, in their appearing, summon all the rest. The mechanical execution
was faultless. I detected no thick note. It was smooth as the sea of
summer, embosoming only deep cloud-shadows and the full sunlight, but no
lesser thing. Then he came, and he withdrew; and my heart followed him.
Do not be alarmed if the critics call him cold, and speak of him
disparagingly when others are mentioned. The noble and heroes serve divine
powers, and at last win men. Men of talent and application love their
instrument as it introduces the world to them; men of genius as it
interprets to them and to the world the mystery of music. Genius men must
reverence, and they are not apt to do it boisterously. Is not the
influence of fine character, which is only genius for virtue, like the
brooding of God over chaos? Which is chaos only to the blind, but teems
with generous, melodious laws to the spiritually discerned. Creation is
the opening of eyes, not the fabrication of objects. "Let there be light"
is the creative fiat, spoken by every God-filled soul. Yet how sure is
this power of Genius.
The world henceforth gives to Ole Bull the full and generous satisfaction
of his needs. It cannot fail to esteem God's messengers when they come, if
they be true and collected. Talent wins the same subsistence; earnest,
unfailing, unshrinking endeavor wins it anywhere; but what does Talent and
Trial do but imitate the action of the result of Genius! How sublime the
revelations it makes in this art! While the rest have risen and culminated
and paused, this seeks a zenith ever loftier and diviner. That deep
nature, that central beauty, which all art strives to reveal, floats to us
in these fine harmonies, to me more subtly and surely than elsewhere. But
in this region, where my thought bears me, they are all united. This soft,
silent face of Urania, which looks upon me sleeplessly and untired, is not
its wonderful influence woven of that same essence that has ravished me
tonight in the tones of the violin? In the coolness of thought, do not the
masters of song, of painting, of sculpture meet in eternal congress, for
in each is the appearance of equal skill? Raphael could have sung as
Shakespeare, and Milton have hewn these massy forms as Angelo. Yet a
divine economy rules these upper spiritual regions, as sure and steadfast
as the order of the stars. Raphael must paint and Homer sing, yet the same
soul gilds the picture and sweetens the song. So Venus and Mars shine
yellow and red, but the same central fire is the light of each. In the
capacity of doing all things well lies the willingness to serve one duty.
The Jack of all trades is sure to be good at none, for who is good at all
is Jack of one only. It seemed a bitter thing to me, formerly, that
painters must only paint and sculptors carve; but I see now the wisdom. In
one thing well done lies the secret of doing all.
Music, painting, are labels that designate the form of action; the soul of
it lies below. The earnest merchant and the earnest anti-tradesman do join
hands and work together. Not ends are demanded of them, but vital strength
and soul. The world does not need that I name my work, but that the work
be accomplished.
The midnight warns me to pause. The stillness accords with the intercourse
of friendship, as the silence of space with the calm, speechless
recognition of the planets. Thoughts of all friends circle round me like
gentle breezes from the black wing of the night. Friends are equal and
noble always to friends. Lovers only know the depths and the heights of
lovers. Love prophesies only a surer, diviner friendship, crowned with the
dignity and composure of God.
I shall re-enter the world through the white gate of dreams, yet more
quiet and resolved that I have heard this man, more tender, more tolerant.
He has touched strings of that harp whose vibrations never cease, but
affirm the infiniteness of our being and its present habitation in
Eternity. Your friend,
G.W.C.
Wednesday. Sunday P.M. I passed with Fred. Rakemann. He was very glad to
see me, and I him. His fine face lighted with enthusiasm as we spoke of
music, of Germany and its poets. He played magnificently, among others
"Adelaide," translated for the piano by Liszt, a beautiful andante of
Chopin, some of Henselt, etc., until it was quite twilight. Then I went
away. He promised to come and see me, nor shall I fail to see him as often
as I think he will endure, though his days are so busy with teaching that
I do not hope to find him except on Sundays.
To-night Ole Bull plays the second time. I shall go to hear him. The
Frenchmen are cliqued against him, for Vieuxtemps has arrived, and they
mean to maintain his superiority. He has no announcement as yet. My letter
I will not close until to-morrow, and say a final word about Ole Bull.
Wednesday night. I have heard him again, and the impression he made on
Saturday is only deepened. He played an adagio of Mozart's. It was simple
and severely chaste. His beautiful simplicity is just the character to
apprehend the delicate touches of the Master, which he drew to us, without
any ornament or addition. It was as if Mozart had been in spirit in the
instrument, and given us, with all the freshness of creation, the music
that can never lose its bloom. Scharfenberg was in the box with us, Fred.
Rakemann in the next box. I saw Castellan in a private box, and Isaac H.
The evening was glorious. Had you only been there! Yet you will see him
in Boston. Do not fail to write me how he impresses you--that is,
particularly. I cannot misapprehend his power so much as not to feel that
it will seem to you very grand. Observe his manner towards the orchestra,
how Olympian, how supreme, yet with all the gentle grace and tenderness of
power! Good-night. May you ever hear sweet music!
VI
N.Y., _Friday, Dec. 15, 1843._
Truly the musical art culminates in our zenith this winter. It gives me
other thoughts than of music only, unfolds to me something more of art,
and I am charmed constantly to see how calmly we receive the great
artists, after the noise of their entry, as the world quietly accepts the
light of stars and swings unastonished on its wonderful way. Ole Bull and
the rest are the scouts we have sent on before us, and they return to tell
us of the Wonderful Land, and bring mementos and captives from the rich
Eldorado of our hopes. That country to which nature points, of which all
art is the flaming beacon, and which the weary voyager home-returning from
fruitless search tells us is in ourselves--not the less far away for that.