constantly shifting lights and beauties of a summer day, it is no less so
to write now and then a letter from Italy to one who would so warmly enjoy
all that I see and hear. Every omitted day makes the case worse, a month
makes it hopeless; and so I lived in Rome for five months and wrote you
only one letter at the beginning. Yet is the magnetism of friendship not
yet fine enough for you to know how constantly you were remembered, how I
lingered in the moonlit Coliseum, how I felt the commanding beauty of the
"Apollo" thrill through me, and the "Laocoon" and the proud heads of
Antinous, and the pictures which are what our imaginations demand for
Raphael and Leonardo and Michel Angelo, how I stood in the flood of the
"Miserere," which was and was not what I knew it must be, how I plucked
roses from the graves of Shelley and Keats, and led a Roman life for a
winter, not for myself only, but for you!
I have written quite regularly to my family, and described some of the
many matters which were new and picturesque, but have scarcely snatched a
line to a friend except to Lizzie Curson and two letters to Geo. Bradford,
who had some intention of coming out to join us in this enchanted land. In
my last letter to him, which I wrote at the end of the Holy Week, I
mentioned the "Miserere" and the news of that time. He will show you the
letter, I suppose, if you wish to see it. But from Rome I broke suddenly
off and came to Naples.
Is it not fine when things are beautifully different, when you part from
one as if you were leaving everything, and find satisfaction in
another--not a superiority, but equal difference? So is Naples after Rome.
There is nothing solemn or grand in it. It rises in solid banks of
cheerful houses from the spacious streets upon the water to the grim
castle of St. Elmo, which hovers almost perpendicularly over it. These
houses are white and bright, and turn themselves into the sunlight, and
stretch in long lines around the bay, blending with the neighboring towns
so that the base of Vesuvius is marked with a line of white houses, which
go on undistinguishably from Naples. Farther round is Castellamare and
Sorrento, whose promontory beyond is one corner of the bay, of which Capri
seems like a portion sailed away into the sea. And the bay of Naples is so
spacious and stately, so broad and deep, its lines those of mountains and
the sea, its gem the sunny city, and the islands of Capri, Ischia, and
Procida, so large and high and springing so proudly from the water, that
it satisfies the expectation; and sometimes this broad water dashes and
rolls like the ocean, then subsides into sunny ripples and gleams like
glass in the moonlight. Two or three old castles stand out upon the bay
from the city, picturesque objects for artists and lookers on, and in the
hazy moonlight black and sharp masses reflected in the water. Sails and
steamers and boats of all sorts are constantly dotting this space, and I
am never weary of wandering along the shore on which lie the fishermen
among their boats, with mournful looking women and black, matted-haired,
gypsy-like children.
The picturesqueness of cities and life in Italy is more striking to me
than anything else. The people are so poetic that, although lazy and dirty
and mean, what they do and wear is like an animated picture. The gay
costumes of the women--ribbons and bodices and trinkets--with their deep
olive skins and bare heads, with hair that is most luxuriantly black, and
beautifully twisted and folded in heavy, graceful braids, the broad-browed
and outlined Roman women, majestic and handsome, not lovely or
interesting, but showing as the remains of an imperial beauty; and in
Naples the little figures and arch eyes and Oriental mien of the
girls--these persons living in quaint old cities where the brightest
flowers bloom amid hanging green over windows far and far above the street
and walking in high-walled narrow lanes over which hang the sun-sucking
leaves of the indolent aloe, and in which gleam the rich orange and lemon
trees, or, as now, the keen lustrous green of just-budding fig-trees, and
vines, or entering with quiet enthusiasm into festivals of saints,
sprinkling the churches and streets with glossy, fragrant bay-leaves,
hanging garlands upon the altars while a troop of virgins, clad in white
and crowned, pass with lighted tapers to the Bishop's feet for a blessing,
or more grandly drawing St. Peter's in fire upon the wild gloom of a March
night, and in vast procession of two or three thousand marching down the
narrow Corso singing a national song to the Pope--all this, if you can
unravel it, paints for the eye what can never be seen at home. "I pack my
trunk and wake up in Naples," and find myself, for which I am grateful;
but I also find Italian beauty, which is like American as oranges are like
apples. Such deep passionate eyes, such proud, queenly motions, such
groups of peasants and girls in gardens listening to music, and lying
asleep in the shade of trees, all this material of poetry is also material
of life here. This is the true Lotos Eaters' island, this the grateful
land of leisure; here people walk slowly and eat slowly and ride slowly,
and, I must say, think slowly. But that also is corn to my mill. I find
some sympathy with the happy Guy of Emerson's book, for there is no public
opinion in Italy. A man feels that he stands alone and enjoys all the joys
and sorrows of that consciousness and that position. Your room is your
castle. If a man knows where it is he comes to see you, but whatever you
do or say (of course excepting what is political) is your own business and
not that of infernal society, which at home is grand arbiter of men's
destinies. Except you care to do so, you have no state to keep up. The
card for a royal ball finds you as readily in your fourth story as in the
neighboring palace it finds My Lord; and so you are released from that
thraldom which one cannot explain, but which one feels at home whether he
consents to it or not.
And it is a broad and catholic teacher, this travelling. I have been quite
unsphered since I have been here, in various ways, and have discovered how
good every man's business is and how wide his horizon. There is a shabby
Americanism which prowls proselyting through Europe, defying its spirit or
its beauty or its difference to swerve it from what it calls its
patriotism. Because America is contented and tolerably peaceful with a
Republic, it prophesies that Europe shall see no happy days until all
kings are prostrated; and belches that peculiar eloquence which prevails
in small debating-clubs in retired villages at home. This is like taunting
the bay of Naples with the bay of New York, or apples with oranges, or the
dark lustrous beauty of Italian women with the blond fairness of
Americans. Why should all men be governed alike rather than all look
alike; the north is cold and the south is warm. These monarchies which are
decried have been the fostering arms of genius and art; and in Italy and
the rest of the countries here lie the grand achievements of all time,
which draw the noblest and best from America to contemplate them and suck
the heart of their beauty for the refining and adorning their own land.
And why fear imitation! Men imitate when they stay at home more
preposterously than when they see what is really beautiful and grand in
other places; and a fine work of art repels imitation as the virgin beauty
of a girl repels licentiousness. And we are elevated by art and mingling
with men to know what is noble and best in attainment. We fancy a thousand
things fine at home because we do not know how much finer the same may be,
perhaps because we do not know that they are copies. Indeed, I feel as if
it would be a good fruit of long travel to recover the knowledge of the
fact which we so early lose--that we are born into the world with
relations to men as men before we are citizens of a country with limited
duties. A noble cosmopolitanism is the brightest jewel in a man's crown.
I have heard very little music in Italy--never so little in a winter. In
Rome the opera was nothing, and there were only two or three concerts.
That of a young Pole pianiste whom I knew was good, Maurice Strakosch
(perhaps he will come to America). But the great gem of music was the
singer Adelaide Kemble. You know she has left the stage and the public,
but this was an amateur concert for the Irish. Her singing of "Casta Diva"
was by far the finest gem heard. Such richness and volume, such possession
and depth and passion, such purity and firmness and ease, I did not
believe possible. Although a single song in a concert it seemed to embrace
the whole spirit of the opera. She sang also the moon song from "Der
Freischutz" simply and exquisitely, also in a trio of Mozart's and a
Barcarolle, all of which showed the same genius. I do not see that she
lacks anything, for although not beautiful, her face is flexible and
really grand when she is excited. Cranch thought her voice not quite sweet
in some parts. The "Miserere" was exquisitely beautiful, but not entirely
what I expected to hear. In Naples I have heard the "Barber of Seville"
and an opera of Mercadanti's. The last is refined street music, and
reminds me of the mien and manners of a gentleman. The bands play every
day, which is much better than at Rome. But it is unhappy for me that
Verdi is the musical god of Italy at present, because the bands play
entirely from his operas, which remind me of a diluted Donizetti. He has
brought out a new opera, "Macbeth," within the month, at Florence. On the
third evening he was called out thirty-eight times; the young men escorted
him home in triumph, and the next night various princes and nobles
presented him with a golden crown!
I have heard various rumors of Brook Farm, none agreeable. I feel as if my
letter might not find you there; but what can you be doing anywhere else?
I have received no letter from you, no direct news from Brook Farm, except
through Lizzie Curzon and Geo. Bradford. But it floats on in my mind, a
sort of Flying Dutchman in these unknown seas of life and experience, full
of an old beauty and melody. I know how your time is used, and am not
surprised at any length of silence. We go into the beautiful country about
us for a fortnight, to Salerno, Sorrento, Pestum, and Capri, afterwards
Rome again. Florence, the Apennines, Venice, Milan, Como, the Tyrol,
Switzerland, and Germany lie before us. What a spring which promises such
a summer! You will still go with me as silently as before.
At this moment I raise my eyes to Vesuvius, which is opposite my window,
and the blue bay beneath. I can see the line of the Mediterranean blending
with the sky, and remember that you are at the other side. I write as if
Brook Farm still was there, and am more than ever
Yr friend
G.W.C.
LETTERS OF LATER DATE
I
PROVIDENCE, _Thursday, Oct. 10, '50._
My dear Dwight,--I was very very sorry not to find you the other day; but
as I was only a few hours in Boston, I had no opportunity of renewing the
attempt.
This morning I saw a letter, I suppose from you, in the _Tribune_, about
Jenny's Saturday concert in Boston. It reminded me to send you a most
rapid criticism(?) of mine published here yesterday. I address the paper
as I do this note.
This Jenny Lind singing is a matter of such lofty art in the sublimest
sense, and we are so young and jejune in all art, that I cannot much
wonder at the general impression. It is precisely what would be the fate
of really fine pictures and poems. Huge wonder, childish delight,
intoxication, delirium, and disappointment--but little of the apprehensive
perception of the presence of an artist so profound and grand.
I knew, of course, that you must be realizing somewhere the greatness of
this gift. Now I have heard you say so, I am glad to send you a kind of
echo.
When shall I see you? I shall be here for a day or two more, then relapse
into New York, for how long I know not. Let me have a line from you,
saying that among all your virtues you yet count Memory, as does yours
most rememberingly,
George W. Curtis.
II
PROVIDENCE, _March 17th, '51, Monday._
I believe, dear John, that I have not yet had the grace to congratulate
you upon "the great change" that you have recently undergone. But,
happily, I am equally sure that you have not ascribed my silence to
anything but the habit of epistolary silence that has come upon me since
my return from the other continent, mainly distinguished, if my memory may
confirm universal remark, by the great number of letters written from it.
May I also add the satiety of writing, which a man who has just published
a book may be supposed to be experiencing? For I have published a book, a
copy of which, with the heart of the author, pressed but not dried between
the blank leaves, you should have had immediately but for my absence from
New York. It is called "Nile Notes of a Howadji," and has thus far, being
only a week old, received as flattering notice as any tremulous young
author could have wished. One or two chapters are considered somewhat
_broad_, I hear; but the whole impression is precisely what I wished.
I am here because I was invited to repeat my lecture here; and, as I was
not back in New York when the "Notes" were issued, I preferred to tarry in
the "ambrosial retirement," as Rev. Osgood calls it, and not serve as
foot-notes to my Readers.
I shall go home soon, and I trust by way of Boston. If so, I shall of
course see you and--yours, I must now say. Will you present my warmest
regards and pleasantest recollections to your wife, and believe still in
your friend
George W.C.
III
My dear John,--The Lady Emelyn swears by Venus and all the Goddesses that
our party at your house must be postponed until Friday evening, that she
may bring with us Miss Anna Loring and Miss Augusta King. What can mere
men do? They submit. And they walk across the fields to look at a
beautiful woman, at a Poet's wife.
We are all very hot and very happy down here, and wonder if your ashes are
white or quite invisible, for of course, in the city, you have become ash.
Present us most kindly to your wife, and forget not that our coming will
be much more enchanting with Mrs. S.'s proposed addition.
Yours aff.,
G.W.C.
NAHANT, _Wednesday morning Aug 12, '51._
IV
My dear John,--We are tapering off. Mrs. Story is not well, and we have
not our young ladies yet. Also C.P. Cranch goes to Quincy, where his wife
is. So I fear you will have only William and me, and very probably his
proof-sheets will retain him. I expect Cranch to come, but he is quite
unwell.
Yours aff.,
G.W.C.
_Friday, Aug. 15, '51._
V
PROVIDENCE, _Friday, Sep. 26, 1851._
My dear John,--This morning I received the enclosed. If you can shed light
upon the darkness it indicates will you please do so, sending me what
information you have.
I am up to my ears in a book I am writing in continuation of the "Notes,"
"Syrian Sketches"; and shall stay here perhaps two months. I shall hope to
slip down to Boston occasionally and see you all. I was there a few hours
on Monday, and saw William by chance. Burrill has reached England, and is
very much pleased with Malvern.
Give my love to your wife, whom I would be glad to hear sing once more.
Your aff.
G.W.C.
VI
PROVIDENCE, _25th Nov., '51._
My dear John,--I had intended to see the B. when she came. I have sounded
her trumpet here, for auld lang syne. If I can do so heartily I will write
a notice of her concert, as I always do when I am here, at the request of
_The Journal_. I enclose my last effort in that kind, apropos of Catherine
Hayes.
I would gladly come to Boston, but I cannot think of it just now. Should
Jenny Lind threaten not to sing in Providence I shall very likely run down
with my cousin Anna and hear her for an evening. We are trying to have the
Germania here, but for music in the general we go hang. My cousin,
however, is a very accomplished player, and I enjoy with her Mendelssohn's
songs and Liszt's arrangements and "Don Giovanni" and eke Schumann. I see
Fred Rackemann has returned.
My book is written; but I am now very busily revising it. Hedge much
prefers what I have read him to the other. He lives just across the street
from me, and we have many a cigar and chat. He preaches superb sermons.
Give my heartiest love and remembrances to your wife, and forget not the
faithful. I have a line from the Xest of Xtophers the other day, who is
painting away for dear life. Tom Hicks, ditto. The latter lives with
Charles Dana.
Ever your aff.
G.W.C.
I have unluckily forgotten your no. so I'll put the street, not being
quite sure of that!!!
VII
TRIBUNE OFFICE, N.Y., _19th March, '52._
My dear John,--Your most welcome letter has been received, and its
contents have been submitted to the astute deliberations of the editorial
conclave. We are delighted at the prospect--but--we do not love the name.
_1st. Journal of Music_ is too indefinite and commonplace. It will not be
sufficiently distinguished from the _Musical Times_ and the _Musical
World_, being of the same general character.
2d. "Side-glances" is suspicious. It "smells" Transcendentalism, as the
French say, and, of all things, any aspect of a clique is to be avoided.
That is the negative result of our deliberations; the positive is, that
you should identify your name with the paper and called it _Dwight's
Musical Journal_, and you might add, _sotto voce_, "a paper of Art and
Literature."
Prepend: I shall be very glad to send you a sketch of our winter doings in
music, especially as I love Steffanane, although she says, "I smoke, I
chew, I snoof, I drink, I am altogether vicious." You shall have it Sunday
morning, and I will address it to you simply at the P.O.
My book is ready, is only waiting for the English publisher to move; and I
have other irons heating, of which anon. I've had a long letter from Wm.
Story, who is happy and busy in Rome--who wouldn't be?
VIII
I wish you could run on and see us all. Tom Hicks is right busy with his
great portrait of the ex-Governor. Indeed, we are all so busy that I have
only time to remember--rarely to say--that I am
Your ever aff.
G.W.C.
_J.S. Dwight, Esq._
Give my kindest regards to your wife. I wish she could sing in your paper.
IX
N.Y., _Saturday, 24th April, '52._
My dear John,--I have been so busy in the last throes of my "Syrian
Howadji," which is to be born on Tuesday, that I have not sent you an
intended letter about the Philharmonic and the Quartette; and I presume
from to-day's number that you have other notes of them. I think, however,
I will still send you something by Monday's mail if you will promise not
to use it if you don't truly want it. There is rather a flat and
barrenness just now in the world of music, but, with the Academy
exhibition, Brackett's group, and the Paul Delaroche picture we can make
out something.
Your paper is a triumph. It is so handsome to the eye and sweet to the
mind, it is so pleasantly varied, and its sketches have such completeness
of grace in themselves, that the reader is not ashamed of the pleasure it
gives him and the interest he has in it, which you may have remarked is
not always the case, for instance, in liking Anna Thillard's business at
Niblo's (of which very little is certainly enough). I am half ashamed of
myself for really enjoying what I know is so utterly artificial. Do you
conceive?
I just see in the _National Era_ a long notice of you and your _Journal_.
It was not mine or the T.'s or I should have sent it to you. But you must
find it.
You will receive an early copy of my Syrian book, the last of the Howadji,
who, leaving the East, becomes a mere traveller. It was a real work of
love, and I hope you may have some of the pleasure in reading that I had
in writing it.
Give my love to your wife, and believe me always,
G.W.C.
I send you over the page a list of names of my subscribers and enclose you
the funds in N.Y. money. [Enclosed were eight subscriptions to _Dwight's
Journal of Music_, Curtis himself taking three copies.]
X
N.Y., _28th Apr., 1852._
My dear John,--I span out my letter so far that I had no room for
pictures, but I will not forget them, and they will remain open until the
middle of July.
I shall be only too delighted to see Mr. Goldschmidt, and sincerely regret
that I have enjoyed no such opportunity of seeing Jenny Lind until just as
she is going. We are beginning to stir. White and I have both suggested
_one_ concert of the true stamp, and the _Times_ came out against us and
we pitched back again into the _Times_; and the _Herald_ and other
journals have called attention to the warfare, and insist that humbug,
Barnumania, and high prices shall be put down. I am going to write an
article upon Jenny Lind's right to ask $3 if she thinks fit, on the
principle that Dickens, Horace Vernet, and every molasses merchant acts
and properly acts.
Why not send your papers to the publisher of some Saturday paper to
distribute with his? The difficulty is that if people are irregular in
getting it, it will lose its character of steadiness, which is fatal to
such a paper. Ripley agrees in this. By mail the majority of people who
haven't boxes at the P.O. get nothing at all, or only spasmodically. You
will have to send it to some agent here, I am confident.
Cranch is about breaking up house-keeping preparatory to his summer
rustication. He is in a tight place again, as he is too apt to be, poor
fellow! The fact is art is poor pay unless you are a great artist. He
fights very cheerfully, though, which is a comfort. His children are very
interesting, and at his house there is a set of us who have the best of
times, the most truly genial and poetic.
I enclose you the funds which I so amusingly forgot, and, if I can serve
you by seeing any agent or other "fallow deer," I shall be most happy to
do it; and don't fail always to call upon me.
Yours most truly and ever,
G.W.C.
Is this sum right?
XI
NEWPORT, _July 29th, 1852._
My dear John,--I have been running round for two or three weeks, and have
forgotten to ask you to change the address of the papers which come to
me....
I am charmingly situated here with Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow and Tom
Appleton, and with some other pleasant people. It is very lovely and lazy;
but I am quite busy. Give my love to your wife and believe me, always,
Your aff.
G.W.C.
XII
NEWPORT, _Oct. 11th, 1852._
My dear John,--I leave Newport this evening, and since "friend after
friend departs," you will hardly be surprised to hear that I have fallen
from the ranks of bachelors; and that when I said I should die such, I had
no idea I should live to be married. Prosaically, then, I am engaged
to.... Her father is cousin of ... and is of the elder branch of the
family, so that I already begin to feel sentimental about Lady Arabella
Johnson. On the other side I come plump against plump old Gov. Stuyvesant
of the New Netherlands. What with Dutch and Puritan blood, therefore, I
shall be sufficiently sobered, you will fancy. Wrong, astutest of Johns,
for my girl plays like a sunbeam over the dulness of that old pedigree,
and is no whit more Dutch or Puritan than I am. She is, in brief, 22 years
old, a very, very pronounced blonde, not handsome (to common eyes),
graceful and winning, not accomplished nor talented nor fond of books, gay
as a bird, bright as sunshine, and has that immortal youth, that perennial
freshness and sweetness which is the secret of permanent happiness.
I am as happy as the day, and have no especial intention of marrying
directly. Her father has a large property, but she is not, properly, a
rich girl. I shall be settled at home in ten days. To-night I am going to
Baltimore, and shall return to New York next week.
Give my warmest love to your wife, and believe me--Benedict or no
Benedict--always
Your aff.
G.W.C.
XIII
N.Y., _14th April, 1853._
Caro Don Giovanni,--Any time these six months I have seen a skulking
scoundrel who endeavored to avoid my notice, and always turned pale when
he saw a copy of _Dwight's Journal of Music_. I pursued him vigorously,
and he confessed to me that he was the chief of sinners, and that his name
was _Hafiz_.
"But," said he, when he saw in my eyes the firm resolve to acquaint the
editor with the fact that his correspondent was still living--"but, oh!
say that I have just paid to Messrs. Scharfenberg and Luis my subscription
for the three copies owing the coming year"--and thereupon he vanished;
and I haste to discharge my duty, for if I have a failing, it is doing my
duty. Should you see the editor will you please state not only the fact of
the subscription paid, but that I have heard this pursued Hafiz swear that
not many moons should wane before he wrote to _Dwight's Journal of Music_
a letter about things in New York, "our new music and other things," for
instance.
Hafiz, who tries to make me believe that he does the music in _Putnam_,
says that in the May number he has commended your _Journal_. He is an
abandoned fellow.