my wicked silences as well as my imperfect speeches; and will you please
not to forget that you are never forgotten by Your aff.
G.W.C.
XIV
N.Y., _Sept. 14, '53._
My dear John,---I have just returned to town, and find your letter
suggestive of White Mountains, quiet, artists, and other dissipations; but
I am just from the hills, where I have been for six weeks, and am ordered
to the sea-shore to be salted. I am not quite sure whether I shall go to
Newport or to Long Branch; but I infinitely prefer Newport, although I
have very valued friends upon the New Jersey shore.
My old head has been bothering me all summer; but Dr. Gray has taken it
fairly in hand, and says I shall soon be all right. I hope he is not all
wrong.
I am coming to Boston some time during the season to lecture before your
Mercantile Library, and have promised to make something of a visit; but I
fear it will hardly be possible to stay long.
X was on my track yesterday, although I havn't seen him for an age. I hear
he projects Europe again, but know nothing definite. Today I am just
hurrying off to Staten Island to assist at the nuptials of.... So they go,
and so, soon--let us pray--may
Your aff.
G.W.C.
XV
N.Y., _July 19, '53._
My dear John,--It has been anything but indifference that has prevented my
sending you some notices of the pictures. But my head, which was muzzy
when you were here, has been muzzier ever since, and my Dr. made me
relinquish everything and run out of town, so that I have been gadding for
a month, and the August _Putnam_ hasn't a line of mine.
You see I have been positively idle; but I hope I am somewhat better. At
least I feel so, although I shall not work much for some time to come.
I'm going up to Cranch's this evening and to Lenox next week. It is not
impossible that some happy gust may blow me to Conway. Give my kindest
love to your wife, and believe me--muzzy or no muzzy--
Your aff.
G.W.C.
XVI
HOME, _9th Feb., '54._
My dear John,--Behold me with unspoken farewells and innumerable Boston
banquets well (I hope) digested, and with only a glancing word with your
wife at Mrs. Ticknor's on Monday morning.
One thing thou lackest, O Freunde! You have not heard Miss Skelton sing!
It is a young girl who not only does not like "classical" music, but does
not even profess to, which I hold to be virtuous in factitious times. But
she is a sweet, natural, honest girl, and sings Italian, yea, even "Ah!
Non Credea," with a sweet, full, and tender voice which is truly
delicious. She is one of Cranch's stars. I heard her at the Greenwoods.
I have a vague idea of darting through Boston again about the first of
March. I shall be in New Bedford, and might go to Keene.
Good-night. I have every reason to love your Boston.
Your aff.
G.W.C.
Friday I hope to see Mrs. Downing, and if I hear of the great X--an
unknown quantity to us--I will inform you.
XVII
N.Y., _Monday, April 10, '54._
My dear John,---I send you my humble duty. The season is over, and I
return to an accumulated mass of work. I find nothing pleasanter in my
winter's reminiscences than the Boston episode.
Give my kindest love to your wife, and my regards to Hurlbut, and believe
me as always,
G.W.C.
XVIII
WEST NEW BRIGHTON, STATEN ISLAND, N.Y., _11 April, 1883._
My dear John,----Your letter reached me safely, and I share your surprise
and regret at what seems to me, so far as I can see, a wholly unnecessary
act. I will speak of it in the _Weekly_ at once because the _Magazine_ is
always so long after!
I saw some notice of Cranch's seventieth birthday. Good lack! how the
years whiz! I did not hear from him, and I suppose it is not exactly the
occasion upon which you ask your friends to make merry. Longfellow, I
remember, wrote me when he was seventy that it was like turning the slate
over and beginning upon the other side.
We are all well and quiet. The Doctors in New York dine Dr. Holmes
to-morrow, and I have promised to go. I have heard nothing from Edmund
Tweedy for many a day, but I suppose that all goes well with him and his.
Good-bye. It is very good to hear from you always, and I am always
affectionately yours,
George William Curtis.
XIX
WEST NEW BRIGHTON, STATEN ISLAND, N.Y., _8 February, 1884._
My dear John,--I read your letter with sincere but hopeless interest,
because I know how very slight her chance is in New York. The only hope
lies in a circle of ladies who know her and would take pains to help her;
but who are they, and how can they care for her? The contest single-armed
against established teachers of prestige of a ci-devant Prima Donna, who
had small success twenty-five years ago and is forgotten, is only pitiful.
I will ask one of the best and most prosperous of our teachers, and who is
much interested in my Lizzie, what ought to be done. He knows more than
any one with whom I could advise.
I had heard with great delight of your portrait and of the becoming
disposition which was made of it. I have thought also how sincerely you
will deplore the death of our incomparable orator. And I hope that you
sometimes think how affectionately I am always yours,
George William Curtis.
XX
NEW YORK, _October 26, 1884._
My dear John,--Your note finds me here on my way to Ashfield. I voted for
Edmunds every time, and in the uproar of the vote that made Blaine's
nomination I held my peace. But had I voted for Blaine, and had afterwards
found good reasons to change my mind, I should not have hesitated to take
the course I have taken. I am very busy, and I send you my love always.
Your ancient,
George William Curtis.
XXI
WEST NEW BRIGHTON, STATEN ISLAND, N.Y., _May 17th, 1886._
My dear John,--I do not know your address, but I am sure the Boston
postmaster does, and I trust this note to his superior knowledge.
It was very good to see your familiar hand again and unchanged, and best
of all to read your strong, clear, masterful, and delightful plea for the
true saving grace of humanity, common-sense. It is a most admirable piece
of work, and a host of readers will wonder that they had never thought of
it before. That is the effect of all wise writing, I suppose, which like
yours lays us all under obligation. Why don't you oftener bring us reports
of your interviews with Egeria? Cranch had already told me of the paper
with great praise, in a letter which told me also of your birthnight orgie
with Boott and John Holmes. At the Commencement dinner of the year that
Harvard made me a Doctor, I said to President Eliot, "Who is that military
man who looks like a captain of Dragoons?" and, after making out the one I
meant, he laughed and said, "Dragoons? why that is John Holmes!" As I
remember him, his whiskers had a military cut; but I have often laughed
since.
I have the photograph of Carrie Cranch's remarkable portrait of you, which
is a precious possession; and when I see Cranch I hear of you and when I
don't see him I think of you, and always with the old affection. We are
all well, which means my wife and daughter here, and my son and
daughter-in-law and two grandchildren at Newton. My whiskers are white,
but my hair holds out with its old brown! Goodbye and auf wiedersehen.
Most truly yours,
George William Curtis.