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.
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.
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.
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,
