George William Curtis.
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.
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.
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.
