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!
N.Y., Friday, Dec. 15, 1843.
