to men. So the old year sings to me as it goes crowned with crystals and
snow-drops to its end. Without shrinking, without sorrow, it folds its
white garment around unwithered limbs, and submits gracefully to the past.
Nature regards it with that calm face whereon no emotions are written, but
a wise serenity forever sits. This year, too, is to many lonely hearts a
redeemer; and no heavens will be darkly clouded when it is over, but still
stars will shine unsurprised. Pale scholars in midnight vigils, golden
gayety wreathing the hours with flowers and gems, unbending sorrow
pressing heavy seals upon yielding wretchedness, it will steal surely from
all these, and on the morrow be a colorless ghost in the distant past. Its
constancy will secure our immortality. The grandeur of the year may be the
strength of our character; and as the East receives it, we may enter the
inscrutable future reverently and with folded hands.

Sunday. I am going to F. Rakemann's to pass the afternoon and give him
this for you. He proposes to pass a week in Boston. I have heard Wallace
during the week. He has great talent; but I had heard Ole Bull, and
Wallace's violin-playing was only good. What think you of Vieuxtemps, who,
I see, is in Boston? Shall you not send Knoop hither? So many things I
would say! It is wiser to say nothing. Remember me to my West Roxbury
friends, Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Shaw and their spouses.

Ever your friend,

G.W.C.


VIII

N.Y., _Thursday, January 18, '44._