three weeks. I shall not leave all my good friends, and all the fine music
here, without a pang. But if we stop for pangs! Will you send me the
number of the "Mondschein," and the "Tempest" sonata?

Yr friend,

G.W. CURTIS.


XII

N.Y., _Monday morning, April 8th, 1844._

The last few days have been like glimpses of Brook Farm, seeing so
constantly Mr. Ripley, and Charles, and Liszt, and Isaac, and Georgiana,
and Margaret Fuller. The last three days of the past week were occupied by
the sessions of the Convention, about which there was no enthusiasm, but
an air of quiet resolution which always precedes success. To be sure, the
success, to me, is the constant hope in humanity that inspires them, the
sure, glowing prophecies of paradise and heaven, being individual not
general prophecies, and announcing the advent in their own hearts and
lives of the feet beautiful of old upon the mountains. In comparison with
this what was done, and what was doing, lost much of its greatness. Leave
to Albert Brisbane, and _id omne genus_, these practical etchings and
phalansteries; but let us serve the gods without bell or candle. Have
these men, with all their faith and love, not yet full confidence in love?
Is that not strong enough to sway all institutions that are, and cause to
overflow with life? does that ask houses and lands to express its power?
does it not ride supreme over the abounding selfishness of the world, and
so raise men from their sorrow and degradation, or so inspire them that