Are you quite recovered from those divine enchantments which held us bound
so long? Memory preserves for me those silvery sounds, and almost I seem
to catch their echo. Have we indeed heard the Siren song--are we
unscathed? Let me be your Father John, and to these reverend years commit
the tale of youthful fervor. So good a Catholic as I, of course, has long
ago made confession. But another yet remains for me--namely, that I cannot
get that song. Yesterday I heard from Isaac, who cannot buy it in New
York. Nothing but a copy for the guitar and that Rosalie. Would it be an
expensive thing to import? Reed told me he could do that, but as I
supposed there was no doubt of its being in New York, I said nothing about
it. She should have the song; it would be so fine falling out of her
mouth. Mouth-dropped gems would be no longer a fable. As, indeed, we have
seen already. For what so universal an Interpreter as music? That art has
the gift of tongues (_ecce_, the Singing-School).

Burrill met with a mishap on Wednesday. We were walking out of town, and
he, springing from a wall, turned his ankle and sprained it. He is
therefore laid up for some days. It is a disappointment to him, for he
hoped to leave on Monday next, and meanwhile see several persons. I doubt
if he can step on his foot so soon.

I had yesterday a German letter from Isaac; German in spirit, not in
language. He has certainly a great heart, more delicate in his character
than I thought, with a constant force, nervous, not muscular strength.

Will you accept so city-like a letter? I am busy or I should write more;
another time will suffice. Let me accept from you a country-like letter.

Yours in the bonds,