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.