File:Frances (Appleton) Longfellow to Isaac Appleton Jewett, 25 January 1841 (fe4547a7-7d1d-49ff-8e0c-4047bcb1cb54).jpg

Manuscript letter

Archives Number: 1011/002.001-011#001

Boston Jan 25th 1841.
Mille grazie, dear J, for your N. Orleans experiences. Their parlé-de-fois-gras-variety & richness have lost none of their relish apparently. But dont imagine because you exist only there “there are no good livers out of England.” (ie, N.O. I have no present intention of dying of this climate or of any thing else, - am as well & contented as you appear to be tho’ not surfeited with so many bon-bons. I wrote you, I think, during a passing chill of east wind & blue devils, luckily both were exorcised long since. I am having a very nice winter on the whole. The cold braces & invigorates my nerves, which are not as sensitive as yours, &, as I am every day plunging into the very depths of the ‘Inferno,’ looking in on the fiery sepulchers, where the nobly grand Farinata glares, “come avesse l’inferno in gran dispitto,” or admiring the majestic flame which enwraps Ulysses like a cloak, I snap my fingers at Jack Frost. But I thank you for your concern about my health. I can bear a good deal of wear & tear, ca’nt [sic] quite be compared to an Eolian harp, or a sensitive plant, or any of those pathetic, shrinking pieces of machinery. As I have touched upon Dante I must give my enthusiasm vent a while, for this is like the opening of the 7th seal to me this book – a new revelation – (I have never read it before as a whole) & truly it may be called “a page torn from the Apocalypse,” as Motley says of Faust, such a supernatural language & conceptions it flames with. If an Italian I should believe it like the Gospel, its stern simplicity & majesty have [p. 2] such a stamp of divine authority, more than Milton I think with his poetical vagueness. It is [crossed out: so] like the testimony of an eye-witness & if not executed so wonderfully its formal arrangements would shock the imagination. I read it with a warm-souled Italian who explains admirably to me the difficult allusions & many charming little flights to ‘bella Italia’ are we tempted to thereby. But this is too grotesque a subject to be emballé in a letter. It is too awful a one for the life I lead & shades in therewith strangely; after descending, with Virgil & Dante from bolge to bolge – in an atmosphere trembling with eternal lamentations & on a soil drenched with unceasing showers of tears – all the morning, every evening, lately, I am in a ball-room where flourishes the whip-syllabub of life as if under our feet yawned no such realities. But I can Chameleonize myself & enjoy all. I dont believe any of your southern balls are prettier than our Assemblies. I saw none abroad but at the Tuilleries [sic] so brilliant & so complete as far as I can remember - & if we have no dazzling Creole beauty, there is no lack of all nuances of loveliness from that most perfect of blondes Miss Peabody, whose Parian shoulders & the golden cloud of locks floating over them, like one of Guido’s angels, have driven into raptures an English lord’s son here, to that Titianesque-ly brilliant brunette Sarah Appeton. One has to think of swarms of butterflies, or the sudden whirl of rose-leaves, or dancing sky-rockets, & shooting stars & all such pretty, graceful things when these fair creatures are seen, on the nicest floor in the world tho’ a shade too elastic, glancing around the huge circle which is vacated for the waltzers in this handsome ball-room whither we repair every other Monday night. And to descend to more earthly details in what subscription-balls in Christendom but here do they display such a supper-room, appoint [p. 3] ted with silver & porcelain like a private house, with such masses of savoury & elegant confitures & such a lavish abundance of flowers, which enables every lady to carry home a bouquet if she comes empty-handed. And as to the dressing – the damsels would adorn any Parisian salon & has not Mrs Otis astounded all Austria with the splendor& inexhaustibility of her wardrobe! I am longing to see, by the way, her museum of begged, bought, & stolen (perhaps) wonders. I hear she has the goblets of every century from the time Noah left off drinking rain-water. Intend soon to invade her sanctum at Cambridge where she has lined the walls from top to bottom with shelves to display her spoils. She seems to me living Dido or Queen of Sheba, not for love or wisdom, but a certain ponderosity, breadth of outline peculiar to those mammoth days, tho’ these great folks loom so before our mind’s eye from the inflation of Time alone probably.
You think we are all “icicles on Dian’s temple” here, are freezing in & out. Now a stranger said, lately, that the peculiarity of the Boston ladies to him was a certain earnestness & fire of manner & expression, ‘so doctors disagree’! I certainly know several who almost oppress you with the flashing brilliancy of their wit, torch-like, & tho’ there can be a natural humour & fun – yet education alone can supply such a store-house of well pointed instruments as Miss Dwight, par exemple, uses so skillfully. Could your Creoles beat her I wonder. I wish you could hear her explode the Dial into 1000 atoms. This last number is ‘beyond beyond’ for absurdity; some verses by Emerson on the Sphynx which you would think could only have been written in Bedlam. Sam Ward confesses to a good deal of the poetry in the Nos I sent you – I remember nothing there worthy of his talent. I mean our Sam Ward. I remember dancing with the young Christy, you mention, at our former Assemblies; am highly amused at the notoriety you declare I have gained under false colors. Take care how you disabuse the very civil people who are determined to think so well of me! That little stumpy Jew Braham is [p. 4] here singing with the debris of a voice. I go tonight to hear him in Newkomm’s Oratio of David. He has miserable houses. Do you know or remember Frank Schroeder? He has listened eno’ to Rubini to catch his style & having naturally a very fine voice sings deliciously with a guitar, recalling many of the strains which once heard become a part of sound. Perhaps I shall have the delight of enjoying them over again in the Spring for Mary urges me so strongly to pass the summer in Engd that I shall obey the summons I think, &, at that time London is strong in song. A letter to you has gone on so I need not repeat her news. But I have something to tell you which I forgot to do after my return from my visit to Stockbridge this Autumn (or rather Lenox with my friend Miss Sedgwick merely passing one day at S. shaking hands with old friends from Mrs Yale to Rembrantish Ashburner.) 2 deaths have occurred there one of which should affect you particularly. Old Mr Davidson shuffled off the loosely clinging coil of mortality just after we left & before our arrival your kind hearted landlady joined her husband in that modest burying-ground her windows overlooked. Miss S. told me that she had a happy end but was somewhat concerned to know what to do with certain garments you left behind you – supposing you would have claimed them before going so far out of reach continued always speaking of you most kindly too. How that mansion is tenantless except by these relics of you & the worthy parson! What do you wish done with them? I will write for you to Miss S. if you dont choose they should rot there. Yesterday I had a nice relish of the beaux arts. Mrs Greene has recently received a Diana of Bien Aimés & an exquisite thing it is. Such flowing grace of limb, such a fawn-like start at Actaeon’s rash approach & such goddess like fierté in the air of the head, expressing as much surprise & indignation as a Déesse would condescend to betray; and such a lovely dog dashing out to protect her. Full size & beautifully reflected in a huge mirror. There is no end to the pretty things people have here & such variety in the houses; such English-like comfort & respectability not like the gilded pigeon holes of N. York. If I had paper & time I would edify you with an act of a famous sleigh-ride we got up during the last snow; how we crammed all the bright spirits we could muster into one big, buffalo-loaded ark, with a score of wild, merry collegians, & slid, as if our 6 horses were winged, over the moon-lit snow – finagling our drive with a dance at Mrs Russell’s 7 miles off & an admiration of her pretty house filled with such souvenirs of Italia & after supper & mulled wine returned at 1- in an atmosphere so cold that my curls were frosted white with my breath! [p. 5] But I felt it not we were so warmly packed. I never saw any-thing more striking than our entrance, at that late hour, into the town. It lay shrouded in snow, ghastly in the intense moonshine, & truly seemed like a city of the dead laid out, with stars for mourning tapers. The only living things therein were the welcoming lights in our respective houses; all others were extinct & the silence was awful. That city in Oriental story where all were turned to marble could not have excited a stranger sensation. Do not bestow too many letters on Miss Austin because her eyes are not strong & much use of them is forbidden. As to mine I write chiefly for my own amusement but shall not pretend to answer half of your voluminous communications. I am glad if I amuse you, but do not think I am an ostrich, capable of swallowing the massive load of compliments you think fit to throw before me. How works the law? Now that you have put your shoulder to the wheel you can appreciate, without remorse, those noble lines in the ’Inferno’ “Che seggendo in piuma, in fama non si vien” &c Aunt Sam is in affliction for the loss of her mocking-bird; retai[ns] his mortal remains stuffed, the glassy eyes making her weep. Sam’s baby is thriving & our little Willie almost walks. Tom conquers nightly in billiards & Father gives the morals of the community an occasional hoist. Had the Governor & a host of ‘grave &rev’rend signors’ here, a few days since, to devour canvass-back. So much for family annals. Tell Mr Austin I am plotting running away with Emmeline in the Spring. We have resolved to see Europe together & she can be spared a few months. Poor Mr Otis has had lately attacks on her house, smashing of her pretty things by a cannonade of stones &c. Her friends watch with loaded guns. Harry Sargent has just lost his mother by a sudden & very severe illness. All send remembrances to you. This length must make up for my long pause. Dont think yourself too good for the Carneal. I want to hear her voice!! Good bye – yrs &c F. E. A –
ADDRESSED: I.A. JEWETT ESQ. / N. ORLEANS.
POSTMARK: BOSTON / JAN 26 / MASS
STAMPED: PAID

• Keywords: correspondence; long archives; frances e. a. longfellow papers (long 20257); frances elizabeth (appleton) longfellow; people; document; social life; subject; dante; Correspondence (1011/002); (LONG-SeriesName); Letters from Frances Longfellow (1011/002.001); (LONG-SubseriesName); 1841 (1011/002.001-011); (LONG-FileUnitName)