New York
DEAR AUNT,—We have now been here a week, and I feel ashamed that I have not written to you before, but I have been doing a great deal. The Cooleys have a gorgeous house in Fifth Avenue, furnished with every luxury one can imagine. The sitting-room, dining-room, library, and a conservatory next to the billiard-room, are down-stairs; up-stairs are the drawing-rooms (first, second, and third), which open into a marble-floored Pompeian room, with a fountain. Then comes mama’s and my bed-room, with bath-room attached. On the third floor the family have their apartment. We have been many times to the opera, and heard an Italian tenor, called Brignoli, whom people are crazy over. He has a lovely voice and sings in “Trovatore.” Last night, when he sang “Di quella pira,” people’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. They stood up and shouted, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs; he had to repeat it three times, and each time people got wilder. Nina and I clapped till our gloves were in pieces and our arms actually ached.
A Frenchman by the name of Musard has brought over a French orchestra, and is playing French music at the opera-house. People are wild over him also. Madame La Grange, who they say is a fine lady in her own country, is singing in “The Huguenots.” She has rather a thin voice, but vocalizes beautifully. Nina and I weep over the hard fate of Valentine, who has to be present when her husband is conspiring against the Huguenots, knowing that her lover is listening behind the curtain and can’t get away. The priests come in and bless the conspiracy, all the conspirators holding their swords forward to be blessed. This music is really too splendid for words, and we enjoy it intensely.
Mr. Bancroft, the celebrated historian, invited us to dinner, and after dinner they asked me to sing. I had to accompany myself. Every one pretended that they were enchanted. Just for fun, at the end I sang, “Three Little Kittens Took Off Their Mittens, to Eat a Christmas Pie,” and one lady (would you believe it?) said she wept tears of joy, and had cold shivers down her back. When I sang, “For We Have Found Our Mittens,” there was, she said, such a jubilant ring in my voice that her heart leaped for joy.
Mr. Bancroft sent me the next day a volume of Bryant’s poems, with the dedication, “To Miss Lillie Greenough, in souvenir of a never-forgetable evening.” I made so many acquaintances, and received so many invitations, that if we should stay much longer here there would be nothing left of me to take to Europe.
I will write as soon as we arrive on the other side. On whatever side I am, I am always your loving niece, who thinks that there is no one in the wide world to compare to you, that no one is as clever as you, that no one can sing like you, and that there never was any one who can hold a candle to you. There!
BREMEN, August, 1859.
DEAR AUNT,—At last we have arrived at our journey’s end, and we are happy to have got out of and away from the steamer, where we have been cooped up for the last weeks. However, we had a very gay time during those weeks, and some very sprightly companions. Among them a runaway couple; he was a Mr. Aulick Palmer, but I don’t know who she was. One could have learned it easily enough for the asking, as they were delighted to talk about themselves and their elopement, and how they did it. It was their favorite topic of conversation. I was intensely interested in them; I had never been so near a romance in my life. They had been married one hour when they came on board; she told her parents that she was going out shopping, and then, after the marriage, wrote a note to them to say that she was married and off to Europe, adding that she was not sorry for what she had done. He is a handsome man, tall and dark; she is a jolly, buxom blonde, with a charming smile which shows all her thirty and something teeth, and makes her red, thick lips uncurl. I thought, for such a newly married couple, they were not at all sentimental, which I should have supposed natural. She became sea-sick directly, and he called attention to her as she lay stretched out on a bench looking dreadfully green in the face: “We are a sick couple—home-sick, love-sick, and sea-sick.”
The captain, who thought himself a wag but who forgot every morning what he had wagged about the day before, would say for his daily greeting, “Wie [as the Germans say] befinden sie sich?” He thought the pun on sea-sick was awfully funny, and would laugh uproariously. He said to Mr. Palmer, “Why are you not like a melon?” We all guessed. One person said, “Because he was not meloncholic [Aulick].” But all the guesses were wrong. “No,” said the captain, “it is because the melon can’t elope, and you can.” He thought himself very funny, and was rather put out that we did not think him so, and went on repeating the joke to every one on the boat ad nauseam.