[Boston—Monday, 27 July 1863]
July 27. I have left Mr F. to look over an article the last of the series called “The Sam. Adams Regiment in Boston” (he fears there may be poison lurking in it because the author is a fierce democrat) while I enjoy myself privately in jotting down the strange things which have occurred within a day or two. I wonder much how I have already allowed so many years to elapse without making an attempt at least to record something of the interesting events in literature which are constantly passing under my knowledge. This afternoon Mrs Richards formerly editress of the “Evening Transcript” sent a pleasing woman to Mr F. with a volume of poems. They begin with one about the frost in which before she gets a fabric sufficiently well-built on the window panes for us to see its signification the sun comes in and destroys it—so with the rest, of course, they must be refused. Professor Coppet of Philadelphia sends an article on philology. It is pleasant and quaint. This will do Mr F. says “the only objection is he threatens to send more.”
