[Boston—Monday, 13 November 1865]
Monday. Mrs Hawthorne came in the afternoon to dine and pass the night. We went to William Hunt’s studio together in the evening. Brilliant assemblage and pictures highly interesting—his picture of the President unfinished like many of the rest and, as it seemed to me, lacking in force. Hunt is immensely the fashion. “Everybody” was there, and Kate Field, clever, good-looking, and loudly dressed among the rest. Kate has noble qualities. I do not wish her to be spoiled. But how ineffectual at first, wishes appear, after a while we see they are the only strength, they are our prayers for one another. It was surprising to me to see how desirous Mrs Hawthorne was to go, her love of Art making her forget the people she must encounter. Indeed after she entered the room I think the people too were a pleasure. What an exquisite nature hers is to possess, not exquisite in the sense of fineness and nervous perception as her husband’s was. I suppose it was a far greater trial to me to go into that assembly than it was to her. I am better and happier never to know my fellow-beings from a “party” point of view.
I will copy some verses I wrote after the Aldriches’ visit.
The Visit.
Two lovers came hither to see us,
She, with her plenteous hair
Filleted, yellow, and free;
He, with a true lover’s air
Bringing his ladye to see us;
Never one fairer than she!
One glance at the tea as I passed it,
And she blushing said, That’s too strong,
We have kept house now one week, you see
And I know the sad tricks of Oolong;
Then she watered the cup and he tasted it
Thinking none half so sweet as she.
’Tis a great question what we shall do,
With a half perplexed air then she said,
For we are both spoiled, we agree,
His rich uncle has boarded and bred
Him in style, such as I have known too,—
But he laughed, thinking none sweet as she.
At length when the time came to go,
He tossed her bright curls from behind,
So quick that no person could see
In the crowd of the loveless blind,—
With an air that should say, I know
She’ll not take it ill of me.
She gave one quick turn and smiled,
And cut short her pretty speeches,
Saying, ’Tis high time we—
While her cheeks shone like rosy peaches
And he, by her arts beguiled,
Stood thinking there’s none sweet as she.
