[Boston—Sunday, 26 November 1865]

Sunday. Cool. We took our suburban walk today in sunlight and with the sunshine of dear companionship. Mr William R. Alger called in the afternoon looking many years younger, and like a much happier man, than when he went to Europe. He saw the three men he most desired. Martineau, Matthew Arnold and Herbert Spencer. He went to the Coliseum by moonlight with M.A. who unfolded to him the plot of a new poem he is writing called “Lucretias.”

It seems to me strangely unlike the “deep poetic heart” to be unveiling its intentions. I fear the “poem” will be no poem only a grand study and a magnificent failure. It is the most beautiful thing I know to see one man inspiring another and drinking deep draughts out of that rich bowl called Friendship, drinking both together from the strange enticing lip. Such moments foreshadow heaven.

We went to pass the evening with dear old Uncle Willard who was studying the history of Napoleon from under his spectacles as enthousiastically as if he was reading it for the first time. How singular the power of that man. E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.


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