[Boston—Wednesday, 5 July 1865]
July 5. At home. Yesterday was one of the most exquisite most exultant days of our lives. We could hear the chiming bells and the hurrying feet from our quiet retreat out of which I did not venture all day not being quite well and knowing Jamie would report to me. Dear Emma Stebbins’ statue of Horace Mann was unveiled in the morning and at 8 a.m. the boats collected on the bay for the regatta, a magically lovely sight. Colonel Higginson made us an early visit, telling us of Newport and Sarah Clarke’s illustrations of Evangeline of Tourgenoff’s Russian sketches to be enjoyed and giving us glimpses of his own literary life and of himself.
In the afternoon we read Mr Emerson’s simple device in human-teaching called “Character” the new essay. And at night watched a marvellous sunset with the raging fire works darting up all around us, falling in impotence save for the power of beauty.
This morning a visit from poor Lucy Bradlee who is distracted between a hopeless love affair and a hopeless manuscript. We are all children we know, but the helpless childishness of her case is sad. I must write to her and to Laura. Both sad just now but oh! how different. After L. had gone, & the clock mended and books moved, and work at desk in sight again sweet Celia Thaxter came—sad—sad—she says she feels “a thousand!” as if she had lived a thousand years. For ten nights she did not take her clothes off while she watched her father but her eyes shone with a pure light which made me know her youth was undying.
Jamie dined with Longfellow.
Ah! How unspeakably lovely is our home.
