[Boston—Thursday, 29 November 1866]
Thanksgiving day. The time makes me remember among other things what a good home we have and what good people to take care of it, getting somewhat slowly into training it may be but still good painstaking and sweet tempered—beside there is room here for dear Lissie and time for real enjoyments of books and true things. Have been reading Dickens’ Christmas story this morning of “Barbox Brothers.” How the noblest minds struggle forever to express the same truth that love is the beginning and the end, the only light of life—the life the [sic] expresses itself in self sacrifice what Jesus came to teach but what needs reiterating continually in this world where the fatal allurements of wealth and intellect turn many aside from the narrow way. God help us all. I have felt saddened lately by Lissie’s remark, that we continually said she had never yet done anything, and she continued I never shall do anything which will please you. I see I have overstepped the mark somewhere. I should not have allowed myself to be frank with her. I should have preserved a bitter silence if I wish to please her—but I do not I can say frankly—“Do unto others” etc. and I prefer others for instance to tell me when a poem is a failure than to praise it untruely. How much healthier is this than praise (provided a recognition of labor given is granted).
Dined at Louisa’s with all the family; each one well of our dear ones. Weather warm enough for July—no fires—damp but windows open up-stairs. I fear the freezing alternative is to come.
