[Boston—Tuesday, 10 July 1866]

Boston July 10th 1866. It seems to be a necessity common to mortals, that of the division of time. With the vision of incompleteness surrounding us, it is a relief as the months pass to fancy unfinished labors also put behind us and opportunity or excuse offered by a new month for fresh labors or attempts. Even in this fragmentary diary with a thread so slight that the winds of circumstance frequently snap it altogether it is a pleasure to start afresh upon the page and talk of today rather than to attempt to describe the many pictured visit we made in Stockbridge during the last days of June. With that visit our wanderings among the hills came to an end, an end not less suggestive than the beginning. We shall not easily forget the young minister with his serious good face and his gay youthful wife more like a child of fourteen than a wife of a year at twenty—nor the freshness of the mornings under their roof when we flung open the casement windows to see the day glittering upon the mountain just before us. We climbed the mountain the day after our arrival. The dews still lay upon the grass and the ox-eyed daisies shone with a peculiar richness of beauty rare even to that wealth-bestowing flower. If the day should ever come when that young wife learns to subdue a native wildness into a womanliness, she sometimes assumes I shall recall this morning when with a short black dress and jacket trimmed with red she not only climbed the mountain liked [sic] the rest of us, but climbed two saplings and brought them down (losing a beautiful onyx ring in her escapade) and scrambled into the ice-glen, through the robber’s cave and into deeps where even in that warm noontime she found ice—ice which her husband was afraid to have her eat but which she would eat until he flung it away after a boy & girl struggle together. She surrendered in the end but when the mood passed she said she felt like a little beggar of 12 years old who had been fighting for a dirty crust; it was as much like that as anything—it was odd enough to contrast her little dignities chiefly assumed and therefore not half so pleasant at the dinner table later in the day, but really pretty in the evening when we went out, to see her natural dignity excited by the occasion. We were at the house of Mrs Henry Field (Praslan) whither we had been invited in a manner not to be refused and found ourselves at the table with Mrs Dudley Field also (the notorious Mrs Carr) their respective husbands and a Mrs Sinclair. It was not an inspiring although a sufficiently entertaining company and the minister and his wife behaved much as grave people should.

Georgie complained however sotto voce to me that she had something in her sleeve—when I asked her what it was and if I could help her—she said “no,” she thought it was “a laugh”!

We are at home again where we can see the majesty of sunsets and breathe the fresh morning from our windows as the breeze comes in from the bay. The weather has been excessively warm. Every day something delightful occurs to fill our cups—but the pleasantest of all occurrence is when the day rises and sets with nothing to break the still uniformity of Nature’s glory at this mid-summer time. It has been too warm for out-door life, warm enough to make the luxury of in-doors perfect in such a house as ours. In spite of the heat Mr Emerson came to dine with us on Saturday and was in a natural mood of cheer and sweetness. He talked much of Forceythe Willson, whose genius is akin to Dante’s, he thinks and says E.H. agrees with him in this or suggested it, she having been one of the best readers and lovers of Dante outside the reputed scholars. “But he is not fertile—a man at his time should be doing new things.” Yes said J.T.F. I fear he never will do much more. “Why how old is he”—“Willson must be 35”—“Oh” with a smile, “there is hope till 45.” He spoke of Tennyson and Carlyle as the only two men connected with literature in England who are satisfactory to meet, and are better than their books.

Speaking of Jones Very, he said he seemed to have no right to his rhymes, they did not sing to him but he was divinely led to them and they always surprised you.

He described Anna Barker (Mrs Sam. Ward) and Anna Greene, and Emily Marshall—this was in connection with Class Day when the beauty Miss Fenelly was at Edward’s room but he failed to see her attraction. He said he had been spoiled in his youth. The eloquence of Anna Barker was irresistible. We asked for the story of their engagement he said “it was a long siege of Troy.” At length Sam. Ward was ill with fever and it was long before he recovered. Shortly after Anna Barker came with Caroline Sturgis to make us a visit of two days. She was very gay and did & said all manner of romantical things while we followed her about wonderingly. At length when the time came for departure I drove them down to Lexington and Anna was always looking for something or somebody she never found. A day or two after was Commencement at Cambridge. I came down to attend and met Anna Barker about starting in Mr Tom. Ward’s fine barouche. She insisted I should ride beside her and said in the course of the drive “If I were mistress of myself I should tell you a piece of news, capisce lei”. And so pretty the carriage and all together I did understand.

Mr & Mrs Howells with their brother & sister from New York were here at tea one night. The sunset made an enchanted palace of our little house and changed the river into a fleeting transcript of the skies. One night too Mr & Mrs Aldrich were here, once Mr Whittaker an English editor of intelligence, but of intelligence chiefly concentrated upon the getting and spending which so furiously wastes the powers of the English middle classes. I don’t wonder they think William Blake was insane—a man who owed not a debt nor left a dollar when he died—but left instead the precious coinage of his brain pure from alloy to feed the starving from heaven’s granary.

Gail Hamilton has been here too—fresh and young regardless of the heat—and Miss Palfrey full of literature but somewhat less sprightly than she is sometimes—she is like Gail’s pump and needs a good deal of water put down in order to bring any up.

Sallie Dana was here an hour—a fresh little spirit of 20 keeping house for her brothers and sisters although the weather is extreme and preserves must be made.

Forceythe Willson came and talked purely lovingly and like the pure character he aspires to be. He said Mr Alcott talked with him of temperaments lately with much wisdom. He said the blonde was nearest to perfection, that was the heavenly type—you are not a blonde, said the seer calmly and continued. Said Willson to me, I was much amused and pleased too for when I regarded the old man more closely and discovered he himself was a blonde.

He talked of Mrs Browning saying he could not read Aurora Leigh, though he recognized the spirit of deep love which pervades her works. I was led to her by a dear friend who loved her writings much, he said. I felt that friend was his wife. He mourns her so deeply I trust he may sometimes feel he can speak of her; but perhaps it is best not.

We have passed one night at Milton of late in Mrs Silsbee’s new house. She has a genius for hospitality and something faded out of her life when she left her large house in Salem associated with her whole life and came to Boston to live in a small steeple on Beacon St. She was like a transplanted tree whose roots had been cut. Now she has a new house in Milton with Mary & her children under her roof, with hens & chickens & cows & a growing garden and all healthy country things and the good woman is blossoming again. With a naturally poetic organisation married to a man who possesses not the slightest comprehension of such things and is even devoid of enthousiasm she has grown to find her life in the business of existence. She certainly succeeds in making external life around her very pretty and comfortable on little money, but it is a kicking against the pricks forever for minds to live so bound hand and foot to the multiplying necessities of mere existence implied in a perfect country and perfect town house, both ready in their season for company, as the end and aim. It wearies me to think of it.

I arose early in the morning of the night we passed in Milton and walked down hoping to see Mrs Whitney. She was not up the woman said and I feared to disturb her lest she should be writing—so we missed—alas!


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