[Portsmouth—Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 26, 27, 28 July 1866]

Thursday. Friday. Saturday. A season of frequent showers. Every day the low rumble of thunder has arisen in the south or east, every day the sunlight overcast and the rain for nearly an hour each day running in gulleys down towards the bay.

Dr Hedge the other day at table called Hawthorne idle. When I heard that I could say nothing but I recalled the pages on pages of delicately written and most delicately woven matter, woven from the fine fibre of the brain, which he has left and I said to myself, surely the labor of men is as nothing in God’s eyes but to their fellows who have eyes and see with them should not all labor be sacred? A sympathetic nature like his must find expression and having found it there are those whom he supports upon their way, should he not therefore be held in reverence by others, for what he has done as well as for the doing, yet for the latter God should reward the well-doer when the thing done is forgotten.

We were sitting in the small parlor during the heavy rain this afternoon. I was embroidering the initial F. upon some house linen while Mrs Bartol was reading Felix Holt, Miss Mary & Lissie completed the party.

In the heaviest part of the shower a carriage arrived and out stepped two of Mr Bartol’s parishioners (John Ridgway and his wife. He is the inventor of something to shield the soldiers in firing a battery and good C.A.B. thinks he will be famous. He is not at all interesting personally however) to pass Sunday. We were rather disappointed at first but it was lovely to see how pleasantly the arrival was received.


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