[Manchester—Wednesday, 1 August 1866]

Wednesday—resting—writing up this. In the evening Mr Parton came down with Mr Fields. Mr Parton is a tall slender man with the sight of one eye apparently destroyed. He has not the air of a talker or man of the world, rather that of an introspective mind. Nevertheless he is not by any means lacking in energy for action. His talk is exceedingly brilliant. He coruseates almost as brilliantly as Tom Appleton but with a stronger, more vital interest in great subjects which lends him to discourse eloquently at times as well as brilliantly. He abounds in aphoristic sayings. The quality which has created the writer is frequently perceptive in his speech. He has thoroughly examined everything which Andrew Johnson has ever published and can find no spark of light therein. He spoke of the injustice all the portraits of Clay do to him. But such grace as his, he said, it was impossible to render; he could only think of a tall tree swaying its exquisite branches in the breeze—that alone could give any idea of Clay. Webster was an artist, not a man at all—artists are children not men, they must be simply translucent media—not characters in themselves.

Actors are a race of children. He said don’t make the “North American” a cloister speaking to a cloister but Massachusetts speaking to Chicago.

The last day of July was a perfect day. From dawn to sunset the beauty of seas and sky was undimmed.


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