[Manchester—Tuesday, 28 August 1866]
Tuesday. Clouded morning. Walked on the beach before breakfast watching the light as it fell through cloud rifts on the sea—after breakfast we sat awhile expecting Louisa’s children from Nahant but as they did not come I sat reading and writing until dinner while Jamie took a walk. The afternoon was cool and brilliant—we passed four long hours on the shore. As the sunlight deepened in the west Dana’s beach became unusually—strangely—beautiful. We found a sloping shore which seemed entirely shut away from the world. The sands went up behind us into the blue and before us into the green and lustrous sea—it was Titania’s chosen spot—or where Ariel would best love to sing—it was perfect enchantment—a very luxury of loveliness. The tide was so low that we could walk down among the haunts of the sea-urchins and peep among the “half glutted hollows of reef rocks” to learn their dark secrets for nothing could be dark or hidden on such an afternoon. I could fashion a new song in an old measure which should begin “On such a day as this.”
Jamie told me a queer incident about Mrs Mountford at Nahant which amused me. The children were invited there to tea one night and arrived just as Mrs M. was returning from her drive. “Come here” children she said “and pick the grass hoppers off of my skirts Mr Mountford always does it when he is at home.”
We are all becoming somewhat battered by the glorious wash of sea and air and Lissie Bartol is very brown. Dr Hedge took her hand the other day and said it is the color of the grapes which shows the gracious wine that lies within—was he quoting, I wonder—it was prettily said.
