[Manchester—Wednesday, 12 September 1866]

Wednesday Seper 12. Left Manchester. The day had been warm & full of rain and at length settled into a blue afternoon with white clouds high up in the air. If we should leave ever, why not now? So we came.

We were obliged to take separate seats in the cars—mine was by the side of a woman with a monster bouquet with strong autumn odors of half faded dahlias. J. sat just behind and entertained me with papers and now and then a jet of talk.

We were obliged to wait some time at the station for our luggage then for the first time I understood what a stranger I had become to my own city. I had forgotten how wretched people could be. I think I can never forget one woman who passed the door of the carriage as I sat writing within. She was dressed in a dark deplorable head-gear which was completely covered by a faded blue veil one long corner of which strayed down to her waist behind but did not entirely cover her face but allowed her to gaze about in a listless way as she proceeded slowly, for she was somewhat ricketty or lame, upon her way. Her dress was a lightish and very dirty brown over wh. she wore a basquine of black cloth which hung in dirty careless folds around her, “a world too wide” for her shrunken frame. This poor creature had scarcely passed upon her meandering journey, than an Irish woman presented herself and sat down upon the steps of the station-house to eat a pear someone had given her. She was an old and hard-worked woman her days labor was done and now she was going to enjoy something at last. The evening was lovely and I dare say she knew no pleasanter place poor thing! to look from. Certainly the crowd did not concern her as she sat quite a picture of content paring the over ripe fruit with her fingers and eating it as slowly as if the rest of night if not the remainder of her days was hers to eat it in. How one pear could last so long as hers did I have not yet discovered. At length at home!!!!!

What inexpressible loveliness and delight! Venus & the moon were in the sky making the west radiant, a gentle breeze was stirring the leaves of our grape-vine sometimes rushing over them as if to strike a flood of melody, then softly fading, fading, fading.

After an hour J. went in to see Dr Holmes. This was important. He had promised a week ago to hear him read his new romances and he did not wish to show anything but the lively interest he really feels.

I sat at home and after the color had died out of the west lighted a lamp and finished Victor Hugo’s wonderful novel “Les Travailleurs de la Mer.”

Jamie returned in two hours perfectly enchanted. The novel exceeded his hopes. No diminishing of power is to be seen; on the contrary it seems the perfect fruit of a life. It is to be called “The Guardian Angel.” 4 parts are already completed and large books of notes stand ready for use and reference. Mrs Holmes came in to tell Mr Fields she wished Wendell would not publish anything more. He would only call down newspaper criticism and where was the use. “Well Amelia, I have written something now which the critics won’t complain of. You see it’s better than anything I have ever done.” “Oh that’s what you always say Wendell but I wish you’d let it alone.” “But, don’t you see Amelia I shall make money by it and that won’t come amiss.” “No indeed, Mr Fields, not in these times with our family, you know.”

“But there’s one thing” said the little professor suddenly looking up to Mr Fields “if anything should happen to me before I get the story done, you wouldn’t come down upon the widow for the money, would you now?!!”

Then they had a grand laugh all round. He is very nervous indeed about his work and read it with great reluctance, yet desired to do so. He had read it to no one as yet until Mr Fields should hear it.

Wendell his son had just returned from England bringing a young English captain of Artillery home with him for the night, the hotels being crowded. The captain’s luggage was in the entry. The professor drew J. aside to show him how the straps of the luggage were arranged in order to slip in the address-card. “D’ye see that, good ain’t it. I’ve made a drawing of that and am going to have some made like it.”

Wendell was talking a little large “à l’anglais” (he has been gone six months) and astonishing his mother and younger brother. The latter is determined not to be ignorant, if asking questions will help that evil, so he draws his chair close to the Captain and as soon as he can get a word in edgewise he asks him “I say, what becomes of the younger sons in England?”

“Ur—ur—how do you mean?”

“Why what do they do with ’um; they kick ’um out don’t they?”

All this exasperates the brother-of-much-experience as can be imagined.

The names in the Professor’s story are remarkably well chosen for the most part. “Myrtle” is the name of his heroine.


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