[Manchester—Thursday, 6 September 1866]
Thursday morning was exquisitely beautiful. Walked to the village early and went “on a lark” to the little androtype salon with Mrs Darrah & Lissie. We were taken, but so badly with such a distorting instrument that all the things had to be paid for and rubbed out. We consoled ourselves with thinking it was a charity. The poor man wore a most disconsolate air as he well might if he goes about the world distorting what was made symmetrical at least if not beautiful—before the pictures were taken Mr Fields said he would like to live in such a little place for a time day and night and travel about—“I don’t think you would said the poor man at least I know I get tired enough of it by the time night comes.” When we saw what spectres he made of people we did not wonder that he loved to fly the place when night fell. A more dismal little hole could not well be imagined—only the lovely day and the pleasure of continual travel could have suggested such an idea to J. There was the dreadful little machine for catching the back of the head like an exaggerated lobster claw before boiling, two dirty brown screens on one side with corner way holes cut in the cloth which we could not understand until we discovered a row of toes underneath the screen and found they had made the holes in order to peep through at the victims. But the chief horror was the strong smell of various yellow and white liquids which he was perpetually dashing over small plates of metal and filling the air with stench. After being so foolish as to go in we could not at once get out and our only comfort was in pushing open one side of the cart which was a huge window and looking out upon the day.
We broke away at length and (from a poor photographer) walked down to Mr Dana’s avenue and through the woods to the beach. Ah! there was loveliness indeed. The cool north west wind, the golden sunlight, the waves pouring their gentle thunder on the rocks and sands. They were the first “rollers” we have had and we stood and sat gazing out to sea until time to return for dinner.
The dinner was just over when we stole Mrs Bartol from Miss Mary’s sick room and Mr Bartol from his books and started for the new chasm which lies about a third of a mile this side of “Rafe’s Chasm.” We call it new. I suppose it is a few thousands of years older than we that is all but we have never chanced to discover it until this season. It is a vast cleft running somewhat diagonally back from the sea, perhaps 70 feet high, rocks near enough together to touch both sides with the outstretched arms almost anywhere from base to near the summit. We could just see the black water surging up over rocks at the farther end. At Mr Bartol’s suggestion we descended nearly to the bottom. He & Mr Fields went through to the sea. We were like pigmies as we scratched along up the side of the cliff clinging to roots and trees for dear life. My blood ran cold. I don’t think I believe much in this manner of seeing the beautiful. We enjoyed much more after we came out in a walk through the woodland to Rafe’s rock; the sunshine was filling the world with a perfect beauty, the barberries were red, the golden rod yellow,—it was one of those afternoons we never forget yet which can never be described. Rafe’s chasm lay in the full yellow light. The blue waves with their white fingers curling open in a very joy and ecstasy of beating over the brown feet of the rocks—there was motion and rest, beauty and awe, strength and gentleness. It was a union of melody & harmony of beauty seldom equalled. We came home in a pure yellow sunset with Venus in the west.
After tea Lissie went out in the boat—it was star-light but a large sail boat swept near their little craft with a majesty almost unequalled by any sunlit picture. She came in fresh as foam.
