[Boston—Wednesday, 2 January 1867]
Jan 2d 1867. Now I feel as if the New Year had begun, though Aldrich says a new year never did slip in so surreptitiously as this one. Yesterday was snowy but we went to see the dear Bartols so to inaugurate the good season also our old teacher Miss Susan Whitney who was sitting down in the tiniest of bedrooms which seemed about packed full of small gifts from her school children. The Bartols were sitting as usual in their large room with the andirons of gold said to have been in the possession of Louis 16th I believe, for at the time of the overturn of the dynasty in France Mrs Bartol’s grandfather was in Clichy passing the best years of his life (indeed he died there) because of a debt which he believed unlawful. This was the more extraordinary as the family were evidently people of fortune and his wife with her young family were growing from youth to age in America. The old house is full of beautiful things purchased by himself or his wife (for she went over to visit him) and among the rest a remarkable picture attributed not without good reason to Rubens.
The talk turned upon William Hunt, the God of Lissie’s idolatry, her father says. One day they were all studying this picture when Hunt was present, one said how good this child, another praised the man but Hunt said—“I am looking at that woman’s head in the light and studying the wonderful modelling.” The true artist struck upon the salient feature in his art, which the others overlooked, for simple beauty.
It was delightful to see Mrs Bartol so cheerfully passing about the little cakes and lemonade in the old fashioned graceful french glasses, her grey hair contrasting with the rapidity of her movements and to see the genial sweetness overspreading her face as friends came and went with their good wishes. I know no other people better than these not anybody at all like them, perfect simplicity combined with perfect refinement in Mrs Bartol and entire self abnegation make her a woman indeed. I sometimes fear my sentiments do not educate and tame me as they ought or I should find some way to testify to these dear ones our constant indebtedness for their example as well as a world of kindness, shown continuously.
This morning the clouds broke and the day opened resplendently. The air was sweet & soft as if June and not January were with us, yet it was cold too—before noon however the cloud rack covered the sky and the air became chilly again. Went down town early to sit to Lissie but had been there but a short time when the little Teresa, the Italian model came in. Lissie was delighted with her beauty & fitness for painting so I jumped up, put my dishevelled locks in order and retreated. Went round the common with J. who told me a queer anecdote of a man who waylaid him yesterday in the doorway of the establishment. “Is this Mr Fields”—yes it is—“Well Sir, if you could only know a Capting of my acquaintance Sir and hear him talk you could get articles enough for your magazine which would interest everybody Sir; he could tell you stories about the Boa Sir which would astonish you. What is the principal food of the Boa Sir?” Poor J. confessing his ignorance he continued “Goats, Sir. The principal food of the Boa is chiefly goats which he swallows down and then falls into a leathargy, leaving the goats horns a-sticking out of his mouth & there they stay while he is in the leathargy until they decay and drop off.” And what is the Boa’s principal enemy, Sir? again J. confessed himself at fault. “Ants Sir. And before he takes his food he will look a mile each way to see if there are any ants about.” J. tried to assure him that if life were longer he might have time to hear the “Capting’s” stories and with some difficulty made his way to his office.
Went to Bocher’s reading afterward and heard some of Beranger’s songs read well—came home determined to re-read them here—met Mr Henry James who looks ill and says he has not been to town for months and J. F. Clarke at the Athenæum. Also Mrs Bell and had a few words with each.
Dante Club at L’s again in the evening. They were discussing the word “stinketh” when J. entered, said L. what do you think Fields, “that I should not use it”—Lowell & Norton were for the word, the Baron (Mackay, the only stranger last night) sided with Longfellow and J.
They are revising the whole work with the minutest care. Mr Lowell’s accuracy is as astonishing as it is valuable for the work. Mr Norton’s remarks have also their weight though he knows nothing of the construction of verse and has no ear for it; but he is a purist J. says and a classicist both of which qualities have their value in this work. No one can see what corrections L. makes. He sits apart or stands at his desk, pencil in hand, and accepts the remarks or not as he thinks best.
