[Boston—Wednesday, 30 January 1867]
Wednesday. Yesterday I went to find a pretty colored child for Lissie to paint. Birdie Ruffin was my prize, a tender little chirping darling of six years old. Lissie began her portrait—she longs to work from life and I trust now will feel she is progressing. She went to a little party last night from which we excused ourselves but she had scarcely departed when Mr Sam. Bowles of Springfield, Editor of S. Republican the most popular newspaper of New England, & the Hon. George A. Walker announced themselves. Mr Bowles is quite handsome and would be altogether so if he had elegance of manner to correspond with what nature has done for him in giving him fine eyes, but he is an ambitious man, ambitious to be known as a literary man, but apparently mistaking popularity for fame he had learned to know almost everybody of literary celebrity, to be on the top course continually, to keep open house, to be a general good fellow, which combined with real ability has made him widely liked & given him a brilliant restless way which marks so many Americans. His book “Across the Continent” which appeared last summer was intensely interesting & valuable but unelegant and of momentary value comparatively speaking, from the careless writing and careless thinking which distinguished it. He is very able as an editor & J.T.F. says more to be dreaded were he to start an opposing magazine than any other man in New England. The Hon. Walker is interested in politics, they both live at Springfield and entertain much company.
Our river is frozen and men cross it on the ice looking about as long as one’s finger. The weather is severe but the morning lights gleaming through mist on the snowy hills are exquisitely lovely.
Passed this morning at L’s studio. She is endeavoring to make a sketch, for lack of a better model I sit to her. A knock at the door & Miss Anne Whitney spoke to say “I am going, at least I think I am & will you come and tell me all about it.” Her face glowed with life and beauty and the thought of having a new chance in Europe has penetrated her with happiness & awaked a new glow within her. How beautiful a woman can be after the world has forgot to call her beautiful,—after she has forgotten to think of beauty for herself except as it may come in spite of herself through love or hope.
