[New York City—Friday, 13 December 1867]
Friday. James Parton, Ole Bull & his son came to breakfast. I have seldom heard anything more touching than Mr Parton’s confession of love for his little adopted child. He came to speak of it in connection with the story of “little Emily” he had heard the night before. Life contains nothing else worth living for, in his eyes—it seems—“I would do just what Peggotty did, for my “Emily” he said & the love of children seems to me so much the most precious thing in the world that I would adopt eight if I had not this one.”
Ole was enraptured at being with his old friends once more. He brought me a lovely gift—a breast-pin delicately wrought of silver & gold by a Norwegian girl.
J. asked him what audiences he preferred. He said all of the Norwegians in his native town because they could best understand him—his pantomime is extraordinary. He half acted half told how women, men & children gathered about when he was to play and how he drew his themes from subjects & objects familiar to each from childhood. Ole was never more exquisitely expressive nor Alexander more appreciative. It was a sight to behold.
Elegant dinner at night at Mrs S.G. Ward’s. The whole thing palatial—a little too much so. I thought somehow, when I saw the lack of health and vigor in the family. It appeared as if they were oppressed by their own elegance, oppressed & repressed, except Mrs Ward who has a childlike freshness & irresponsibility (of manner at least) inexpressibly lovely in a grand manner. I don’t mean that they were not accustomed to all this but there was a dreamy air of accustomed-ness & not the pleasant tickle of excitement which it is well to feel and agreeable to see.
Went to the reading afterward—the last of the first course. Dickens was delighted with his audiences—“as good as Paris” he said afterward when he called us into the anti-room for a word.
