[Boston—Sunday, 19 May 1867]
Sunday May 19. Wonderful day! Went early in the morning to Roxbury to hear Robert Collyer preach, dined with mother and went again in the afternoon. In the morning his text was from Job “Why is light given to a man whose way is hid” in the afternoon Nehemiah “It is reported among the heathen and Gashmu saith it.”
In the morning his subject was the mystery of the misfortunes, griefs and troubles which overwhelm the righteous, a mystery not to be explained by him—all we can do is to hold by the light even though the way be hid. The sermon was rich in illustration, full of deep feeling and carefully written—a few touches, rapid, vivid, describing the devast[at]ed life of John Wilson by the death of his wife and how the strange man came into his desk to lecture to the students and telling them why he had been absent so long lay his head down and wept—brought the tears into the eyes of all about us I suppose for it did into my own though I could not see others. On the whole, however, it was not a discourse to make one weep so much as to give one strength and uplifting of the heart.
In the afternoon he warned us of the danger of speaking of others from prejudice rather than from knowledge—the Gashmu of today was busy as of old and was apt to blacken the reputation of men unjustly—“have we not all—the man in the pulpit and you in the pews grieved over some hasty conclusion with regard to another too hastily expressed? One we would take back over and over again if we could but it is all too late.” His picture of the times and circumstances in which Nehemiah figured was perfect—he is always singularly rapid and vivid in these things. His morning discourse was perfectly delivered, that is the solemnity and unction as well as simplicity were certainly very striking. Once speaking of the light when the way was hid he recalled to our mind the story of the singing bird who would never give his sweetest song until his cage was darkened—so he said the melodies which came to the human soul from the darkness of grief was such as was obtained in no other way. He objected to the ending which has been tacked on to the story of Job giving him an extra life beyond that of ordinary mortals with other daughters and lands and cattle. He said that was not the way with us, we were left sometimes to the night of our sorrow with God’s light but groping in a hidden way.
Last night at the theatre there was a great performance! Dawison the German actor played Othello to Booth’s Iago. It was art indeed. Although Dawison spoke in German and Iago in English, this only seemed to invest the jealous Moor with a more weird and remote character. Booth’s lithe and sinuous figure came into full play in personating the villain which as J. said “he did not thrust as a villain upon the audience” but seemed to them simply the foxy thing he was ’till the mask fell.
The audience was the most intelligent I have ever seen at the theatre, I think. Amelia Holmes went with us but her father was finishing and did finish his story of the “Guardian Angel”—had the frenzy of writing upon him and he could not leave his work though John Kemble had descended to play Hamlet for one night only. There were a few parts in Dawison’s Othello which have perhaps never been surpassed—first the stateliness of his whole bearing & his majestic un-stagey walk—then his tenderness; his passion when Iago first fairly awakes jealousy within him—his frantic drawing of Desdemona to him on the couch—and his own death as bits of acting seemed to me unrivalled. His voice too was full of feeling and the text was exquisitely rendered—clearly, slowly, purely. His dress and appearance were unique and very close to our idea of the part, indeed it would need long study to do full justice to the perfection of his “roba” as well as his performance. I should like to see it again tomorrow to do it justice.
As for Booth it was certainly wonderful he should have played as he did for he had already performed the Stranger & Petruchio in the afternoon, had not been home to dinner, but in the hour’s intermission had taken something to eat in the dressing room of the theatre.
We had a very easy and talkative and happy breakfast-party yesterday—one shower of talk and fun and it does seem stupid enough for me not to bottle up any of the delicate efferves[c]ing fun—one story of Bishop Eastburn I do not wish to forget—an impatient child tired of the sermon keeps teasing her mother to take her home. “Be still, Susan,” says the mother “he will be done soon”—the child waited a while and then again became uneasy “Mother do come home.” “Be quiet, child, he is almost done.” “No he isn’t, replied the child, he is swelling up again!” to one who has ever seen the Bishop this is irresistible.
