[Manchester—Wednesday, 31 July 1867]
July 31st There I was interrupted and what a loss was there!!! And where should I find myself taking up the pen again but in dear old Manchester. We were wretchedly homesick at Marblehead. It was the living house of “Break, break break on the cold gray stones O Sea” only the fire which inspired that insight into the possible drear of the ocean was never lighted, no not one spark of it, on such a bleak grey marshy edge. I am not sorry for the experience now it is over and we are housed in Miss Crowell’s comfortable cottage in the village behind a tulip tree. Beside it gave us opportunity to drive to Nahant on Sunday where we saw Longfellow & his chidren and to sit with Mrs Bartol and to comfort Lissie a little in what they feel to be exile but have not the pluck to leave—also to float about with Mr Bartol in his boat and see a little better why he likes the place so well. We came hither two days ago on a sultry afternoon. We are more retired than in many houses farther away. Nobody comes to speak or to interrupt us. The long quiet days pass while someone in the parson’s house at the next door, like Nicholas Ferrar, strives that the sound of praise shall never come and so the voice of psalms from a house organ is heard gently ascending morning, noon & night. Our manner of life is more nearly what we would wish than I have ever found it except at home.
