[Manchester—Friday, 13 September 1867]
Friday. Our last full day here. I shall have to say, my last day, for J. did not get down in the early train. It was quite dark when he arrived. The South wind blew strong and the sea and fields were misty yet sunshiny today. I could not stay out long. The sun was hot but the wind was cold, yet the world was so beautiful I sorrowed at my own inability!
How often the idea flashes over us that Heaven is the enlarging of our powers, the fulfiling of an existence we can perceive here but cannot attain.
Went with Miss Crowell to call on an old lady nearly eighty (Mrs Trask) who lives opposite. A noble benevolent citizen she is, and a wonderful specimen of health and strength for her years. She thinks of going to town to hear Mr Dickens read, when he comes. The night shuts down cloudily. I begin to think of myself as Mrs Bartol says of herself that she is like a cat in her attachments to places. Nothing can replace the freedom of country life! Not all the riches of the world nor all the advantages of the town—these long hours which are over now!!
