[Boston—Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 30, 31 January, 1 February 1868]

Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Beautiful winter days, the ground covered with snow, the air stimulating. Each day I passed several hours out of doors. Yesterday in part with Mrs Stowe; we went to see the busts & bas-reliefs Charlotte Cushman has sent us for the Music-Hall executed by an old Danish sculptor Willhelm Matthieu. They are truly beautiful, an acquisition for the city which must enrich it.

In looking over an account of the poems of Anne Bradstreet lately reprinted, I am struck by the truth of the remark that if she had given a simple womanly or witty account of things going on around her how delightful the book might yet be,—whereas it is as dry as dust and must presently be blown utterly away in spite of these new leaves. Even on account of this simple diary I felt rather conscience-stricken when I read those words for it is often a mere record of doings & sayings uninteresting and valueless enough except perhaps for reference for my own use now & then. Yet a great deal does go on around if not within which might have permanent value if I could bring myself to setting down my words a little more painfully perhaps, or at least less hurriedly.


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