[Boston—Friday, 8 May 1868]

Friday May 8th We have both been at home many days ill with cold. This morning when we hoped to get out into clear sunshine we have a snow-storm and Jamie lies with headache on his bed from punch which seems to have relieved the cold somewhat however. The dear dear boy has snatches of sleep taken; he is more comfortable and dreams I am in his arms!!! He is made up of tenderness. May God keep us both!

The green grass is speckled with white, not of blossoms, but of snow, but patience—it is late, but summer is near at hand. Aldrich, Mother, all our friends are attentive and kind. I am slowly plodding on with Madame Roland and we are reading Alfonse Karr’s Tour round my Garden for lack of a real one to take a tour in.

Longfellow is full of two tragedies he has written. I wish we could think more highly of them. “Wenlock Christison” & “Giles Corey” The New England Tragedies he calls the subjects as they may be most truly called. I fancied they might be proper to art. I know he hopes so, but they are scarcely more than sketches, yet vivid and poetic.


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