[Boston—Saturday, 9 May 1868]

Saturday. Yesterday having written the above in the quiet hour of a rainy morning before breakfast I thought the whole day would glide calmly over. But how little we can tell. Laura Johnson appeared from Staten Island to breakfast and pass the day. The Dana’s from Cambridge dropped in. Madme Newinger my french party came and Anthony Trollope. The result was a long day of talk for it was half past five before they were all gone. Then my love came back to dine and the day was exhausted. The night came on resplendent. Stars and moon in the clear dark sky. At last there is promise of Spring and I see colds and mists vanishing in the sunshine. I shall soon see time again for reading and study, I believe and hope, for this winter has scattered them all in such a ruthless way that I feel it will be more difficult than ever to make any steadfast plans and hold on.

Mr Trollope is the same good, kindly, rough, energetic, nervous and rather commonplace old soul, as ever. It seems to me never a man won a large literary reputation on so slight and perishable ground as he—and yet there is good honest writing and thinking in his books too.

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