[Boston—Monday, 1 January 1872]
January 1st 1872. The last ten days have been filled with incident worthy to record, but everything looks years away already. Jamie went down to Bangor to lecture and was away two nights, a most unheard of thing for him. They were however the nights before Xmas so I put everything in order before he returned. He found the tree shining and glittering to welcome his return. He had scarcely left me when young Bennett son of William Bennett of London who had been confined in jail at Buffalo on suspicion of arson and in whose behalf “J” had exerted himself, appeared with letters from his lawyers.
Visits from Mrs Stowe, new coffee house, Celia Thaxter, Lucy Larcom, starting of home for Working women in Lincoln St. All these things, beside the Christmas Tree have eaten up the days—I could not write and yet I feel how much there is to be written.
I cannot forget Celia’s description of an old man, a country neighbor, coming in to see her one day when she was very busy sweeping. She had a handkerchief bound around her head and her dress tucked up. She asked him to sit down kindly and prayed him to excuse her if she kept about her work. He talked of many things as she passed to and fro dusting the furniture and setting the rooms in order. At last he drew from his pocket a prose translation of a little Spanish song he loved and asked her to set it to rhyme. This she promised to do and still the old man lingered; at length he said “I was waiting to know if you would give me a volume of your poems. I know it is not you who sing but I reverence the Spirit which sings through you and I bless God for your singing!” As he spoke she stood humbly with the tears springing to her eyes. It was such joy to make another happy in this way and she felt so humble before the words of the old man. Nothing ever made me feel like that, she said, the sacredness of the gift which had been bestowed upon me.
