[Boston—Saturday, 6 July 1872]
Saturday morning cool and lustrous. Yesterday took a long walk in the noontide heat—partly because I was lazy the day before, partly because I could not be easy to go away without taking a look at 14 Lincoln St. Arranged a pretty dinner. Charles Robertson, son of Frederick Robertson preacher, a man of thirty came to dinner. He told a story of dear Dickens which delighted me—this young man has an enormous idea of his own gifts which he sees through one of the double-barrelled magnifiers such as Sam. Weller thought would have been convenient for watching Mrs Bardell. It seems he went one day to hear Mr. Dickens read and was presented to him after the reading was over. Dear Dickens (and this was so characteristic) most unnecessarily asked him what he thought of the reading—“Since you ask me, replies this youth, I think the only criticism I could make upon anything which has given me such great pleasure would be to say quite frankly that I think it somewhat too dramatic!! Whereat Mr. Dickens bowed, thanked him for his opinion and the scene terminated. Years later, Mr. Robertson was himself reading from Tennyson’s poems to an audience at the Isle of Wight. After it was over Mr. Dickens came to speak to him from among the audience. Mr. R. expressed himself greatly honored and said he was glad to have been unconscious of his distinguished auditor—but what sir, do you say of my reading—“Since you ask me, said Dickens, bowing with a laugh musing all over his face, I must tell you that I do not find it quite dramatic enough!
Jamie took Robertson after dinner round to Dr. Holmes’s. They are all in town where they like to remain during the warm weather. Wendell and his bride are living with them. Robertson knew Dr. Holmes’s poems & witticisms by heart and was much delighted to make his acquaintance.
I look at Robertson with wonder. Here is the only son of one of the greatest men of the century who forgets to copy his father even in those things which are copiable. He described his father’s condition, at my request after some of his finest efforts in the pulpit—“Have I made a fool of myself he would say to his wife in the deepest distress of mind. Have I? Tell me—” Jamie thinks this a misrepresentation. Robertson was a man never occupied with himself.
This wife whom we consider so unworthy of the name, married again 9 years ago. They were never married in spirit, this woman and Robertson I am sure.
Saturday we did not go to Celia at the Island as she so much wished us to do. I was sorry Mr. Whittier went and “Lulie Hunt with her babies”. Celia had filled our room with wild roses. It was hard—but we could not do so much, and indeed packing to come here is no joke. Mr. & Mrs Silsbee passed the night with us Sunday and
