[Boston—Sunday, 22 September 1872]
Sunday Sepr 22. Dear Jamie took me with him around the beautiful public garden, rich as Asia in fast vanishing colors and strange eastern growths—afterward through the Common to Mr. Alger’s church at Music Hall, where he was preaching much more earnestly and simply but to a somewhat smaller audience than usual for which the lovely day & the season of the year would doubtless account.
We returned in season to receive Joaquin Miller, the poet of the Sierras who is now in Boston. So far from being the creature of affectation he has been accounted he is as natural as it is possible for a man to be under such strange circumstances. He looks to be a man of 40 years; certainly not more, of delicate highly nervous organisation, warm, true, childlike in his expression and manner. He is slightly built with beautiful soft-flowing auburn hair which he wears very long in curls upon his shoulders. His eyes are gray and clear and his face a changing view of the passions and sensations which are agitating his being. There is a record of much trouble too there. He is evidently incapable of taking thought for the morrow. He cannot bear a cold climate and he is more fortunate than he knows to see Boston at this time. He is so natural that we fell easily into talk and he into love with my Jamie as I could see. He told us of his chace [sic] to find a publisher in London, how he had always said to himself, “I will keep one publisher in reserve. I will not go to him until I must, but when all else fail I will go to John Murray the son of Byron’s publisher, the enthous[i]astt for poetic literature and there I shall be received.” At last the desperate moment came and he wrote to Mr. Murray stating he wished to publish a book about the Pacific Coast and said nothing about its being a book of poems! Whereat Murray expressed himself pleased and would be glad to see him the next day at such an hour. At the appointed time Mr. Murray received him very kindly, “a tall man with one eye a little askew, and a long forefinger which he held up before his eye as if to measure what was before him. I looked up at a picture of Byron’s mother and remarked about her being a pleasant looking lady enough—“Yes! but she could fling her missile too, but what is it about your travels.” Oh! it is not a book of travels (presenting the printed page)! Then the scene changed. He would have nothing to do with the book and the visit ceased abruptly. I hated Murray for a whole year. But I adopted a feigned name for a publisher—printed the volume myself—gave five away to Rossetti & others, sent five to the newspapers. Soon fine notices began to appear and I had everything my own way. I chose the most fashionable and powerful publishers, the Longmans whom I shall never leave, and have just received £45 for my last six months payment.”
He described very interestingly the home of Mrs Rossetti and her two daughters & William. Christina Rossetti always writes when she has people around her. She is seldom seen therefore without her portfolio. She is an angelic looking creature. He esteems her poems very very highly. Maria is 54 years old with hair of excessive blackness and excessive whiteness and skin favoring as an indian. She is fearfully ugly, so ugly that she is beautiful. The mother is a silent woman, who looks younger than her daughters. Mrs Morris is also fearfully silent though D.G. Rossetti who has painted her 7 times, the last time solely for her hands, finds her very brilliant in conversation. Their manner of life is of the simplest. They live surrounded by works of art but their dress & tables are always simple.
Mr. Miller went with J. to Longfellow’s. We hope to see him again. He is of the kind we like to meet.
He told us that Mrs Spofford read Chapman’s Homer to him where he heard many new words. She taught him three but he feared he had already forgotten them. She told him of “Silences” which he thought very beautiful!
They had a delightful visit at Longfellows. He had just been rereading “The Children”! The night was beautiful—the old house was thrown open. George Greene was there, everything was sweet and peaceful—when they left Jamie said to Joaquin “Is it not a beautiful home.” “It is a temple” was the poet’s reply.
