[Boston—Sunday, 16 November 1873]
Nov. 16. Yesterday was the 19th anniversary of our wedding day. It seems like yesterday—and yet, as Dickens used to say how odd it is that there is another side to the lapse of time when it seems long as eternity. Certainly all my previous life counts as nothing in time even from the shortest side compared to this.
“J” has just given two of his lectures in English Literature at the Lowell Institute. They are an enormous success. The hall is continually crowded, people standing or crouching in the aisles. They are indeed delightful and that I knew before he began but I was surprised in our own town to see such a following.
After the lecture last night Mr. Dougherty of Phila and Miss Doria took supper. The first told stories and gave repetitions, the latter gave us some delightful music—both fine enough for a large audience.
“J” still wears a splint, but I trust so soon as the lectures are over to take him out for a walk. He is patience itself.
Imogen W. Eddy & her little Nelly came here from the Court Room yesterday. She has at last obtained her divorce from her drunken husband.
Mr. Dougherty also came to breakfast with us this week. He gave us The British Showman at Greenwich, The Frenchman’s critique of Macbeth, beside many less elaborate dramatic touches of the natural man.
