[Boston—Sunday, 13 April 1873]
Easter Sunday. Snow on the ground—gulls careening over the stormy sea, flowers and music in all the churches, silence and love at home.
Dresel sits at his window on the other side of the street resting from his labors here last evening, when he conducted a little music-party for us. Miss Doria sang most exquisitely, Miss Liebe played the violin with Mr. Dresel, about 20 guests.
Have read this week a brilliant article by H. James Jr. in which he says of Gautier, he learns one thing from his career: notably this, that a man’s chief purpose in life is to learn to play his intellectual instrument and to bring it to the farthest point of perfection!!
We must put this sentence into our pipe as the Dutchman sayeth. Let us see this intellectual instrument brought to its greatest perfection, if the instrument belongs to a writer it is surely time, if he be a musician it is equally true, why not if he be a philanthropist or even a woman!!! a housekeeper, the mother of children, an entertainer. The instrument may be tuned in various ways and may be kept in tune in other ways than by the study of books—though I dare say books and a kind of intense intellectual drudgery and selfish absorption will be the rendering put upon this saying by all literatures.
Jamie bought two pictures at auction this week, I being the instigator, a landscape by W.M. Hunt and one tiny bit by Appleton Brown, the cost of both with the frames being under $150!! They were sold at auction. I had a feeling they would be sacrificed & spurred J on.
Talking of intellectual instruments, see Mrs. Caswell a woman almost destitute of what we know as culture brought up in the country, the daughter of a calvinistic or methodist minister, she went first as missionary among the indians—there by her sweet voice, her singing, by her loving and continued and persistant effort she drew the masses of the Indians around her and subdued them as no one else has ever been able to do. She remained there 17 years until she married and she now devotes herself to the poorest poor of this city. Her power grows daily—she cultivates continually this influence which she never thinks about except as she sees her continued efforts are crowned with continued success. And so she works on and on every day and every hour until the people lean upon her and flock about her with their love. This is a distinct case of the intellectual instrument being brought to its finest perfection by continued use and without conscious effort to this end, the effort being purely for a moral purpose, the instrument being regarded simply as such, and not as the poor little litterateur considers it, a superior and peculiar gift to be petted for its own sake.
“Admiration is the sentiment of a philosophic mind, and the avenue which leads to philosophy.” Plato.
