[Boston—Sunday, 20 April 1873]
Sunday April 20. 1873. Spring is at last here—beautiful clouds stain the soft sky, boats float up and down the river, and the calm which the longer days give one, the absence of all sense of hurry, begins to possess our spirits; the forerunner of summer days.
This Sunday morning Mr. Whittier came to breakfast. He had a bad cold but was otherwise well. He talked of Bayard Taylor’s poem of “Lars”, thinks it superior in moral beauty and in subtle tenderness to anything else he has done—laughed a little at the devotion to Browning’s last books prescribed to me by Mr. Thaxter in his visit yesterday. “I think thee had better drop all thy work inside thy house and out of it and devote thyself to Browning, the result has been wonderful in its effect on the usefulness of Mr. T’s life apparently,” and afterward when J. showed him his sketch of half written lectures for the coming season. “I think thee would do better to give up all this and study Browning!!” He confessed that he had no curiosity as to what future generations would wish to read; he was satisfied abundantly if the world would read what was written for them now. He stayed two or three hours, talking politics, and his hopes for the country. He thinks Grant but a low man, well enough as a soldier but with no high aims. Sumner was fundamentally right--
He gave up Quaker meeting today to come to breakfast with us, but when Jamie urged him to stay all day he declined at first gently and then when J. pressed him he said “no, I tell thee I don’t want to” which set us all laughing and answered the purpose admirably of settling the question beyond further dispute.
He had something to do with Mr. Adams, C.F. some years ago and he found him an unamiable man to work with, and he always thought it most inhuman in him to tell Wilson that he would not have him go on a certain commission to Washington if he could possibly help it, because he did not know enough.
Last night Mr. & Mrs Henry James, Miss Alice & Mr. De Normandie dined here. Mr. James looked very venerable but was at heart very young and amused us much. He gave a description of Mr. George Bradford being run over by the horse car because of his own inadvertence in part, and of the good natured crowd who insisted upon his having restitution for what he considered in part at least his own fault. “Ain’t you dead” said one. “267 Highland Avenue” is the no. “don’t forget” said another, “you can prosecute.” “Where’s my hat” he asked meekly “better ask if ye’re ain’t dead and not be looking for your hat”, said another.
He also told us of a visit of Elizabeth Peabody & of the Alcotts. He said “in Mr. A. the moral sense was wholly dead and the aesthetic sense had never yet been born.”!!!
