August, 1860
The [boarding] house was further enlivened last night by the
presence of Mr. Longfellow's son and heir . . . who with a companion sailed
round from Nahant. Late in the evening — that is, probably so near the small
hours as half-past nine — he was heard in the entry, rousing the echoes with
the unwonted cry of Landlord! and when at last Mary Moody or some
similar infant appeared, it appeared that they desired pen, ink, paper, and
postage stamps. Mary thinks they had run away from their nurses and wished to send
word home.
We have decided that Americans think their own race so
beautiful, something must be done to disguise it; and bathing is taken as the
occasion, certainly with great success. Mary was especially impressed with one
man in scanty raiment, exhibiting an amount of bald head which Mary declared to
be positively indelicate.
Also a tall, slim, red, unpleasing Californian with a
perpetual pipe and a capacity for steady flirtation so long as his wife can be
kept at a safe distance.
. . . To-day (Sunday) we thought would be hot, but there is
a cool breeze and Miss Susanna's supposed lover is patiently stirring or
revolving water-ice for dinner. Little “Parkie” Haven just called to him from
the window, “Is it did yet?” — he responding, “No.”
* * * * * * * * * *
I had a characteristic letter from Charles H. [a cousin]
yesterday, closing with a hint that there was often trouble in the army about
delay of pay, etc., and begging me to draw on him up to five hundred dollars at
any time, if needed. I have a great mind to take it and then turn miser and
strike out a new path for Higginsons.
This is Sunday, the B—— visiting day, and their, loud voices
pervade the promontory — Miss Susanna perhaps does not extend into the
afternoon her impressive attire of this morning, which consisted of three vast
curtains of white cotton (shall I say dimity?), the first draping her head, the
second reaching to her waist, the third touching the ground, and the whole
filling the horizon and making a shade in sunny places. She and Isa and brother
David can protect this place from sunstroke, never fear. The present delight of
visitors is the calf, to inspect which all are invited by the mighty voice of
Mr. George Swett, resident ambassador from the court of Cupid near the
headquarters of Susanna. “George” is the Gloucester widower of whom we used to
hear, and who is now admitted to a nearer probation, and has been so
indispensable in the family for two years that if he struck for higher wages I
certainly think Miss B. would, with the family eye for the main chance, give
him herself instead. Many are the anxious observations made with the sleepless
microscopic eyes of childhood by Florence and Annie, who think nothing of
popping out of bed for this purpose by moonlight, and who have composed a poem
thereon, which ends, perhaps ingloriously, with
Another rhyme I wish
to make
That his name is Mr.
Swett, —
which may remind you of some of Pet Marjorie's poetical
difficulties.
It is a singular compensation of human skill that while all
other B—— voices are so vast and resounding, that their copperness of head must
go down to the lungs, at least; one youth of eighteen next door was born with a
squeak. Yet by one stroke he has outwitted Fate, and by dint of a piano
fortissimo and twelve hours' daily and nightly practice he has attained skill
to drown any of his relations, voice and all, and is now performing “The
Maiden's Prayer” in tones to silence the Mighty Deep.
. . . Looking about for some literature suited for “a lonely
and athletic student” temporarily on half rations, I have selected Miss Austen,
the only author except Dr. Bartol whose complete works the house possesses, and
one whose perfect execution cheers, while her mild excitements do not inebriate
the mind of man.
. . . There is a Mrs. D—— of Cambridge, with a gentle
dyspeptic daughter, whom (the mother) I should define as a Cambridge waiter —
a perpetual tone of motherly despair, with the personal grandeur peculiar to that
classic town, when represented by its citizens abroad. She was née W——, and there is
a suppressed-Quincy sacredness in her every gesture. Her husband is the noted
antiquarian, I believe; but nothing unbends her but perch, of which she has
caught more than anybody; thus linking her to humanity through the indirect tie
of a fishline.
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