March 3. Una's birthday. She is seven years old. My husband began
"Wallenstein."
5th. Mr. Ticknor sent five engraved heads of Mr. Hawthorne. The face is very melancholy.
8th. Mr. Tappan thinks Mr. Hawthorne's portrait looks like Tennyson.
10th. Mrs. Sedgwick brought me a letter from Elizabeth Bartol. My husband read me Pope's "Epistles."
12th. At dusk arrived Herman Melville from Pittsfield. He was entertained with champagne foam, manufactured of beaten eggs, loaf sugar, and champagne. He invited us all to go and spend to-morrow with him. My husband decided to go, with Una.
13th. Snowstorm. My husband has gone to Pittsfield. As soon as he and Una drove off in the wagon, dear little Julian for the first time thought of himself, and burst into a heart-breaking cry. To comfort him, I told him I would read him "The Bear and the Skrattel," and "Sam, the Cockerel," which made him laugh through floods of tears. Then he relapsed, and said he would do nothing without Una. So I told him he should have the Swiss cottage, the pearls, and the velvet furniture. This was enchantment.
During his dinner he discoursed all the time about Giant Despair and Christian. He improvised, while playing ball, a sad tragedy, and among other things said, "I wept, and pitied myself." Now he has stopped playing, for the lambs have come to graze before the windows, and he is talking incessantly about having one for his own pet lamb. It is now snowing thickly. I cannot see the Lake; no farther than the fringe of trees upon the banks. The lambs look anything but snow-white, half covered with snowflakes. Julian ran for his slate, and drew one pretty well. Then Midnight came [dog, man, or cat is not known] and frightened them away, and Julian reminded me of my promise to read "The Bear." This I did, squeaking as sharply as occasion required. "I feel very lonely without papa or Una," said Julian. After dinner he asked me to read to him the story of Sir William Phips. When I put him to bed, he said, as he jumped into it, that the angels were lying down beside him.
14th. What a superb day! But Julian and I are worn out with waiting. Prince Rose-Red talked without one second's intermission the whole time I was dressing him; and I allowed it, as papa and Una were not here to be disturbed by the clishmaclaver. At breakfast we were dismal. Julian mourned for his father most touchingly, and more than for Una. "Oh, dear," said he, "I feel as if I were alone on a great mountain, without papa!" I have clipped off the ends of his long curls; and all of these he has tenderly shut up in a domino-box, to distribute among his friends hereafter. After his dinner, I dressed him to go out. He hopes to meet his father, and get into the wagon. But before he went out I took down the "Twice-Told Tales" from the shelf, to look at the engraving. We enjoyed it very much. Blessed be Phillebrown, blessed be Ticknor, Reed and Fields, blessed be Thompson, C. G. Julian was struck with its life. "It is not a drawn papa," said he, "for it smiles at me, though he does not speak. It is a real papa!" Now that he has gone out, I have put it up before me, so that I can see it every time I lift my eyes. Was ever one so loved?
George W. Curtis sends a letter, once more:—
BOSTON, March 19, 1851.