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HIS WIFE'S LETTERS.
The whole of yesterday I spent in reading and arranging the letters of 1857; such a day's reading as I perhaps never had in my life before. What a piercing radiancy of meaning to me in those dear records, hastily thrown off, full of misery, yet of bright eternal love; all as if on wings of lightning tingling through one's very heart of hearts! Oh, I was blind not to see how brittle was that thread of noble celestial (almost more than terrestrial) life; how much it was all in all to me and how impossible it should long be left with me, I have asked myself, ought all this to be lost, or kept for myself and the brief time that now belongs to me? Can nothing of it be saved then, for the worthy that still remain among these roaring myriads of profane unworthy? I really must consider it farther; and already I feel it to have become uncertain to me whether at least this poor note-book ought to be burnt ere my decease, or left to its chances among my survivors? As to "talent," epistolary and other, these letters, I perceive, equal and surpass whatever of best I know to exist in that kind; for "talent," "genius," or whatever we may call it, what an evidence, if my little woman needed that to me! Not all the Sands and Eliots and babbling cohue of "celebrated scribbling women" that have strutted over the world, in my time, could, it seems to me, if all boiled down and distilled to essence, make one such woman.
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with Mary

Wednesday Mar. 9. 1881. A most dismal, rainy day. How such a throws one upon oneself. I wish I could have been at work on some interesting picture. I was not but tried to paint a picture from a design I made several years ago of an old chimney of a ruined house with a moon rise. My work seems to have no freshness. I am too absorbed in other thoughts. Answered Alices letter, always glad to talk to her about dear Gertrude How charming is this extract from Carlyles note book just edited by Froude. He believed her the best woman in all the world and so she was to him. I have asked myself the same question regarding my dear Gertrudes letters. Ought I to have them destroyed at my death or shall they last to give to others an idea of wifely love and loyalty aside from the fresh charm of their frank and sparkling expression. Gertrude was a charming letter writer. I was struck with it in reading her letters to Mrs. Bachelder which he sent me after his wifes death. I cannot bear the thought of trying to turn my thoughts from her but perhaps in the interest of my art I ought to. Writing so absorbs me as what relates to her.

Thursday 10. Went with May to the Cooperative Dues Association and subscribed for four shares ($100) thinking I can sell at a profit. Am troubled with an ulcerated tooth and having a bad cold am unfit for anything. Went and saw the dentist Attended Mr. Gordons annual artists party this evening where the usual assemblage was brought together. A beautiful house, no end of money apparently and cordial hospitality. I wish I were in a mood to enjoy it all more than I do but my own ill success and my anxieties make me timid and disinclined to meet people. Tom Sawyer called at Marys. I had not seen him since last winter.

Friday 11. Walked up to 40" St. to pay a bill for Sara. Felt very badly and after setting my palette was unable to work. Sat in my chair before the fire feeling one of my head aches coming on. Tom Sawyer came in and sat a couple of hours with me. In the afternoon my head ache getting worse I sent for a half bottle of champagne and drank part of it which arrested but did not cure it. Went over to dinner and spent the evening at Marys.

Saturday 12. Went to the dentist to have my two teeth looked to which have troubled me since my cold. Thought it best to visit a while. Went up to see Reichardt. He has not sold my picture but   

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