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I have painted a little on my winter picture and looked over and measured some of my studies. No one comes here and I feel sad and homesick and am unable even to paint with any pleasure. I passed the evening at Marys reading Jane Eyre in which I am much interested and went around to the Club a little while but saw no one in whom I was particularly interested. I was reading a little biographical notice of Rousseau the painter in a French paper and was struck by some of his characteristics which seemed to accord with some of my own. He was interested in thinking out his pictures but had a dread of the mechanical means of executing them. He felt happy when the short days of winter came, and I confess I do. I dont know why, but I think it is because it is the time of rest and quiet. I find most people dread the short grey days and I would be afraid to express my true feeling about them because I would not be understood.

Monday Jan. 2" 1888. I had rather a sad letter from John McEntee. He says his wife seems dead to him and cannot think she will ever recover. Poor fellow, I feel a sincere pity for him. He is resting at home and trying I think to get used to his new and sad condition - Calvert has been appointed Landscape Architect on the Park again with a salary of $3000. I am always afraid these things are not permanent. It is cold again. Mrs. Weeks has sent me a ticket to the Opera tomorrow night to join her in her box. This is new business to me and I dont understand the ropes but I have accepted. I found this little poem among some of my fathers papers in his desk some time ago
[[newspaper clipping]]
BEST OF ALL.

The world has very little it can give
To make us happy; all its precious things——
What men call precious, and for which we live——
To a sad heart are worthless offerings.
For what are gems, and what is tawny gold——
And rarest spices from sweet India blooms——
And silken fabrics shimmering fold on fold,
The costliest products of the Eastern looms?
They cannot save the soul a single pain,
Or to the weary heart bring home again.

What is the flash of wit-the salon's glow?
The wine may flush, and leap, and sparkle up
From marble tables white as wintry snow,
And brim, blood-red, the gold-encrusted cup;
The air may languish, filled with perfume sweet——
Etruscan vases burn with roses red——
And velvet carpets, sinking 'neath the feet,
Give back no echo from the statliest tread;
But human hearts crave something more than this——
Splendor alone can never give us bliss.

Far more is praised a gentle, kindly touch——
The mute caress of fingers on the hair——
A low word spoken-ah, how very much
These little tokens do to lessen care!
It matters little if our home be bare
Of luxury, and what the world would call good,
If we have only one true spirit there
By whom our better selves are understood——
Where deepest heart-throbs swell for us alone——
With whom in thoughts and wishes we are one.
[[/newspaper clipping]]

Tuesday 3" Still cold. A messenger came to my room with a note from Mrs. Weeks for a seat and a box at the Opera yesterday. Have painted on some of my sketches but am far from contented or happy I went up to the Sherwood building and called on Geo. Hall. Some of his pictures looked very nicely to me. He is a very sensitive man and suffers for it. Collins has wounded him by some allusion to his dress at the club and so he stays away from there. I told him that ought not to keep him away and after talking with him a little he said he would come there. I went to the club in the evening, saw Collins, Perry & Horner. Horner says he 
has not painted much for a year and wont paint when he dont feel like it. From what he said he is like all the rest of us. Has no encouragement.

Wednesday 4" The weather continues cold. I went to the Opera of Faust this evening and met Mrs Weeks and her niece Miss Weeks who had just arrived. Presently a Mr & Mrs. Belknap came and later Mr. Coe. I had a pleasant evening in spite of my apprehensions and greatly enjoyed the opera with [[?]] Lehman as Marqant, [[?]] as Faust and [[blank]] as Mephistopheles.

Thursday 5" Cold still. Worked a little, but the time drags and I am full of unrest. I had a note from Booth in answer to mine of last Friday sending he his box for tomorrow night for Julius Caesar and telling me he could loan me the money he promised me a year ago but which he could not at the time, without interest but asking for security. After dinner I went around to the Club to acknowledge the note but all the writing desks were occupied there and so I came to my studio and wrote to him. I thanked him for the box and also for his offer to 

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