Mr. Hosmer
began with the Great Daniel [Webster], who died at three o'clock this
morning. He expressed admiration of him, as we all did; and I thought
his death an immense loss. Mr. Hosmer was very glad that he died in
the fullness of his power of mind, and not sunken in the socket. He
discoursed upon the massive grandeur of his speeches, his wonderful
letters, and of all that was mighty in him. Also of his shortcomings
and their retribution. You would have liked to have heard Mr. Hosmer
glorify John Adams--even his appearance. He said that at eighty-three
(when he sat near him every Sunday at church) he was a "perfect
beauty;" that his cheeks were as unwrinkled as a girl's, and as fair
and white, and his head was a noble crown; and that any woman would
fall in love with him. So we talked of great men, till I came in to
watch baby's sleep. She soon waked, all smiles and love; and then Mr.
Hawthorne and Mr. Hosmer came in, still upon the theme of great men.
Mr. Hosmer thought Oliver Cromwell greatest of all, I believe. Una and
I made you a wreath of richly tinted oak leaves to-day, and when I go
to Newton I will take it. I wish you could hear her repeat poetry in
her dulcet, touching tones. I never heard any one repeat poetry so
much to my mind.
Evening. Mr. Hawthorne is drawn forcibly out of doors by the moon's
rays, they are so clear and superb to-night. He looked out and sighed,
for he did not really want to go; but he felt under a moral necessity.
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