There is a good portrait by Hunt. Mr. Appleton called it
'big art,' which took my fancy, it being so refreshing after hearing
so much said about 'high art.' There is a portrait of Hunt by himself,
which has a line about the brow that is Michelangelic; 'the bars of
Michelangelo.' A head of Fremont was handsome, but showing a man
incapable of large combinations. He looks eagle-like and loyal and
brilliant, but not wise. We felt quite glorious with the war news, and
were surprised to see so few flags flying. To breakfast we had Mr.
Dysie. It was pleasant to hear his English brogue--a slight excess of
Henry Bright's Lancashire accent. To tea we had Mr. and Mrs. Bartol,
and Mr. Fields was so infinitely witty that we all died at the
tea-table. Mr. Bartol, in gasps, assured him that he had contrived a
way to save the food by keeping us in convulsions during the ceremony
of eating, and killing us off at the end. Annie had on a scarlet
coronet that made her look enchanting, and Mr. Fields declared she was
Moses in the burning bush. Oh, do delay the acacia blossoms till I
come! Give a sky full of love to Una and Julian."
My father also tasted the piquant flavors of merriment and luxury in
this exquisite domicile of Heart's-Ease and Mrs. Meadows.
And at The Wayside, too, we had delightful pleasures, in the teeth and
front of simplicity and seclusion, sandy flower-borders, rioting
weeds, and intense heats. Concord itself could gleam occasionally,
even outside of its perfect Junes and Octobers, as we can see here in
the merry geniality of Louisa Alcott, who no more failed to make
people laugh than she failed to live one of the bravest and best of
lives.
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