June 23. Weary, weary, too weary to listen patiently to the heavy Sabbath bells; far too weary to sit in the church and listen to loud words and loud singing. And my brain is too tired to let my heart feel the beauty of this quiet day. I only know that the balm and beauty of June are around me, without realizing it much. But rest will come soon, up among the mountains with friends who love noise and confusion as little as I do. I shall be at peace. A blessing will come to us, among the hills. July 4. Crackers all around the house at night. Fire-crackers, torpedoes, pistols, and bell-ringing, are enough to make one sick of one’s country, if this is the only way of showing one’s patriotism. I am sure, as I lay last night, nervously wide awake, with every shot startling and paining me as if it had really gone through my brain, I felt more belligerently disposed toward the young patriots than toward the Southern rebels! But if there is no other way of nursing an interest in free institutions among these juvenile republicans, there’s nothing to be done but to endure the “Fourth of July” once a year, for the general good. August 1. Yesterday I visited the residence of the late Hon. Daniel Webster, at Marshfield. There was much that was interesting to see in the great man’s home; I think the two things that pleased me most were the portraits of his mother, and his black cook, or housekeeper. The latter was a fine painting, the face so full of intelligence, gratitude, and all good feelings; and there was an evidence of the true sympathy and home comfort between master and servant, if it is well to use those words, in the picture itself, the care with which it was painted, as well as the speaking face. The other was simply an old-fashioned cut profile, in black outline, and underneath it the words, “My excellent mother--D. Webster.” Out of doors, the wonderful old elm was the greatest attraction, with its branches sweeping the ground, and making an arbor and a cathedral at once, before the threshold. Webster himself--but it is not well to call up anything but pleasant memories of the dead; and these do linger about the home he loved. What the nation thinks of him may be recorded elsewhere.