Many entries in the diary about this time prove that she was passing through that veritable “dark night of the soul” that has lain in the path of so many bright spirits of her generation. “I suppose it isn’t till the whole world—and oneself—breaks away under one that one does know what rubbish one is made of,—‘dust and ashes.... And what fine things I started with! Sir Launfal[45] and gilded armour, etc. To conquer all the giants and beam Christian charity everywhere. I believe old folks _do_ ‘know young folks to be fools.’ A nice result at near 28—Chaos!—with a possible sawbones in futuro!” Footnote 45: Some few intimate friends will recall the evenings, 30 or 40 years later, round the study fire at Windydene, when the white-haired woman would recite _Sir Launfal_ from beginning to end with a subdued enthusiasm that was more expressive than pages of commentary. “Jan. 21st. 1868. ‘Quid sum miser tunc dicturus’! Eight and twenty!—‘and a sinner!’” One must bear in mind always, of course, that a diary is apt to reflect the graver side of a character, the side that associates, and even friends, would scarcely guess at. Certainly the letters to “the dear old folks” bear small witness to this stress and strain. They recount all sorts of innocent adventures and happy doings which were quite as real— one is glad to believe—as the strong crying and tears of the night watches. “13 Pleasant Street, Boston, U.S. Monday, Jan. 27th. 68. DARLING MOTHER Such a sleigh ride as we had yesterday I hope you’ll never have,—and indeed I don’t care about repeating the dose myself! I drove the doctor eight or nine miles in a pelting snow-storm, partly across open country, long bridges and marshes, etc., the thermometer somewhere about 10° or 15°, a good deal of wind, which always makes it feel much colder, and the sharp crystals of snow cutting into our faces and eyes like so many pin points and causing actual pain. Towards the end I found it rather hard to see,—some white things seemed to get in front of my eyes;—what do you think they were? Solid icicles hanging from all my eye-lashes on the side exposed to the wind,—frozen together into three or four solid little balls as big as small peas, and partly freezing the lids together! When I got in I called Eliza to see them,—you should have heard her ‘Gracious goodness!’ Even sealskin gloves fail one in such stormy cold,—one’s hands freeze and have to be thawed out as regards sensation several times in a drive! So we carry hot bottles to do it with, and Dr. Sewall laughed at the figure I cut yesterday, driving with one hand, the other grasping a big two-quart bottle upright on my lap, and my head bent on one side like a lapwing’s to see out of the one eye that wasn’t frozen up!