Sunday, Nov 12, 1882 This has been one of the longing days in which having no special interest for the day, I have been thrown back into the past and have felt myself giving way to a slight melancholy and a sense of looking for something, I hardly know what; perhaps of companionship, or work to occupy the attention, for I have not been able to read. I walked over to the cemetery directly after breakfast. The morning was grey but mild. A few flowers were still feebly blooming on my dear Gertrudes grave but most of them had been withered by the frost. I have had many a tender thought of her today and many a heart sick longing for her dear presence for all things have recalled her vividly. Sara and I arranged some of the flowers I got the other day in vases and their sweet odor recalled her and the Kaatskill days and so much that has ended. Before I returned from my walk I went out to the "View" and saw the beginning of the staging for the great bridge. Coming back I gathered a dozen Dandelion blossoms, the very first and the last flowers of the season. Then I wrote to Booth from whom I got a letter yesterday. Maurice went to work on the Courier again this evening. My father is not well and seems to offer no resistance to his indisposition. I cut from the Tribune an article from the London Spectator called "Art and Life" which expresses much of what I have felt concerning our Modern Art, its skill and its unworthy aims. Many of the artists are men I cannot feel drawn to and in going back to New York I do not look forward as I once did, with pleasure to the society of my artist friends, with a few exceptions. It makes me sad to feel myself gradually withdrawing from Artists, but I am not in sympathy with many of them and they displease me. It is better to be alone than to be with them.