(Sullivan was the great-grandson of Revolutionary War General John Sullivan, whose reputation was impugned by Henry Cabot Lodge in his Revolutionary War history. Ironically, the General's great-grandson, a schoolmaster turned respectable society diletante, had been one of Lodge's tutors in the 1850s)
b. Nov. 21, 1849 d. June 28, 1916. Wrote "The Courage of Conviction" 1902, "Boston New and Old" 1912.
December 26. Bitterly cold Christmas weather which always puts me into the best of spirits. H.C. Lodge called. He is here about the vacant United States Senatorship, to which he seems more than likely to be elected. So may it be! We dined together at his mother's, then went to a new play by Pinero -- "May-fair." It is really a translation of an old Sardou comedic, -- "Maison Neuve"; interesting, and fairly well performed. After this, we went round to the Union Club, and talked of "Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses" over a hot fire, cigars, and brandy and soda, until 2 A.M.
December 31. Finished to-day the Thackeray paper. So ends "the failing record of the dying year," to quote from that masterpiece of contemporaneous dramatic literature, "The Black Crook." Although I have turned off a fair amount of work in it, old '92 does not close for me in a very enlivening way. My second volume of short stories is done, and will, I hope, appear bound up next June. My long novel is out of the way, still in Alden's hands. But the little glow I felt at the end has passed, and of its future and the verdict upon its future, I have grave doubts. Financially, my life is one from hand to mouth. I save nothing, and work body and soul to keep out of debt -- a woeful struggle! Always there is the fear of being forced to bury myself in the wilderness, and live on oatmeal there alone. This and other things make a mournful background, while I cut capers and laugh, wholly at ease in the eyes of the world; compelled to say nothing when a New York acquaintance writes me that I am "a prince and enfant gate of Fortune," as one did the other day. Well, I am determined not to complain. Let the big years do their worst, and we shall see how I can bear what they bring! About this journal, I don't know. Sometimes it seems to me an affected conceit, mere posing. The pose is never very high and mighty, and the whole thing is slight, superficial. I have not learned the trick of the depths. Yet, perhaps, some descendant (alas! not of me) may find, long hence, his moments of amusements in it. If so, my time and trouble in writing here will be well repaid. Addio, 1892!