25 September 1865 – 1 October 1865

Old Mr. Rice's death-bed — asks to see me and takes leave of me — the feeble white face of a once strong man. The Reverend Mr. W. comes and, he gone, I return for a moment. ' Have you anything to say to me, Mr. Rice } ' — ' No.' A quiet silent man (employed in Portsmouth Harbour in youth — afterwards rope-spinner by trade), who has gone steadily and I believe honestly along his humble track in life. He is over threescore and ten, his old wife is gone before him, his family are grown up (three of his sons are masters of yachts, one keeps a tavern), almost all his bodily powers have ebbed away, tho' his mind seems unaltered. ' What should the Old Man do but die } ' He is entirely content it should be so, and has nothing to say about it.

Cross to Island. Mrs. Cameron on board, with heaps of photographs. To Farringford after 5 o'clock, come in at the tail of a ' drawing-room ' in honour of Queen Emma of the Sandwich Islands, to whom I am presented — middle sized or rather less, pleasant face, with black hair and dusky complexion. (Her grandfather an English or American sailor ?) Several parsons and parsonesses present. A few words with Tennyson, who asks me if I will come for a walk to-morrow. Drive with Lionel in ponychaise down to the shore, then good-bye, and walk away, lonely. Rasher at Inn. Out by moonlight, little bay, chalk cliffs, moonshine on the sea.