12 October 1868 – 18 October 1868

Dissatisfied : life slips by — to what purpose ^ Lindley on plants. Walk to Keyhaven by marsh.

To Freshwater. Miss Thackeray at St. John's Cottage, with Marjorie and Annie, and maid Justine. Guests — Frederick Walker, the artist, small, compact, jockey-like figure, large bluish eyes, short but thick brown hair combed down over his fore- head ; his small hand gives you a sinewy grip. Miss Emma Irving, Captain Irving from India. We have games with the children — fishing for mermaids with gingerbread, etc. Call at Terrace and find there Mrs. Ritchie and three daughters. To Mrs. Cameron's where we all dine (though the poor woman has a bad cold and her husband and Ewan are in bed) at two round tables put together. Ladies go. Men talk of billiards, Sayers and Heenan, etc. Professor Owen's true ghost story of the nigger's head falling out of a medical student's bag, hopping down a steep street (in Lan- caster .''), and bumping against the door of a man who had been a slave-dealer, and who, seeing it, was near frightened to death. Story of parish clerk who in parson's absence essayed to console a dying parishioner. * He was a bad chap, your Reverence.' * And what did you say to comfort him ? ' — ' I told him he was sure to go to Hell, and that he ought to be thankful to have a Hell to go to.'

Saw little Alamayu in the road; tv/o of the De Havilland children came up, whom he kissed, and then came the snuffy old Postman with his bag, and the little Prince kissed him too — partly, perhaps, as an important functionary who often bears tidings of interest. Breakfast at Miss Thackeray's, enlivened by the children. Walker is going on with a little picture of a Girl watering flowers. Walk to Yarmouth and cross to Lymington ; back in the afternoon ; roughish sea and coldish on the coach. Myrtle Cottage. Dine at Miss Thackeray's ; the Miss Ritchies, F. Walker. Talk of George Eliot, etc. F. W. and I have cigarettes, and then to drawing-room, where I read aloud Shelley's Sonnet ' Being your Slave,' and Leigh Hunt's ' Abou Ben Adhem.' We fall to drawing pigs with our eyes shut and dawdle away time till 12 o'clock.

Freshwater. To breakfast at Miss Thackeray's. To Farringford. A. T. and 1 down the lane ; call at Miss T.'s, where they are at luncheon ; then at Mrs. Cameron's. He says, as we approach her house : ' Mrs. C. (using the initial, as he often does) is so gushing ! ' She presently justified this by saying fervently to T., while we spoke of F. Walker, ' His soul is at your feet ! ' Says T., ' I hope his soles are at his own feet.' We go to the shore with the Ritchies ; T. throws a stick into the sea for dog to fetch. Mem. — I doubt if holds poetry in any honour, or poets as such. I sought A. T. and worshipped him as the well-head of an enchanting river of song : charm of personality and surroundings came in addition, a fine setting to the priceless jewel of his genius. , I imagine, admires the poetry mainly because she admires and loves the man.