Cloudy. Rose at 4.30. Coffee & out to draw by 5.30. ― But all the mountains are clouded. ―

At 9 it rained & we returned. 10 to 11.30 wrote to Daddy Hunt, F.L. ― C.F. & T. Cooper. Fine again.

Dined at 12. Talk with 3 Englishmen. ―

At 3 went out with G. ― quite fine. Drew by the bridge, horrid Cretins & Monsters.

Towards 5 ― drew above the city, & so on till 7. Supped & talked with various. ― The bore of joining Swiss-English-travellers, is, that all speak of “Passes & Peaks” & noughtelse.

At 10 looked out of window: the gloom-world below ― the vast star-sown canopy above, & silence ― except the far river flow. ―

The constantest & fearfullest characteristic of my life now-a-days is that there is no time for thinking. Yet, at some moments, , the thoughts of a life return.

‘O where is some ……
‘O somewhere!’ ―――1

My last thought in life will be one of curiosity & intense expectation.

[Transcribed by Marco Graziosi from Houghton Library, Harvard University, MS Eng. 797.3.]

  1. O somewhere, meek unconscious dove,
    That sittest ranging golden hair;
    And glad to find thyself so fair,
    Poor child, that waitest for the love.
    Tennyson, In Memoriam, VI. [↩]