Things do not grow better. ―

Rose at 6 & wrote 1857 journals. Breakfast. ― Letter from F.L. Italian news. ― Wrote & slept ― X4 ― till Lunch.

There is not much pleasure here ― & Mrs. H. is “far from” improved” ― by years, ― it seems to me. ― F.L. has not got the Oxford Professorship ― which annoys me horribly. ―― Oh dear! I wish I were away from here. [gr.].

Wrote mostly all day ― & at lunch, was down at Zéro. ―

Grew a little better, when, from 4 to 5, I walked with the Adml & Lucy to the village, & to an old 80 years woman. ― Afterwards I walked alone ― till heavy rain & storm drove me back. ― But all the recollections of this place, from J.S. ― & P.H. ― & S.H. & ever on & on ― drive me cold-dead-mad. ― I should think this the last time I ever come here.
Wishing to raise myself, this is not the way.

Dinner & evening ― when I sang as much as I could. ―

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