Gray ― cold ― fine. Rose at 6. “Packed.” ― walk in Park till 8.
Breakfast, addio to the kindly Fairbairns. Pony Chaise to Petworth ― rail to Horsham. Mr. Dickens & his son Compton. It is very vexatious that I never could feel decently interested in any Compton or Dickens. He is a kindly & good man, but his conversation is so fizzy bubbly. ―― At the station, I took a wrong trunk ― wh. I discovered at Stratford Pl.: ― but I sent Thomas after it & regained it. ― So here ends another batch of visits.
After packing, unpacking, arranging, looking at drawings, &c. ― I fell asleep.
Later ― selected drawings. W.N. came: ― very sadly loud & strange. I really fear at times about his head. ―
Col. Dawkins afterwards.
I walked at 6. to 45. St. James’ Pl. ― & saw Russ who seemed inflated & more than usually absurd.
To Martin’s & Bickers & back.
The blue posts too full. So I dined at home on cold beef, & read Palmyra letters.
Those 2 children, Conny & Arty, ― twinge my memories. They are so wonderfully loveable & interesting that one could not stay long with them & not grieve at parting from them.
 William Ware’s Letters from Palmyra (1836), reprinted in several editions as Zenobia, or, the Fall of Palmyra.
[Transcribed by Marco Graziosi from Houghton Library, Harvard University, MS Eng. 797.3.]