Monday, 30 November 1863

Colder ― foggier, ― drearier, ― darker.

Wrote all day ― but as many receipts had to be written, I only managed 22 of the letters asking for the tin.

Only Terrick Hamilton, kind old man ― 82 ― & bringing his 3..3.

Verily ― how much kindness there is! &, spite of my boorish crusty nature ― there must be much good in it to call forth such kindly feeling from so many ― & so different beings!

At 4 ― walked to the poor Crakes ― & to Fosters ― which last were in. Vague ― good folk.

Returned to dine alone: reading G. Sand’s Consuêlo ― & answering perpetual notes.

So ends November.

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


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Filed under 1863, Diary Entry

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