Same astonishing weather. The sea all day long I s profound sapphire blue, & the same bright.
I, ὅμως,work on, mole-like, in the little room back. No letters; but the missing mewspaper.
Adml. Henry Murray is dead. A loss to many. Kind-hearted Henry Murray! ― In 1849 ― in days of Cairo ―― & since.
At 1 ― Mrs. Saltmarshe called: she goes to Rome, with [Posidoni] ― on Tuesday. Poor lady ― she was sad ― &, telling me of the last Rawson’s deaths, (Louisa R.’s Father-in-law & uncle,) ― she nearly cried. “Changed indeed is everything: sometimes I hardly think I am the same person, knowing & loving so many then ― now so few.” ―
“So fares it still in our decay.”
Concluded the 3rd process of the 160 tyrants, today, besides having coloured a good many of the Corniche drawings. At 5.30 walked out, irritated & depressed ― for that Promenade is too odious, to Mrs. Smith-Barry’s. Lo! ― she went χθὲς! ―― ――
Dined at 6.45. G., who will clean up all the kitchen ― tired.
Penned out till 10. Only 7 drawings are now left to pen.
 Thus fares it still with our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what Time takes away,
Than what it leaves behind.
(Wordsworth, “The Fountain: A Conversation”).
[Transcribed by Marco Graziosi from Houghton Library, Harvard University, MS Eng. 797.3. Image.]