[Manchester—Sunday, 19 August 1866]
Sunday morning opened cloudy and rather warm. Walked on the beach before breakfast; the ocean was like a dead opal.
We saw yesterday at Miss Howes one of Miss Lissie Green’s pictures—a branch of chestnut in bloom—truly a beautiful thing. I forgot to mention that before starting yesterday we read Mr Hawthorne’s journal in Lenox of 20 days when he was left alone with Julian and Bunny. The style is perfect, as usual, and the latter half possesses the vividness of strong likeness such as only a true artist can give.
Passed a portion of the morning on the rocks overhanging the sea. Grey and still and warm. Jamie read 3 of Wordsworth’s shorter poems—one the little Celandine. I always feel more impressed with Wordsworth after every reading and today the calm and beauty of these minor poems, the self-poise pervading them, the purity of constancy as well as sentiment gave me new cause for admiration.
This damp weather induces trifling indisposition in some of our family. Miss Mary has been quite ill with cold and several members have had twinges from the same cause. A strange contrast to the dry heat of last year.
Towards night a low rumble of thunder was heard in the west—rain followed which hardly ceased all night—read the life of Hans C. Andersen with real pleasure—he is full of true suggestion—poetic suggestion. The mild low weather inclines one to sit and read and we have both enjoyed it to the full.
