[Manchester—Wednesday, 8 August 1866]
Wednesday. Morning cool and breezy with a fore cast of autumn, afternoon hazy and warm. The boat came over in the sunset holding an unusual load and we strained our eyes to see who the load might be as they rounded the point moving slowly through the glassy water. Presently we discerned Mr & Mrs Howells. The evening was damp and we did not go out after a somewhat late tea but sat in the parlor hearing tales of Venitian life. Mr Howells lived in Venice 4 years and is deeply imbued with the spirit of the place. He has written a good book about it but I feel as if the work of his life would very probably be a history of Venice. Mrs H. is a pallid, wide-eyed little woman not without great sweetness and purity in her thin face which just escapes being what we call spiritual looking, but a kind of childishness which is a charm, at the same time that it suggests this world and the enjoyment of it rather than another. Mr Howells is a thorough student in appearance, not a poet exactly—so I think he is an historian by nature, but we shall see.
