Such are the innocent days of this ancient and outworn
sportsman; to-day there was no weeding, usually there is
however, edge in somewhere. My books for the moment are a
crib to Phaedo, and the second book of Montaigne; and a
little while back I was reading Frederic Harrison, 'Choice of
Books,' etc. - very good indeed, a great deal of sense and
knowledge in the volume, and some very true stuff, CONTRA
Carlyle, about the eighteenth century. A hideous idea came
over me that perhaps Harrison is now getting OLD. Perhaps
you are. Perhaps I am. Oh, this infidelity must be stared
firmly down. I am about twenty-three - say twenty-eight; you
about thirty, or, by'r lady, thirty-four; and as Harrison
belongs to the same generation, there is no good bothering
about him.

Here has just been a fine alert; I gave my wife a dose of
chlorodyne. 'Something wrong,' says she. 'Nonsense,' said
I. 'Embrocation,' said she. I smelt it, and - it smelt very
funny. 'I think it's just gone bad, and to-morrow will
tell.' Proved to be so.


WEDNESDAY.


HISTORY OF TUESDAY. - Woke at usual time, very little work,
for I was tired, and had a job for the evening - to write
parts for a new instrument, a violin. Lunch, chat, and up to
my place to practise; but there was no practising for me - my