The Journal of a Disappointed Man

July 14. Have finished my essay. But am written out--obviously. To-night I struggled with another, and spent two hours sucking the end of my pen. But after painfully mountainous parturition, all I brought forth were the two ridiculous mice of one meretricious trope and one grammatical solecism. I can sometimes sit before a sheet of paper, pen in hand, unable to produce a word. July 19. For a walk with R---- in the country, calling for tea at his Uncle's house at ----. Played clock golf and made the acquaintance of Miss ----, a tall, statuesque lady, with golden hair, as graceful as an antelope and very comely, her two dear little feet clad in white shoes peeping out (as R---- said) like two white mice one after the other as she moved across the lawn. Coming home I said to R---- histrionically, "Some golden-haired little boy will some day rest his head upon her bosom, beautiful in line and depth, all unconscious of his luck or of his part in a beautiful picture--would that I were the father to make that group a fait accompli." R----, with meticulous accuracy, always refers to her as "that elegant virgin." July 25. While sketching under Hammersmith Bridge yesterday, R---- heard a whistle, and, looking up, saw a charming "young thing" leaning over the Bridge parapet smiling like the blessed Damozel out of Heaven. "Come down," he cried. She did, and they discussed pictures while he painted. Later he walked with her to the Broadway, saw her into a 'bus and said "Good-bye," without so much as an exchange of names.