Monday.
July 8, 1845.
Well — I have really been out; and am really alive after it — which is more surprising still — alive enough I mean, to write even so, to-night. But perhaps I say so with more emphasis, to console myself for failing in my great ambition of getting into the Park and of reaching Mr. Kenyon’s door just to leave a card there vaingloriously, . . . all which I did fail in, and was forced to turn back from the gates of Devonshire Place. The next time it will be better perhaps — Continue reading “#58”