One of the most charming days for temperature that I have known in England. As there was no particular call to London I did not go, but rather amused myself with desultory reading. Finished the Widow of Walting Street, and gathered enough from the Yorkshire Tragedy, the fall of Thomas Cromwell and the other pieces to satisfy me of their character. How different were the best from the style of the great dramatist. Though in what is attributed to him as genuine, it cannot be denied that there is much dross. I never could believe in Pericles or in Titus Andromicus. After luncheon, another walk, following down of the many shady lanes in the neighborhood one of the nearest. After a long circuit through many gates, it brought me again out at Acton, but not more than a mile from home. Then I crossed the common to Ealing, and there followed another path which carried the far out to the westward. This was not however nearly so picturesque, as the road, about this place of Hanger Hill. Mr Russell Sturgis came out to dinner and spent the night. Mr Kuhn went off to Paris.