a long, long ride home, during which I fell dead asleep
repeatedly, being woke up by the jerkings of the wagon. One
pause, at a tavern, where we had some beer. Got back by
10 or so, dead-tired, and immediately to bed.
7. Thursday. Scribbling during the morning, part of the
afternoon and most of the evening.
8. Friday. Ditto yesterday. Copying M. S. story, wri-
ting to my mother, Charley and Heylyn.
9. Saturday. Walked to Paris with George Bolton. A fresh
pleasant day, clouding over a little on our return. Saw Peter
Gardiner and afterwards John Tew.
10. Sunday. A stroll with John Conworth and George Bol-
ton, dropping in on Martins.
11. Monday. In-doors. Haven�t been at all well since
fishing party, or just before it. (Diarrhea.) The Conworth
family are as follows. First, the head of it, an old gentle-
man approaching eighty. He is spare in figure, rather above
the midde heighth and white-haired, his countenance being
very (English) country-looking. He has lived one of the nar-
rowest and simplest of lives, principally in midland England,
Warwickshire, Northampton and Oxon � once or twice visiting
London. Principally �in situations,� he has made but one start
for independence, when, years ago, he and a brother commenced
as dealers in cloth, or something of the sort, to make a failure
of it. This was principally owing to the dishonesty of an indi-
vidual who absconded to Canada, whither the brother pursued
him, with what result I know not, excepting the important
one, in the history of the Conworth family, that he brought
land and settled, subsequently bequeathing his farm to his