Pleasant morning. I rode to Quincy. Found things much in the same State, but as there was nothing to be done, I felt my time heavy upon my hands. There is a sort of cheerlessness about the lonely appearance 304of an uninhabited Country house before vegetation bursts forth that discourages. And this old house without the large family which I have always seen in it, strikes me as peculiarly dismal. I have no schemes for it’s improvement this year. No objects because I know not when we shall occupy it. The politics of the Country are as unsettled as ever.
Returned to town to dinner and as Abby had gone to Medford with her father, I dined at Mr. Frothingham’s—Sociably and pleasantly enough. Home. Continued Beechy’s narrative of his Voyage. His literary talent is not so good as that of Parry or Franklin.1 My wife returned late. Quiet evening at home.