Fine day. Distribution as usual. Evening, T. B. Frothingham.
After my usual market visit I went to the Office and was occupied there as customary in Accounts and conference with Deacon Spear upon sundry matters. Nothing remarkable. To the Athenaeum to return a book, home rather late. Began the Trachinians of Sophocles. Nothing new.
My pain which in the morning was acutely distressing continued all day in such a way as to alarm me a little, so unused am I to be sick. Yet I pursued Sharon Turner and copying. Evening, T. B. Frothingham came up and we played whist. Bed early.