The morning looked dark and threatening. Nevertheless I went to town. My time partly taken up in writing arrears of Diary, partly in a 377visit to the Athenaeum and partly in several little Commissions necessary but not pleasant. I went to Quincy in the midst of an Easterly rain at one o’clock and found the family dining. I felt a little unwell without knowing precisely wherein—A sort of indefinite uneasiness which is not pain and yet prevents the sense of health.

Afternoon quietly passed in reading a new book called the Doctor written anonymously but supposed to be by Southey.1 It is rambling but quite amusing, a sort of receptacle of old quotations and loose ideas which cannot find their place in other writings. Now and then there is a sound reflection but the weaving makes up a great proportion of the whole. Read Ovid as usual. Evening, we sat down to Whist, four of us and played two rubbers, after which I spent another hour in reading.