A fine bright morning but with a high wind. I received news by the steamer from America in the papers, and for a wonder it was not bad. This is the first instance I think in a visit since my first to speaker Denison, that my mind has not been harassed so much as materially to alloy me enjoyment. I remind quietly at home until after luncheon. Among Mr Forster’s curious books I found an autobiography of Catherine the 2d, published surreptitiously in London a short time since by a man named Hersen. It is curious and bears internal marks of genuineness. It displays a picture of Russian Royal life in the East Century by no means attractive. Mr Forster went up to meet his Rifle Volunteers on the moor where they were to fire at a target. Mrs Forster drove me up to join them and witness the sport. It had clouded over before we reached the place, which was a high, dreary me enough. Yet the ground was full of water from the late rains. The firing was of two small divisions, at five, four and three hundred yards. And it seemed to me to arrange very well. Having remained until nearly dark Mrs Forster and I walked home, at least four miles. I ought to maintain that in the morning Mr Bruce and I paid a visit to Mr Forster’s Mill, where he makes assorted yarns and cloth. It is a nice establishment and now prosperous. He is careful of the hands, who look in good condition, if not particularly comely. A large part are females. It was a half holiday today, being the anniversary of what is called a feast, when all houses are open to families—something like our Thanksgiving in a small village. We had a new person to dinner. Mr Temple, an Inspector of schools, who is on a round of duty in the neighborhood. He was pleasant, and quite an addition to the party.