A considerable part of my Morning was consumed at Market. And for the season of Thanksgiving I do not think that the display I saw today was very great. For some years past I have thought it advisable to go down and see the sport, but have never before been much in the humour of buying. Today I got quite into the spirit of it.

Returned to my Office and was busy as I generally am. Finished the Life of Sheridan which is a miserable concern in its close. I don’t mean Mr. Moore’s book. It has affected me a good deal. Mr. John Angier called about J. Q. Adams Jr. and I had a conversation with him in which I spoke freely about the prospects of his Wife’s family. This took so much time that I went home directly.

Afternoon spent partially in reading Cicero and partly in some little occupations to guard against the cold which is now coming upon us. Quiet evening at home. I read to my Wife a little of the Bible and to myself the Review of Mr. Moore’s book in the Quarterly, which is bitter enough. But there is some ground for it.1 I afterwards sat down and wrote half a letter to my Father in answer to his. And closed the day with the Spectator.