The Cold seemed to be coming on again today. I was in hopes it was going away permanently. Occupied nearly all the morning in trifles so that I gave only a short time to Gibbon. I must plead guilty to half an hour of pure indolence. A thing by the way I feel to be growing upon me. I have not the energy to shake it off entirely. I took a long walk after it reflecting upon vanity and vexation of spirit.

In the afternoon I felt so disgusted with Quinctilian that I laid him aside and returned to the Oration in defence of Cluentius which is admirable. The Narration is a peculiarly brilliant part of this effort. It has all the merit of terseness, vigour and elegance which ought to belong to it. I find however that my previous reading was pretty thorough.

Evening, the family of the Brooks’ came to pass the usual time with us. There is not much cultivation among them. I must say for this that I have not fallen exactly into a connection of like taste with my own in this regard. But they are on the whole educated and though not so agreeable as a man might form persons in his fancy, yet more so than you generally find them in life. They went at ten. I did not read any of the Odyssey. The rest as usual.