Cold and cloudy day with occasional rain. I went to town it being the last day allowed for preparation and arrangement. Time taken up at the house and in giving directions. Found all the furniture taking its old and accustomed places and began at once to feel pretty comfortable. Nothing is more disagreeable than making these changes in a domestic establishment. I mean in a small way. They create a want of a thousand things around one that have got out of the way by want of use. And they generally with us imply a new household which is among the most annoying of things.

Politics with Mr. Peabody. Prospects not very bright. Returned to Quincy to dine. Eliz. C. Adams spending the day. My mother was unwell in her own room for the first time today. I suppose anxiety as much as any thing — The prospect of going away. I expected Mr. Greenleaf, but he did not come. Amused myself by reading Marmontel’s Nouveaux Contes Moraux.1 Some of them are very good. What if I tried to translate?