A beautiful morning. Instead of any appearance of this month, I should suppose it was hardly more than October. At the office, I read a little of Lingard but was out most of my time. Went to the Athenaeum where I looked over the Newspapers and an article in the Edinburgh Review which I found pretty tedious. On the whole, my time was wasted. Mr. Tenney, my Tenant called in to pay his rent. He looks 417emaciated, says he believes he has had the Cholera. Came to talk about the renewal of a Lease of his House. Postponed it until May next.

I took my usual walk, and my spirits felt bright and lively —The action of the fine day being altogether invigorating. I felt as if it was to be a lucky day to me without my knowing or being able to assign any cause therefor. It passed off without my being sensible of it’s having proved so. The feeling however was a buoyant one. And as I do not feel particularly anxious about my luck or rather what I would call in my graver moments by a more serious name, I was thankful for the momentary elasticity which it occasioned, without looking any farther.

Afternoon. Began upon Anti Masonry No. 8, but was stopped by want of information. The whole of the time was taken up in digesting materials. Evening, quiet as usual. Malvina and the Life of Flaxman. Afterwards, finished the Fables of Lessing in the German Reader.