Morning extremely cold—Almost enough to take one’s breath away. I went to the Office as usual. Read more of Lingard and as I find it extremely doubtful when I shall be enabled to go to Quincy, I concluded to send her Money to Elizabeth today.1 These things always weigh upon my mind until they are over.

Took a walk as usual although my fingers were much nipped by the weather. Afternoon, enjoyed mine ease in mine inn—The first great portion of one of my tasks being completed and the other being ready for perusal and amendment. Finished the Philippic of Cicero, a powerful performance the biting severity of which was too much for the patience of Antony. Death was the only reply which he was capable of making. Brute force was to be used when mind could no longer cope with mind. That is the usual way. Read more of Anquetil, who goes over the horrible story of St. Barthelemy. Yet Lingard attempts to soften this Story and says as little as he can of the course taken by the Pope upon it. Evening quiet at home. Read a little of Caroline de Litchfield,2 and more of the Margravince. Afterwards, German.