Our usually quiet habits have been so exceedingly disturbed of late that I confess I looked with great pleasure to the moment when we might get back to them again. I confess I am not made for a gay, dissipated life. I have tastes of home, which absence from it only makes more sensibly felt.

Went to the Office. Felt unwell and feverish all day. Received a letter from my Father1 inclosing the Conveyance made the other day in which I had made an important omission. Sat down immediately and drew up another which I sent off at once.2 A long walk with Mr. Peabody and then home. Afternoon, Cardinal de Retz of whom I finished the third volume. His escape from France was on the whole 57a surprising one—Though I should have supposed Mazarin would not have been sorry for it. My eyes and head pained me so much I was not diligent. These wens still continue to trouble me. Evening, Mrs. Trollope who is biting enough, but her book is after all a very small concern.