A windy cold day. I went to the Office, after my usual reading. But I did not remain there being called in various directions by occupations. Went to find my Carpenter and made a settlement with him of 116his last years account which has been most improperly delayed. A man by name J. H. Winkley from Quincy called for the purpose of inquiring about a certain stone Quarry which my father is in possession of there; his object to purchase or to hire either by paying interest either upon an agreed valuation of the Quarry, or what is called Bankage, i.e. a certain Sum upon each ton of Stone carried away. I told him I would write for an answer which I immediately did and sent it this morning without copying the letter.1 I was hurried. In the mean time my Essay languishes.

Short walk. Home. Wilhelm Meister which I have nearly done. In the Afternoon Mr. Thiers whose History is a Radical, Jacobin affair, modestly so. I went to the Theatre. Sheridan’s Opera of the Duenna. Carlos, Mrs. Maeder,2 Louisa, Miss Cushman, Clara Miss Watson, but the male part so poorly cast that half the music must be omitted and a parcel of modern airs substituted that have no sort of connexion with the Play. Miss Cushman did not acquit herself nearly so well as on Wednesday. Her singing was not true, and her notes rarely articulated with distinctness and fullness.3 Miss Watson disappointed me in her style.4 She scarcely ranks so high as Miss Hughes. A pretty little ballad foisted in without sense or reason beginning “On the margin of fair Zurich’s waters” was on the whole the most effective thing of the evening, and I retired very greatly disappointed at the first representation I have attended of the Duenna.