Morning clear and pleasant, but it afterwards clouded. I went to the Office. My present uneasiness is great about my daughter Louisa who seems to be subject to severe turns of a complaint the nature of which I do not know, but which takes the intermittent shape. She has always been the subject of much anxiety to us which increases rather than diminishes.

Mr. Walsh came in and talked—After which I read a little of Rousseau and wrote Diary. Called upon Mr. Brooks and showed him a letter I received today from Mr. Johnson which signifies neither one thing nor another.1 He advised me to go on with the investment of the rest. Walk, and home to read Livy.

Afternoon, Sismondi, whose Literature of the South of Europe I have taken up for the present. Some account of the Provençal poetry and that of the troubadour, which romance has invested in such faèry colours. Corneille, 3d Act of the Cid which is a noble play, and de la Motte Fouqué. Evening, Mr. Brooks took tea and afterwards my Wife went out with Mrs. Frothingham, so that I spent my time answering a letter of my Mothers.2 Swift’s Journal to Stella.