Cooler but a clear, fine air better than that of the two last days. I went to the Office and passed my time partly in my usual avocations and partly in reading Mr. A. H. Everett’s Europe which he has lately presented to me.1 An old story by this time, but one which contains speculations of much value.

Received a letter from my Mother2 acknowledging the receipt of mine and mentioning my father’s state of health as quite alarming. And yet the letter is the most cheerful I have received this winter. 382I am therefore doubtful what to think about the matter. My mother like all women often deals in superlatives which she does not feel. I hope that is the case now.

Walk. Home, read Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi and Ariosto. I must go back to the Manuscripts which I am shamefully neglecting. Fouqué. Evening quietly at home, reading Madame Junot, the last chapter of which we have reached. I afterwards read several of Swift’s Pamphlets, but the views I have taken of politics are so much clouded that I am beginning to lose all my zest for them. What a penny halfpenny business it has got to be.