A hard Southerly rain. I went to the Office and found my fire out and things looking dull enough. I remained a short time for the purpose of writing my Diary and drew off a Quarterly account in anticipation of the close of the month, then adjourned to the Athenaeum where I looked over several of the periodicals. The English Reviews appear to me to have degenerated. I have grown more fastidious perhaps and cannot rest satisfied with the writing which is merely good. Indeed all things interest me less than they did. There is a vacuity of mind and a vacuity of purpose taking possession of me which I am sensible of but cannot resist. To inquire how this has arisen is hardly worth while. Even if I knew some of the reasons I ought not to detail them.

Home. Livy. Afternoon, reading a little book by Tailor upon the practical duties of a Statesman.1 Very useful advice and deserving of deep reflection. But I cannot omit noticing his remark that no man distinguishes himself as a Speaker who does not enter a deliberative body before thirty. Swift and a little German. Evening at Mr. Frothingham’s where was a musical party, somewhat mixed but I thought not disagreeably so. But it was dull to me as almost every thing is. Home.