Moist weather. At home, dine at the Mansion and evening.

I suffered during the night and all of this day with the affection of my teeth, so that I was not able to enjoy much of any thing. Occupied in finishing the new draught of remarks upon Hamilton’s Pamphlet, and afterwards in reading the Diplomatic Correspondence of the Revolution from which I do not gather much. Texier and finish Lessing’s remarks upon Fable. I shall not read more of him at present. This German acuteness is dreadfully fatiguing. Began Meissner’s Alcibiades, a sort of historical romance.1

After dining at my father’s, I read of Tacitus to the 41st section of the fourth book. What a marvellous account of the vices and crimes of a wicked generation. But is our’s any better? Evening, depressed by pain and glad to go to bed.