It is now one week that we have had very bad weather all the time. The rain of today was again mingled with snow and the whole appeared cheerless enough. I read some Italian and went to the Office, from thence to the Athenaeum where I lounged an hour out of the reach of Mrs. Armstrong. But my time was a good deal wasted. I also 283managed to accomplish a little more of Gibbon. What a dreary waste, the history of the middle ages. Religion mystified,1 morality forgotten, murder and robbery stalking over the earth, it seems as if all the elements of the social system had been separated and thrown aside. Nothing else material.

Afternoon, began reading Sismondi’s History of the French.2 I have some idea of writing something upon it. It takes up the same wretched period which I have just passed through in Gibbon.

Evening. Went to the Theatre and heard Mr. Sinclair and Miss Hughes in Cinderella.3 They jointly make a pretty interesting entertainment. But the latter is not nearly equal in point of power to Mrs. Austin. She has a voice of a lower tone but does not seem to sing with so much ease to herself. He seems to have no middle key in his voice. He runs from a low one directly into a high one without being able to command any variety of tones. Yet his training is pleasant. I accompanied Mrs. Frothingham, her Children and my Wife. On the whole I was pleased. Returned rather late. Read only the Rambler.