Another day of quiet, comparable idleness at home. I spent the evening in a discursive examination of the books in the library, many of which are ancient and curious. Among other things I found the original edition of Dr Garden’s Eikon Basilike, and of Milton’s reply, bound together. But I am sensible of the fact that however this taste might do for me thirty years ago, I have other obligations now—so I must apply myself to a more immediately practical object. Another long walk by Gunnersbury Park to another portion of Acton and back through Ealing. The evening come in early, and the thick weather which has held up so wonderfully now threatens sensibly. It is well that it does, for our well water gave out this day.