“Read—rode—fired pistols—returned—dined—wrote—visited—heard music—talked nonsense—and went home.
“Wrote part of a Tragedy—advance in Act 1st with ‘all deliberate speed.’ Bought a blanket. The weather is still muggy as a London May—mist, mizzle, the air replete with Scotticisms, which, though fine in the descriptions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome in real, prosaic perspective. Politics still mysterious.
