Pretty much fatigued, after all the business of the week. Charles and Tom came from Cambridge this afternoon: my 267Cousin, went to Boston in the morning, and return'd with his father at night.

Staid at home from meeting the whole day, and was busily employ'd in writing; and yet have not been able to get letters ready to sail by Captain Folgier, who proposes sailing very soon for London.

Beale paid us a visit this forenoon, and dined with us all at Mr. Apthorp's: where we likewise past the afternoon. There is a degree of singularity, running through all this family: I never feel myself under so much restraint any where as in that house: Mr. Apthorp, is disgusting by his eternal admiration of every thing that is english. His lady is agreeable; but perhaps too pointedly civil and polite, to make company perfectly easy: Betsey is sensible and amiable; but extremely diffident and remarkably silent. I know not why, but I believe I never could be sociable with her: Charlotte is more talkative, and at first view more pleasing: but she is affected and fantastical, and in her manners amazingly stiff, and unpliant. In short they are different from the rest of the world and as such I must always view them.

George Blake was over here this afternoon.

Went out in the morning with young Quincy,1 and My brother Tom, on a shooting party: we went down on the marshes and had very good sport.

Lost the afternoon in idleness: Charles went over to Weymouth.

Was all the forenoon again on the marshes, with my cousin and my brother Tom: Charles set out this morning for Haverhill. I wrote but little this day, and lost all the afternoon.

Rainy and foggy weather.