Wednesday. 30th July. 1851.

Clouded sky; and pleasant.
I felt quite cool last night, my
feet, almost cold. Took a ramble with Remsen through the
fields; felt comfortable after exercise.
Finished a pair of under sleeves.
Julia is tired from the exertion of yesterday. Sits and reads
Henry does not exert himself enough, shuts himself up in the
parlour, instead of exercising in the open air. He is deficient
in energy of purpose, and has injured himself by allowing his
mind, and body to become unfit for any industry or fixed
employment. Too much repose is an evil, but he is so
wedded to this still life, that I fear to urge him to any serious reform.
Perhaps it is too late now.