10 December, in the year of our Lord 2021
These last days very stormy. Up, but all morning thinking of some new business, that hath been upon my mind for a little time. For last week met with friends not seen these two years, which I worked with, and walked awhile together along the coast, purposing three or four hours of it, all merry and picnicks in our knapsacks, expecting to sit for dinner late, upon some rocks amongst some ruins. Only at a quarter to eleven a’clock, which I think it was, we stopped at a pantry for what I thought was merely coffee, but all the people in our party ordering minced pies, and some Eckles cakes, and some even two sandwichs of bacon, which I could not believe for we had only been going twenty minutes. But there offered itself up a chance to sit in discourse with Dr. J. Edwards, a great friend, he mightily extolling of the studies he took after his payed work finished, which were in Musique, and I have began to form in my mind a notion to do the same, and today write a letter to a fine Musicien of my aquaintence to inquire if he might concur with me in the thought of doing it.
After supper, the Messenger from Mr. M. Jones, mightily troubled that he hath been the casualty of an unpleasant altercacion — viz.: that returning home after walking with his Poudle he found the great sow now in his garden, up above him on a bank beside his kitchen wall, but his effort to shoe it away proved unwise, for it found itself with no escape route other than to knock him off his feet and trample him to freedom. Bruised and sore of shoulder, he hath remonstrated with the owner, saying to him that he presumes his Insurance will protect him should serious injury arise, at which went the owner very quiet, for it was clear that the man is a fool no more capable of organising provision of this kind than of confyning his pigs to a field.
And so to bed.