24th September 1824

Tryd to walk out & coud not have read nothing this week my mind almost overweights me with its upbraidings & miseries my childern very ill night & morning with a fever makes me disconsolate & yet how happy must be the death of a child it bears its suffering with an innocent patience that maketh man ashamd & with it the future is nothing but returning to sleep with the thoughts no doubt of waking to be with its playthings again