Morning clear and mild as the middle of Spring. I went to the Office and busied myself as much as possible with my few Law affairs and my Accounts. My Journal being transferred to my Office takes off a considerable part of my available time. I wrote and tried to read a little of Williston but Richardson came in and sat for half an hour, and I went down to see Degrand about my Stocks for another half. He does not succeed in making a disposition of them. I regret this for I had hoped to have done well in that business.

My afternoon was taken up in copying my Letter to my Father and again attempting an Article upon Eloquence. The result does not satisfy me. I wish it would. My feelings impel me strongly to write, but nothing that comes from my pen comes near the idea I have formed of excellence. It is all tame, languid and dull. Under these circumstances I begin to doubt whether I shall ever succeed in this line of pursuits. The patience is not in me to study that excellence which is necessary to distinction. I grasp too high at once, my hold is not firm, and I find I have caught at a slender twig which will not support my weight. The evening was spent in continuing Clarissa Harlowe to Abby, and afterwards, continuing my writing.