Morning cloudy, damp and cold. Went to the Office as usual, and busied myself about my father’s Accounts, preparing them for him in 251case he asked for them. On the whole they are in as good a condition as I could expect, leaving a balance of seven hundred dollars for him after paying the demands for repairs and the usual very heavy charges upon the income. Whitney’s affair is settled, though not without a great sacrifice. I can only content myself with the idea, that nothing has been lost through my Agency. I immediately transferred to my father’s Credit, a Sum sufficient to make up one thousand dollars on his book to begin with. He has arrears at Quincy sufficient to make up half as much more, besides the income of the shortly expiring Quarter.1

Read Mitford and felt as usual. It is a sin for a man to sit down to write a history if he feels in his bosom one iota of inclination to a prejudice against particular systems, for if he does, his work will surely taste of it. Heard in the Streets of my father’s having started, and being in Baltimore and Philadelphia.2 But decided not to go out to Quincy today. In the afternoon I began the second volume of Prior’s Life of Burke and followed it up as fast as I had done the other. With many egregious faults of carelessness, it has some good points. But the subject of the work is the fascination to me. I have read all his works that I could find and wish I could get more. Evening, Eustace to my Wife, which we have nearly finished and I am not sorry—After which I continued Prior with unabated interest. Every study has given way to it.