The morning was cloudy, and the day attended with rain and a cold Easterly wind. After some deliberation, I concluded not to go to 265Boston, a decision, I had no subsequent reason to regret, for I had a cold upon me which would have been made much worse by my visit without any outside coat to Boston. My father and I instead of it, went on vigorously with the Catalogue of his books, spending five or six hours in their arrangement, and in this way completed a great deal. He talks now of selling his Books, and so on. Every day astonishes me more at the change in his mind and feelings. The dejection is surprising, and the total indisposition to all the kinds of occupation which amused and interested him last year. He was so fatigued by his morning’s work, that we did not resume it in the afternoon, and instead of it, I read a large part of Sheridan’s Art of Speaking or Reading.1 A good work, explaining very clearly the force of emphasis in the use of language. His illustrations taken from the book of common Prayer are clear and forcible—And made me feel as if I was a mere haphazard tiro in the art. It is however a more difficult thing than he allows to see clearly the sense of a passage. For any in the world may be varied by changing the emphasis. Evening, another agreeable conversation with my father. We discussed the political character of the close of the last Century. Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Chatham, and the authorship of Junius.2