The day was clear, but with the atmosphere so exceedingly close and sultry that it was prostrating. I felt so languid that I was unable to accomplish as much as I generally do. Morning, one hour in writing rather in a rambling way. Then to the Office where I wrote my regular Diary and copied one Bible Letter. A single visit from T. B. Adams Jr. who had very little to say. Returned home, feeling as if I had been 109walking ten miles. Tried to get the History of the U. States but could not.

Afternoon, came to a stop. Cannot do anything without the book. Shall I try to do any thing at all? Almost discouraged. Took up the Letters of Caelius and finished the rest of them. He seems to have been a pretty well disposed man, without much principle and with strong passions. His friendship for Cicero kept him generally inclined to the right, though his sudden influences frequently drove him wrong. His letters are mutilated and obscure in their nature.

Evening quietly at home, excepting a short walk with my Wife. Read La Harpe’s Criticism upon Iphigenie. He thinks the Play nearly perfect. Strange that it should not interest me. I prefer Phedre and Athalie. The Spectator as usual.