The morning oppressively warm, but friendly Clouds were gathering rapidly all day, and finally cooled the heated earth with heavy and refreshing showers. For the past week, my system has been entirely open, and I have thrown out a most extraordinary abundance of per-119spiration. So exhausting was it, that had the weather continued the same for a much longer period, I believe I could have done nothing at all.

Read a part of the Defence, lounged with Mr. Peabody, carried up some fruit to Abby sent by her father, and did nothing. The last more than all the rest. Dined at the Tremont House to spare trouble at home. The dinner was good but I was more solitary in the midst of the crowd than if I had been sitting at home. Returned home and got into the Sixteenth and last book of letters to Tiro. I had unaccountably deceived myself as to the length of the Books and was surprised to find myself so near the close.

Evening, with my Wife. She now encourages me. I also read Grahame and finished the first Volume. An excellent work. Read an Essay of Bacon of great profoundness on simulation and dissimulation. Spectator as usual.