Morning cloudy with occasional rain. I went to the Office after writing a little upon my task with which I am already disgusted. I am sorry to say I am not equal to it. Abominable that I should fold up my hands and declare it.

Went to the Office where I passed the morning in reading my Grandfather’s Defence and occasional visitors. T. B. Adams Jr. in from Quincy. Announced that my Mother was much better than I could expect, at which news I was much rejoiced.1 Went to the Athenaeum for a few moments to obtain one or two books and thus the morning went.

Dined at the Tremont House, in company with T. B. Adams Jr. and Edward Miller of Quincy. Returned home and spent the Afternoon in reading and writing on my Dissertation of which I feel more sick as I advance. How hard it is to write. Yet one would not suppose so from 122 image the mass of stuff one daily sees. Read an Essay of Bacon’s upon Love, the opinions of which I do not assent to entirely. There seems to be an absence of clearness in distinguishing the excess of the Passion from the thing itself. The same error would condemn all things merely capable of abuse. The Spectator as usual.