This is really delightful weather. An Indian Summer though why it is called so is unknown to me. I finished the first Olynthiac before going out of the house this morning. Then to the Office. Occupied myself there in scribling a political Article, of which I may never make any use. But it is exercise. I find it every day harder to write so as to please myself, and if I do not get over this, it will hardly be possible for me soon to put pen to Paper. Went into a Shop to buy a Hat, and while there purchased a Fur for my Wife which I intend as her Winter’s present. Returned home after a short walk, and in the Afternoon read a portion of the Letters to Atticus. Mystery and corrupt text combine to impede progress as well as to injure the pleasure of reading. My hours also are not yet so perfectly divided as I wish them to be. It takes time to arrange one’s self, especially as I feel now somewhat differently from what I have done. More languor, a disposition to do my duty with less anxiety as to any definite result. A more implicit reliance upon the support of the Deity. These seem to affect me now with much more force. I have been wrong in paining myself too much about the future, for what can I do to ward off the ills of fate? My own conduct is all I can regulate.

Evening quiet at home, read Bacon. Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham called and passed an hour. Wrote a little and retired early.