This was one of the lovely days of which we have but a very few in the Spring season, though those few are perhaps the more valued on that account. I got out early this morning and went to the Office. My time was consumed without much profit to myself. Went to the Athenaeum and passed so much time in lounging there that I lost my usual quantity of exercise. The consequence of which was rather less appetite than usual.

In the Afternoon I passed a quiet time reading the rest of the third and a part of the fourth books of the Aeneid, the morality of all which is not the less doubtful because he makes it originate from Gods and Goddesses. The pious Aeneas is little better than a rascal for the desertion of Dido after seducing her. But Poets cannot make out their Story without such aids. And after all it is agreeable to nature. Evening at home. Nothing material. Finished Montesquieu, which is a very valuable Treatise.