A very warm day. Our Summer comes without any Spring. I continued and finished the rough draught of my Catalogue. This will require copying after which I do not think I shall give any further trouble to that matter. Went to the Office. Received a letter and documents. The former from T. B. Adams about his Property.1 It will require an elaborate answer. Occupied in business and a walk. My time was not profitably employed however. Returned home.

Passed part of the afternoon in reading Sismondi, and rode out with my Wife the rest. Quiet evening at home. The Child was not very well today. This always affects my spirits. But independent of this I suffered considerably from depression all day.

The utter waste of my powers and my time which is taking place and the little prospect of any future improvement affect me. I have lost a great deal of the springy elasticity which distinguished me a year or two ago. My efforts fail, and my confidence in my own powers go with 298it. I hope this does not forebode what I have all along dreaded and what has been so often predicted of me, a life of ease, and of inglorious sloth. Advantageous as my situation is in a worldly point of view, I have nobler purposes to accomplish than the mere life of a fainéant. I belong to a race2 who have refused no labour, and in comparison with whom my idleness would only present a pitiful picture of degeneracy. O, May this not be!