Beautiful morning. I do not know that we have a pleasanter month than this when it is tolerably fair. I read a little, but passed most of my time in company with my Mother at the Wharf in an unsuccessful attempt to catch fish. This is rather a waste of time, but I do not do it very often, and it is at least a pleasanter way than that of which I am commonly guilty. Returned home and compared Text for an hour with my father. After which at dinner we had Company, Mrs. Angier and Miss Adams, Miss Anna Harrod1 and Miss Smith. Nothing material passed.

Afternoon very short. Read but a very little of Dr. Lingard. His book interests me though I read it with distrust. His Account of Edward I and the conquest of Scotland is in some respects new and worth considering. I have long since lost my faith in most of the Romance of History. As the world was always much the same, as it is now, it is a mere illusion to suppose that perfect heroes are to be found any where. Yet virtue and vice have always been contending with each other, and the former is sometimes successful in a man as well as the latter. This makes our good public historical characters. Evening, Granville.