Morning warm with clouds, but the wind became easterly and very uncomfortable. I went to the Office and was occupied in Accounts. The time becomes so short that these with my Diary and an occasional interruption make up all I can do.

I intended to have gone to Quincy but the Carriage came in with my Mother. She appears exceedingly depressed. Her lonely way of life is not calculated for her at all. She dissuaded me from going to Quincy so I took a walk. My Wife and child are doing nicely. I thank Heaven for all mercies.

Afternoon, I read Lord Bacon’s New Atlantis, a singular fragment, and afterwards some other of his little detached works. Not one of them is without value. There is thought and that very profound in most of them. His observation of nature was clear and if he had meddled less with the profligacy of the times he lived in, how much more his mind could have done for the benefit of the World. The older I grow, the more I admire the powers of intellect and the less I see of them round and about me. Mediocrity is the stamp of almost every thing with us. My father is the only one of the great men of our day who appears to me to have any thing durable, and he has wasted his powers. Evening my article.