I remained at Quincy until four or five o’clock. My time was not passed very usefully and yet agreeably. There is a great deal of pleasure to be derived from the desultory reading in a Library. It prevents the necessity of continued thought and yields a variety that is inspiriting. I read some of Antoine Hamilton’s rambling stories which are told with a good deal of volatile humor.1 Also Werther the other extreme of sentimentality. My father’s library is a treasure from which I scarcely draw enough.

In the afternoon as it seemed to threaten rain I concluded to start for Medford. My Mother seemed better, and yet she has more fever and consequent strength than I perfectly confide in. I did not reach home until evening. Finished the Essays of Elia which have on the whole disappointed me.