Most of my time spent at the Office. I wrote much in my Diary. On the whole my Journey was an agreeable one. Little or no incident, but nothing disagreeable and the idea of relief from responsibility, the escape from the cheerlessness of Quincy. At Washington to be sure my remembrances are not pleasant but at least I made them few.

Having been very much alone since my return, I thought I would call and see my friend Davis for an hour. He had little or nothing new to relate and I was interrupted by the coming in of several persons in the course of my visit. I perceive myself gradually shut out from the world by my constant seclusion by mourning and I suppose by my own distant and reserved manners. This is not agreeable. My only resource must be to open my house a little more, to be understood to entertain. But is not this mortifying, that one’s consequence should so much depend upon one’s wealth. I do not like the society of Boston.

Walk and home. Afternoon quiet. I am now upon the history of Mackintosh, a fragment which breathes all of his philosophical spirit and yet takes views more new and more decided of the momentous events of the four years of James. Yet what a thing is fame. Sir James is pursued by his biographer like the hawk by the small fry of birds. But he cannot now turn round to defend himself.