A lovely day. Wind Southerly and the Thermometer at 40° in the shade. I went to the Office. My short time this winter passes off there like a flash—Write and Accounts. No interruption but Mr. Devereux who called to settle his rent.

Walk as usual. Reflection. I feel melancholy at my waste of time and of my abilities which are at least respectable. I feel as if I was disliked in this City as well from family prejudices as from personal manners, and this feeling which has only arisen with me of late is closing me up like an oyster in my own shell. God’s will be done.

Read Ovid but made slow progress. The Fasti require some preparation to understand. Afternoon, pursued and finished the correspondence of Dr. Rush. I have read his biography in Sanderson’s Collection and find it poor and lame.1 This is remarkable coming from his native city. His own Letters supply a history of persecution which makes no figure at all in the Life. He was one of the few men who were decidedly hostile to General Washington, and his Letters will not bear publishing but they must be preserved. I wrote a long letter to my Mother.2