Another Spring like day. I read a little of Goethe, who from his idiom is I think more difficult than any other German writer. Then to the Office where I completed the first number of my Papers upon the Presidential Election and in order to avoid any change of mind carried it myself directly to the Newspaper.1 This with two or three Interruptions and my Diary took up my time.

Walk. Received a short letter from my father in answer to Mr. Beale’s inquiry,2 which I copied and sent to him at Quincy. Read Ovid. A singular idea the poetical history of Roman Festivals but a pretty useful thing to posterity. I make slower progress in it however than I did, for the etymological questions are both more dry and difficult.

Afternoon, the second file of the Letters of Mr. Dumas. These require to be read with my grandfather’s letters. But the Copy books are not within my reach. Went to P. C. Brooks this evening. Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham, the Miss Dehons and brother, Edward Brooks, and our family. A pretty supper and a pleasant time. Nothing material. Home at ten.