The weather is now uncommonly fine although generally betraying the progress of the season. I remained at home and went over a part of Juvenal’s seventh satire with a review of the whole of it. I wrote another paper upon the state of the Nation, but am getting a little tired of the business. The last takes up the recent excitement about Slavery and Abolition, a subject which it might be wiser not to touch.1

I also wrote a letter to Mr. T. B. Johnson at Washington in answer to one received yesterday in which he intimates his intention of employing me to transfer his funds into investments in Boston.2 This is a business I do not at all fancy. But Mr. Johnson has so studiously deprived himself of friends through his life that I am not certain but it will be a kindness in me to undertake to provide for his independence in his old age.

Thus went the time until dinner, after which I took my annual ramble round the shore of Mount Wollaston and speculated and philosophized as I am apt to do upon the occasion without any practical or profitable result. The weather was so cool that the light Jacket I had on was barely sufficient. Returned home quite fatigued. Evening quietly with the family, although I a little waste my time with them in trifling talk.