Snowing all day. I went to the Office and passed my time quietly as usual. Continued Rousseau’s Prize Dissertation which is a very ingenious thing and calculated to throw dust into the eyes of the Mass. But his original state of nature is a picture, the light parts much thrown forward and the rest in very deep shade. Diary.

Walk to the Athenaeum then home to read Persius.1 Pleasant author as Gifford explains him but a rough one in his own person. Afternoon, Levesque and Gallatin’s Essay on the Currency. A very valuable Pamphlet for matter if not for manner.

Evening, Beatrice which is a dull book after the middle of the second Volume, and Beaumont and Fletcher, the little French Lawyer. The whole style of female dialogue of their plays seems to be sensuality. They evidently attached no other idea to the sex than as the objects of animal desire. This is unpleasant.

Thus I close another Volume of my Diary. It would seem to be of little use for a man to accummulate day upon day, of monotonous and unprofitable life, but habit has made it to me a second nature and I should feel myself now almost committing a crime to give it up. The events recorded and Opinions expressed are it is true of very little value to any body now or hereafter, but they are still the materials of my life, they form the landmarks by which I can understand myself through all the various vicissitudes from youth to age. As such I prize them, as such I wish to continue them.