Morning pleasant. I went to the Office and was occupied mostly by Mr. Walsh who came in and entered upon a discussion which lasted a great while. He is quite an intelligent man and when at leisure I like to talk with him. We discussed today the old pamphlet of Alexander Hamilton against my Grandfather,1 one of the series of belligerent measures in which we have for two generations been involved. When I reflect upon this state of war and turbulence which has heretofore 359attended us, I do not think I can pursue it. The task is so painful a one. Yet what is the consequence to myself? Degeneracy and voluntary sloth.

Walk to the Athenaeum and then a little way round. Home, Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi and Corneille. The Cid is a singular mixture of nervous versification and artificial love conceits, of romantic heroism and boasting pomposity. De la Motte Fouqué, a curious story which I do not yet find any way to unravel.

Evening, Madame Junot. I have looked into various works for the purpose of getting a clearer notion of her husband’s character and find it is not very good. She herself admits as much. Swift’s Journal to Stella, the oddest of things.