A clear day with a continuation of the sharp East wind which we have had for so long. I went to the Office and was engaged in Accounts and Diary as usual. I propose and hope to be able to devote 401myself to something more in the time I am at the Office but I fear my attempt will be vain, because I know it always has been. Mr. Wild called to let me know he vacates my house and accordingly I set about making arrangements to fit it up. I was also somewhat occupied in superintending the repairs about the Estate of my father in Tremont Street, occasioned by the raising the level of the Street. Home to read Livy, nearly finished the twenty third book.

Afternoon, Sir James Mackintosh and a little of Ariosto—I finished the former before night. On the whole I know few books more pleasing. There is that spirit of kindness beaming through all he writes which draws one to him and makes one feel that he very eminently deserves the title of good. His nature must have been kind because it is clear that his sentiments are not put on for mere effect. They are not like Sterne’s the result of a lively imagination. I think my motives of action are higher when I read this book, and my ambition to acquire knowledge and virtue raised. How few books give one any similar feeling. Moderation and kindness are what I desire.

In the evening went over to Charlestown, saw Governor Everett and the various members of the family. Evening dull, and home early. Wrote a page to my Mother.1