Another delightful day, such as we have perhaps half a dozen of every Spring merely to feel what spring should be in a proper climate. I went out with my children before breakfast for an hour, then to market &ca. At the Office where I employed myself in finishing Accounts. Deacon Spear came in from Quincy and called for a few minutes, about some money affairs. On the whole however, I do not employ my morning profitably.

Home after receiving a letter from my father in which he has made mention at last of my little pamphlet.1 I have made bold to circulate nearly all the copies of this, and on the whole little as its success is, it has been much greater than any thing I have yet done. The Newspapers have persisted in their impenetrable silence at which I am not disappointed. My way is to be made over obstacles, merely to keep my energies upon the stretch. I may do more in this way than I should ever in any other case have thought of attempting.

Afternoon, I had expected to go out to ride, but my gig not coming I remained at home lounging over some pretty stories in a new book called the Gossip’s week,2 somewhat of a modest imitation of Boccaccio. Agathon, but Mr. Ayer came in and gave me as usual vexation. I thought building was a pleasant business but my late experience of it has been rather curative of that idea. Evening to Mr. Frothingham’s with my Wife. Mr. Brooks came in. Conversation and home early. Wraxall.