A fine day. I remained at home and passed it as I do most of my time between my house and my father’s. I sometimes think that I waste too much in this superintendance and that I might be engaged in objects more useful to others and to myself. Perhaps so, but I do not know. My particular position in life precludes me from expectation of much success and my temper from that of aid from artificial interests so that I may as well consult my fancy.

I read every morning a portion of Homer, which was at first forty lines but is now eighty and every day I think I read them easier. And today I proposed writing exactly as Mr. J. Adams Jr. came in about some carpenter work I proposed him to look at, and I went out to examine it and did not return until dinner. Afternoon read a good deal of Lessing’s Laocoon which is a very critical essay, and something of Humboldt’s New Spain.

Evening, Thomas, one of our men, in working in the ditch down below the house ran a nail into his foot which the accident of the other day rendered us much alive to. Dr. Stetson came but did nothing, every attention having been already paid. J. H. Foster and J. Q. Adams were here. There was a thunder shower but it cleared before I went to bed. Copied part of a letter for my father.