A mild day though cloudy with drops of rain. I went to town although not my regular day. My object not very definite but principally as I presume to look at the furniture of Mr. Thorndike which was sold at Auction this day.1 The crowd was so great that I was not able to see any thing and felt very little disposed to buy.

I went over all the house and my impression was one of melancholy at the folly which had led a man to this. Here was evidently luxury with not much of comfort. Ostentation without any management or reflection. Yet to have one’s interior so turned outside to the gaze of a thousand idlers, to be made the subject of so many common place saws of morals, is disagreeable enough. Mr. Thorndike has gambled away a large fortune not at the hazard table but in the more legitimate play of State Street Exchange. What has he done more than hundreds are doing every day? He has craved a stimulus to keep off ennui and he has had it. What will he do now he is poor? perhaps be more happy than when he was rich.

Made a call or two at various houses of Tenants and attended to accounts, then home to Quincy. Afternoon, busy about my trees in which I make good progress. Evening at my work which is going on. I see the end of the first part.