A very fine day. I passed it for the most part at home, engaged in writing upon my projected Review and in correcting MS. I believe I have in my mind a better thing than I am likely to execute. My energy does not seem equal to the investigation which I meditate. Joseph H. Adams here a little while, who tells us of his mother’s illness. Apparently a grievous case of suffering from the death of poor Thomas, her son. I can feel for her where I regret her sensibility.

Afternoon, my father accompanied me in a ride round Milton, my favourite resort. He seemed to enjoy it much. Home in time to finish the letters of Pliny. These as relics of a particular age are interesting. Those to Tacitus are interesting as well as the correspondence with Trajan which is perhaps the only one extant of the kind. But after all Pliny was not a mind of the first class. Evening at the house. Conversation as usual.