Morning quite cold. After breakfast and the half hour to which I have now become limited in my Catalogue, I walked out first going down to see the Tenements in Tremont Street which are now nearly done. One of them is now occupied. The others I hope will soon go from my hands. At the Office, where I was busy in sorting and burning my brother’s papers. This occupation I take up occasionally only to turn off from it in disgust. There is an insuperable melancholy comes over me when I reflect upon poor George’s fate. When I think of the golden Spring, and then gradually draw my eyes to the cold and fruitless Summer.

I read a little of Mr. Meisel in which he talks of Treaties, Cartels, Conventions and the other formal acts of Diplomacy. This is not what I want. Returned home to find P. C. Brooks to dine with us. He was pleasant, and has softened a good deal of the roughness he used to have. Afternoon, finished the Review of the books de Inventione, from which I have benefitted so much that I believe I shall not go over it again, at least just now. Perhaps after I have read de Oratore I shall be able to understand it still better. Evening Corinne and Gray. After which I finished Todd’s Sketch of Milton and began Johnson’s. Was much struck with it’s malignity.1 Two numbers of the Tatler.