Morning cold and rainy. I went to the Office as usual and passed the morning in a manner not quite so profitable as I might have done because I had not with me my books, the consequence was that I was driven to employ myself as I could. My time was principally taken up in looking over and destroying all the papers of a useless nature among the remaining things belonging to my brother. They are very numerous and though I have a great indisposition to doing any thing of the kind yet it seems useless to keep them.

Mr. Child, the Secretary of the Boylston Market Association called and I walked with him to the Market for the purpose of receiving the 220Certificate of the Share purchased yesterday.1 This business occupied but a few moments. On my return I sent a Note to one of my negligent Tenants and continued my business of destruction. After dinner I laboured hard, and finished the examination of the Essay I have written. It is now in a state of forwardness, and I hope now to get it ready before the next month. My Wife was quite unwell all day. In the evening I read to her a little from the Insect Architecture of the Library of Entertaining Knowledge.2 It was interesting as it informed me of the fact that there were solitary bees, which I did not know before. The day was bad and I was not over lively.

Morning cold and gloomy. We doubted a considerable time as to the expediency of going to Medford and finally hit upon that side of the alternative which was certainly the least prudent. But as our departure was deferred until eleven o’clock I passed two hours in examining and re-arranging my observations upon the American History. Having done this, I began reading Chalmers regularly in order to see what was to be said in addition of him. This book is the most violent misinterpretation of American facts that I have seen and that probably exists. The time came to go and we had a very uncomfortable ride indeed.

Arrived, and found at dinner with us, Mr. Walker, the Clergyman of Charlestown. He was quite pleasant, and in the afternoon I went to hear him. The Sermons he preaches are peculiar for the closeness of the reasoning and the simple texture of the style. He assumes a point and brings it forward in all it’s shapes. His subject this day was happiness as an object. He touched very well upon the general weakness of man in not looking for happiness, but he did not very distinctly illustrate what he meant by the term. His moral was too short. But on the whole, there are few preachers whom I prefer to hear before Mr. Walker. The remainder of the day was passed in looking into Mather’s Magnalia a copy of which Mr. Brooks has,1 in order to look for the authorities for certain statements in Graham which I found generally correct. The book is a curiosity inasmuch as it is a strange specimen of a mind regulated with little judgment, and blunted by entertaining a too great multiplicity of objects, so that the leading ones 221are huddled with the indifferent and worthless without much discrimination.