Morning lovely. One of those warm days in which the body feels languid but not unpleasant. They are rare in this Climate, but we have had several of them this Season. I went to the Office as usual and passed the larger part of the time in bringing up my Account Current with my Father for the month. Called upon Mr. J. H. Foster and paid him his bill for six months past which was no trifle,1 exceeding one third my estimate of it. These repairs have been enormously 225expensive. But what was to be done. The Houses could not stand empty. And I do not feel as if I had done more than was absolutely necessary. My father’s Agency Affairs require much time and attention, and the responsibility they impose is no trifle.

Called in to see Mr. Brooks for a moment and received a visit from Richardson at my Office. He was dull and I was dull. The fact is that I am getting sobered down. The serious part of life has already set it’s hand upon me, for I do not find that elasticity of mind which formerly supported me. Perhaps my present happiness is of a nature more durable and less unequal. But it is a melancholy reflection to see the shores pass as I sail by and to think that I am never to see them again. The bright spots in life and the dark ones, happiness and misery all sink soon into one confused and undistinguishable mass in the distance, and every step closes a part of the view.

I read an Article upon Paley in a number of the Quarterly.2 It was not very interesting. Another upon De Roos which I had no time to finish.3 At home. Upon reviewing my Essay, I found a passage that did not please me and so I concluded to write it over again. This consumed one sheet and my Afternoon and Evening. Disgust with me always follows writing, and I liked my words little, but the change momentarily gratified me. Read Eustace to my Wife. Weather very warm.