Clouds with heavy rain. My work pretty steady. Wrote to Mr Everett, and my sons, as well as to my classmate, William Dwight, on the death of his son in Louisiana. This is the second out of four that he has given to the war. The other fell at Antietam in open warfare. This one was barbarously shot by men who had taken him prisoner when unarmed and voluntarily surrendering. When I think of these things my patience gives way at the idea that we have to encounter such barbarity. Its seed is however the slave relation, and in my honest belief nothing will extirpate it on our border but emancipation. This process is undoubtedly going on, but not with the rapidity that keeps pace with the war. On the whole my spirits were rather dull—and I felt less relief than usual from the close of labour. My walk was long but wet. In the evening I went with Mrs Adams to a reception at Sir Charles and Lady Eastlake’s. Quite a large number of acquaintances among the literary and scientific people. Sir Charles is rather at the head of the artists here, an he has a number of picture in his rooms of which he thinks highly. They did not strike my fancy much. But the more of painting I see, the less confidence I feel in my judgment. Home before midnight.