The day was clear, but with the atmosphere so exceedingly close and sultry that it was prostrating. I felt so languid that I was unable to accomplish as much as I generally do. Morning, one hour in writing rather in a rambling way. Then to the Office where I wrote my regular Diary and copied one Bible Letter. A single visit from T. B. Adams Jr. who had very little to say. Returned home, feeling as if I had been 109walking ten miles. Tried to get the History of the U. States but could not.
Afternoon, came to a stop. Cannot do anything without the book. Shall I try to do any thing at all? Almost discouraged. Took up the Letters of Caelius and finished the rest of them. He seems to have
Evening quietly at home, excepting a short walk with my Wife. Read La Harpe’s Criticism upon Iphigenie. He thinks the Play nearly perfect. Strange that it should not interest me. I prefer Phedre and Athalie. The Spectator as usual.