Weather moderated and one of our Easterly winds. I rode to town. Busy at the Office. Mr. Treadway called to see me and spent half an hour. He is a law publisher in New York, and comes here partly as a Journey of pleasure for his bride and partly with views of his own.
Application for my house. I was so tired of it that I concluded to let it go although not much to my satisfaction. Returned home to dinner.
Afternoon, read an Epistle of Horace and was engaged in restoring some order to the chaos which my fathers books are in. This is likely to be a business of some length. A Letter from my Mother renders it probable that she may be here tomorrow.1 Evening at home. Our time goes on in so undiversified a manner that my dull record becomes supremely dull. There is no relief in it whatever.