As the day was likely to prove a hot one and I had no leading object to carry me to town, I passed my time very quietly looking over old Papers. A packet which I opened contained the love letters of the old gentleman in 1763–4, just before his marriage.1 They were mostly written during the period of three or four weeks when he went up to Boston to be inoculated for the small Pox—At that time considered as a great exertion, not without much of personal hazard. The subject of course is an odd one for lovers, but they both seem to be so honest and simple hearted in discussing it, that after all these letters are far more true to nature than the sophistications of studied refinement. I do not find much to answer my particular purpose.
As I lost so much sleep last night, it was made up this afternoon, the rest of which was wasted in reading Puckler Muskau. I finished the volume. It is far better than the other one which I read and not wanting in reflection of a profitable kind. Some of his predictions appear not unlikely to prove true.
I was not quite well in the evening, and the child gave us another night like that passed at Medford on the first. I was not quite so uneasy from the fact that we had more assistance at hand. Slept a few hours on the bed in the study.