Fine day although somewhat cool. I went to town. By appointment I was to meet the Painter for the purpose of deciding upon what was to be done at my house and how. My rooms look badly enough and require an outlay which if to be repeated at such short intervals would exceedingly alarm me. And the tenure of the house is of so precarious a kind that I feel little satisfaction in it. After discussion and settlement, just as he went, my Wife and Mrs. Frothingham came in—The former having come to town with my Mother in the Carriage. After passing an hour and settling several things, we all left the house—They to return to Quincy and I to my Office. I passed a little while in Accounts, attended a Sale of Stocks and saw Mr. Brooks, then returned to Quincy.
The Afternoon was spent in writing, looking over Letters and reading Horace, the fourth book of whose Odes I began. Quiet evening at home. Humphry Clinker.
I afterwards finished the Observer. On the whole, the perusal has given me pleasure. It is a book full of sound morality, Christianity and valuable literature. It’s merits are far above the miserable productions which I have been reading for some time before such as the World and Connoisseur. And if I cannot approve his treatment of the character of Socrates, I am willing to concede something to his reasons for so doing. It was a mistake and not a fault.