Morning fair. I began reviewing the third Olynthiac this morning, and finished a considerable portion of it. Then to the Office but my time was wasted very much. The mason was at work in the next room 161upon the fireplace there and I felt obliged to oversee him so much that I left myself little else to do. This is the way my best plans come to an end. I ought to sit down and work hard and I cut up my time into such shreds as to do nothing. Took a short walk before dinner.
Afternoon spent pretty quietly at home continuing the Letters to Atticus of which I have got into the sixteenth and last book. My time now passes so quietly, I have little or nothing left to record. Read Bacon’s Essay upon the Vicissitude of Things making the last of his finished ones. I have been about two Months reading these, for the third time. And the more I read them, the more I admire the profoundness of their Author.
Evening, read Miss Edgeworth. Miss Julia Gorham was here and I read aloud from the Specimens of American Poetry.1 Finished by the Spectator.