Missed Prayers this morning and arose late to breakfast, after which I sat down and wrote my Journal, which, with some time taken up at Otis’s room, passed off very nearly all the morning. I attended Chapel and heard the President, and only heard him, for I sunk into my usual apathy and was conscious of nothing passing before me. This is the most singular state in the world, and I believe if I am ever entirely devoid of thought, it is then. My mind appears to be in a state of inattention, and although sometimes it wanders off to distant scenes, it is more than half the time in a state of sleepiness which is vacancy. I think the greatest metaphysical truth that I have seen is that when the mind does not think, it goes to sleep.
Returning, I wrote more of my Journal but I spent the whole of the afternoon in Richardson’s room conversing with him upon political subjects. What was the inducement I cannot tell but it prevailed. I talked about the political struggle which is now so soon to come on and stated my opinion prudently and at the same time decidedly. I am afraid, I shall have a pretty hard course of conduct to pursue here among the students at the time of the heat. It is a terrible situation. A man’s father to be thus buffeted and exposed to all the falsehoods, misrepresentations and slanders which scoundrels please to make. I am sick of political life but I see no other course to take, to be a private man would injure me as something is expected and to be any thing except a lawyer or a political man is not my turn of mind.
In the afternoon Dr. Ware talked to us of Moses, not much to my edification. Why do I hate that man? In the Evening, I first took a walk, returned home, wrote my Journal to the end, then went to
Richardson’s where I found Rundlet, Fay, and Brenan came in soon after.1
The second is now in fear of a dismission and appears much troubled.2
I heard some news today that we were going to have Mr. Ticknor’s lectures in future, in the evening, added to all our other duties.3
If true, half the benefit which I expected to derive from my last year here will be lost, and upon this idea, I retired with melancholy reflections. XI.