Wrote a letter to my Mother this morning.1
After breakfast went to the Office and found one from her with but little of any thing in it. Went from there to see Abby and passed a large part of the morning with her. The day was so bad I concluded not to go out of town. But my spirits again fell in my desperate way. At such times my prayers are sincere but it is almost too great a trial to be often subject to them. Trusting in a divine Providence I should exist in hope, but sometimes despair will get the advantage. Afternoon occupied in copying the Lecture of Judge Howe, and in the evening instead of going to the Concert, I occupied myself at home. But employment would scarcely support me.