Morning occupied in reading the philosophy of the ancients.1
After breakfast, at the Office reading Blackstone until one o’clock when I started to go to Medford. It rained pretty fast during my ride but I found my road much better than I had expected. The family small as it has become, were very well and they had encouraging news from Baltimore. Julia Gorham is still remaining there. Time passed much as usual, and I felt as happy as a man in love does. There is a good deal of pleasure in sentiment, but when reduced to paper by description, it is so little capable of it as to excite ridicule and contempt. In passing therefore some of my happiest moments, I am content to leave them only in the memory.