Morning at the Office. Occupied in reading some important cases in the Massachusetts
Reports. I also read a few pages of Austin’s Life of Gerry where I found a most remarkable
letter from my Grandmother.1
Such things perhaps may contribute to make a man too proud, but it is certainly a
singular fortune of our’s, to be the descendants of so much talent and distinction
on all sides. The dream of ambition is a pleasant one, and had I not much to break
my spirit and check it’s luxuriance, none would have been more active and energetic
in supporting, or at least attempting to support, the high standard of our race. But
as yet I am not certain that my days are not numbered, or at least that there is not
to be a complete period to my hopes. My feelings are more quiet now, but not less
settled. I hope more and am more prepared.
Afternoon, Adam Smith. In the evening, I went to the Theatre and heard performed,
the Marriage of Figaro with the Music of Mozart. I recollect this from the absurd
figure that a man made when I saw the same piece attempted some years since at New
York. It was pretty well this time, but I was not so well pleased as on last Friday.
The Overture was good. Ballet of the Caliph of Bagdad.