Morning at the Office. Day very dull and rainy. I was engaged a great part of the
morning in writing, first, a letter to my Mother in answer to her’s, and next, a Note
to Abby according to my promise to her. My spirits were barely tolerable, though they
were certainly better after I had given some vent to my feelings in these letters,
than they were before. I am surprised however by my father’s silence. After suffering
me to leave Washington as he did, I did expect to have at least heard from him soon.
But he has other cares and sorrows, and although he should have paid a little more
attention to the wound he made so long ago, I will only remember it with grief and
with regret. There shall be no anger mixed with it.1
Afternoon, finished Mr. Burke on the Nabob of Arcot’s debts, and continued Mr. Pitkin.
Took a book to the House with me in the evening as it rained heavily. It was Percy’s
Relics of Ancient English Poetry.2