Morning clear but rather cooler than it had been and so much so that I felt very much the want of a Fire. Having made up my Mind about the course proper to be taken with the Editor of the North American Review I wrote him a Note requesting the return of my Manuscript to which he replied by sending it to me with a Note stating that he should like to see me to give me some hints before revising it.1 I felt exceedingly dispirited by this result of my labours. To have been kept in suspense so long, to have had the matter of it praised among connections with whom it is my ambition to stand well and then to be discouraged from pursuing the path I saw clear before me, were all a little severe upon me.

My time was very much taken up in attending to people of different sorts on various errands—Some in settlement of their demands, others upon other subjects. Not a moment was left for myself. According to agreement, we dined at P. Chardon Brooks’. I saw his Wife who is laid up for a considerable period with an accident by which her knee was affected. After dinner, returned home and pursued my review of Cicero’s first Book which this time seems easy, but I follow it only by snatches, and the impression it makes wears out of my memory. Evening Corinne, a little of the Poet Gray and a visit from Edmund Quincy. But my spirits have not been so low since I was married.