The weather changed to sharp cold again. This has been on the whole a Winter of greater severity than any I have known since I have lived in New England, whether in regard to amount of cold or it’s duration. At the Office. Occupied in correcting and writing over what I have to say upon Mr. Gallatin’s Paper. There certainly is a good deal worth noticing in it, and the more closely I look at it the more I am satisfied with the fact. But I want very much a channel through which to communicate my opinions to the world. I am living in a town where the whole Press is inhospitable to me and my name. My time was not economized however. Notwithstanding the cold, I took a walk and felt better for it.

Afternoon. Looked over the Annual Registers for two or three years and found a good deal in them that suited my purpose. Of all the things in this world, information is the thing that sets a man on an eminence. Speculation can then be brought to bear with great force upon any given topic. I think this gives the advantage in our day.

We passed a quiet Evening at home and I read a little more of Ariosto. He is rather free as are all his Countrymen. There is genius and imagination in his Poem but not much of the high soaring of 247Poetry. Looked over some numbers of the Albion Newspaper which has good extracts from the prevailing literature in England.1