Snow again. Our Winter comes all together. I went to the Office. Read a little of Sir James Mackintosh’s History, the philosophical character of which I very much admire. Engaged also in Diary and Accounts. The regularity of my morning life does not admit of much detail.

Called at the Athenaeum and took a walk notwithstanding the weather. I have felt better within a day or two. Afternoon, read Anquetil in quite a lazy way. The History of the French people is a history of civil commotion—Intrigue going on perpetually to acquire power. It is a remarkable feature of humanity, this constant grasping of authority—As if there was happiness in superiority. True, there may be, but it must be derived from the evil passions of the heart. Arrogance, vanity, pride, are those which it nurses. Our own Country is now a prey to the most violent struggles, and may be sacrificed because we have too many ambitious men.

Evening, quiet at home. Second volume of Caroline of Litchfield and Croker’s Killarney Legends.1 Read more of Wieland.