Heavy rain all day with the wind high from the Eastward. I went to the Office. Nothing very material in the way of business. I wrote, and read some portions of the North American Review for April. This periodical seems to be assuming a new species of character. It is the vehicle of brilliant, superficial Essays without much attempt at criticism. The writers for it seek to dazzle the public for the time without aiming to leave much which can be looked upon as sterling matter for reference.

My article has now been postponed a year, and I think I see in one of those of the present number, some thoughts springing from it’s perusal. I think I shall never write for that Review again so long as it continues under it’s present auspices. My mortification in connection with that publication has been greater than I think I deserve, and I have brought it upon myself by endeavouring to do something when it is the decision of a superior power that I must at least for the present remain entirely idle.

I went up in the rain to the South end to look at some furniture, but could find nothing to suit me. Afternoon, I intended to have attended a Meeting of the Directors of the Boylston Market, but it rained so hard, and having wet my feet before dinner, I concluded to 65remain at home. Read Botta, and Schiller. Evening quiet. Les Parvenus and Pompeii. My Wife still suffering much with her cold.