Cool morning with a gradual clouding up as if at last it was likely to produce Rain. I went into town and was busy most of my time in a variety of Commissions which my Wife wanted performed. Went to the House and from thence to Mrs. Frothingham’s. After that I stepped into a grate factory and was so much pleased with one or two patterns that I ordered one to supersede mine in my sitting parlor. This is perhaps an extravagance, but I have deluded myself into the notion of it’s being economy, first, by preventing the necessity of such frequent repairs, second, by the lower price of Anthracite fuel.

At the Office, I read a little of Marshall. Returned home and passed the Afternoon quietly in my usual way, first, writing my Diary, second, reading Horace, third, looking over old Letters. This last was not so interesting today.

Evening at home. It began to rain. I read a little of Basil Hall’s travels, copied part of a letter of my father’s to Mr. Rush, and read the Observer. Cumberland has done something for literature in his account of the writers of the old Comedy in Greece. But he has done injury by depreciating the character of Socrates. No satisfactory evidence of his bad character exists while much of a noble philosophy remains under his name. This makes one point. Another is, that his personal character should not be traduced from the abuse of malicious enemies even though it might not have been perfect, at this time of day. The in-137fluence of that was upon his own age, that of his doctrines has been eminently beneficial upon every subsequent one.