A snow storm. Such are the alternations of our weather. I went to the Office as usual. Nothing particular. Mr. Degrand called and I executed the money transaction contemplated. Interest at 12 per cent which is enormous and grows out of the political war between the Bank and the Executive. This sum belongs to my father and will, I hope make a moiety of the payment to Hull in May next. Attended a meeting of the new Board of Directors of the Middlesex Canal. The usual organization. William Sullivan talks like a depressed man. He is pretty distant to me. General politics about the same. Read a good deal of the English Debates and felt as much interested in the squabbles of that day as in those of this. What a world of perpetual commotion it is. And how often does the mountain produce a mouse.

Short walk. Afternoon, I did little but finish the Andria—A curious specimen of domestic life among the ancients. Terence borrowed from Menander. The pictures are all therefore drawn from Grecian manners. The French have done little more than imitate, with the addition of their own peculiar habits.

Quiet evening at home. Finished Patronage which after all, I consider the most heavy of Miss Edgeworth’s productions. The character of Lord Oldborough is nevertheless one of her best. The Percys are too perfect to be interesting. Wrote a letter to my father, being my third attempt.1