Clouds, such as we usually have at the close of the year. There is something quite cheerless in it and yet I do not feel the effect of it 38much at present. My health is certainly better, and I have got over for the present the tendency to jaundice which formerly oppressed me. To me it seems much the same what the weather is. I enjoy little or nothing in the external air in winter, and I find all my pleasures at home either in the study or the nursery.

At the Office writing as usual. Left it early for the purpose of going with my Wife and Mrs. Frothingham to see the last of Greenough’s performances. A cherub leading a child to heaven—A pretty idea enough and executed with more than his usual success. I did not remain long enough this time to form a complete judgment of the subject, but I promise myself some other visits.

Walk and Ovid. Afternoon after looking over many of the official papers, and arranging all of them as well as I could I began upon the private correspondence which will prove more interesting I imagine. I took up Mr. Jefferson, for his is perhaps the best.

Afterwards, began a little book with the singular title of Bubbles by an old man, written with a great deal of spirit by some Englishman upon a visit to some of the more retired of the German watering places.1 W. G. Brooks with his wife and sister passed the evening. I afterwards made a beginning at the beginning of Faust which I had accidentally omitted.