Fine morning and the weather a little more moderate but still quite cold. I finished Oberon with which I have been quite charmed. It is as pretty a thing as ever was made of fairy story. Looked over Sotheby’s translation but I was not much pleased with it.1 The language is pretty but not so clearly rendered as it might be. It wants the vigor of the original and it’s sprightliness. Office. Occupied in writing Diary, nothing of material consequence.

Took a walk and home. But being invited to dine out at P. C. Brooks’ I did not read any of Ovid as usual. Nobody there but Mr. Brooks and Edward with my wife and myself. Tolerably pleasant but I indulged too much and felt the effect of it all day. It is a little singular how well I have been ever since my return from Washington which I attribute entirely to my life at home. This dining out deranges one.

Afternoon, read Mrs. Trollope’s first volume which is poor throughout and d’Israeli’s third volume. Mr. Shepherd came in to see Mr. Brooks but as he was not at home, I was obliged to see him.