Dark clouds and sleet or hail. Too cold to snow. I read a little of Kotzebue but I do not make much progress. Office.

Received a long letter from my father,1 principally in relation to the Senatorial election in which he appears to take great interest. But I should judge from his words that he has no expectation of success. Every engine of party warfare has been put in use against him. The old federal feeling which in the last resort is always appealed to has been stirred up effectually by the accidental coincidence furnished by the French Speech. I wrote an immediate reply2 stating as fully as I could the Story of the whole affair. He will find little in it to make him feel agreeably. For from the beginning it has been a selfish intrigue on the part of persons who owe something to his kindness in bygone days. I have uniformly trusted that the result would be for the best.

This consumed my morning and I did not walk. Read Ovid. In the Afternoon Ancient Treaties, and de Grimm. Evening finished the life of Schiller. This is a book with a good deal of merit. Its criticisms are good and it’s philosophy warming. If now and then it’s language is a little strained and the tone perhaps exaggerated, this is the only defect I see in it. Kotzebue.