Morning pleasant but the Easterly winds are beginning to remind us that Spring with us is nought but hope deferred. I went to the Office. Mr. Spear called from Quincy and discussed matters a little. The remainder of the time spent in a reading of a new publication by the Society for entertaining knowledge, entitled the Backwoods of Canada,1 being written by the Wife of an English Officer who took a grant of land in commutation of his place. I pitied the poor woman at every step. She is an exile for life from home, expecting nothing and anticipating no change sufficient in her life time to restore her to the society of her youth. Poverty in the old Countries is as great a misfortune as great wealth appears to be in this. The children of this marriage were not likely to have any chance in England so on their account the parents come here. Walk and home where I read Livy my full 357hour, for once. Afternoon, a snow storm set in. I luxuriated upon Sismondi,2 and de la Motte Fouqué. Evening Madame Junot and Swift.