Morning still dull weather with a cold North East wind. My little girl is getting better slowly. I went to the Office and passed my time in Diary and finishing Accounts as far as they would go. Then read over the remainder of Mr. Everett’s Europe. I have been pleased with this work generally and think even at this late day when the face of that portion of the Globe is so much changed, it presents a curious and interesting landmark for observation, but I think there are errors of opinion very deeply rooted and very important, errors which make me distrust all the deductions of the Author.

To the Athenaeum and then round on two or three Commissions. Home, Livy—Twenty third book. Afternoon, Sismondi, Ariosto and by way of a high relish the life of Sir Jas. Mackintosh by his son.1 I do not know what it is that fascinates me so much in the whole character and writings of this man. There is a moral harmony about his mind which reminds me of the ancient philosophers. I continued the work to the exclusion of every thing else.