A pleasant day notwithstanding the wind turned easterly at noon. I went to the Office, and finding little to do after a short call at T. K. Davis’, I went to take a ride and to try my horse. A pretty long ride in which I came across Mount Bowdoin as it is called.1 One of the speculations of last year which the present one will probably put to flight. The alarm in the commercial world appears to have subsided for a day or two. The accounts brought by the last packet from England are somewhat more encouraging as they regard the solvency of some Houses about which fears have been entertained. But it is very clear that as yet every person in trade who has Notes of any description to meet, is not at liberty to call himself free from danger. The convulsion is a violent one certainly.

On my return, I went home, Homer and some minor investigations into the Port Royal Greek Grammar, Bos’ and Viger.2 After all Greek must be learnt in the prepositions, where it is seldom taught. Afternoon, Plutarch in the Review, and Agathon which continues to please me. Evening, Wraxall’s Memoirs which grow tiresome. I have of late taken a revived relish in all Literature and it seems as if the time I spared for it was not half enough. But all the publications of the day seem a mere waste of time. Such is the division in my mind.

At Mr. Frothingham’s for an hour. A small party. Mrs. Dehon and her daughters, W. G. Brooks, his Wife and her sisters and the family. Home rather late.