The day was quite cold and a sharp frost this morning. I went to the Office where I did not do much. Talk with A. H. Everett, interrupted by a call from Baxter to find some trees ordered by Kirk, and then ran about three or four Wharves without success to meet with them.

Nothing new. The times still continue distressing and bankruptcies to a large amount occur daily, in New York which appears to be the great scene of disaster. Home. Letter from my father of inquiry. Says he is anxious to come on, and inquires about money of which I have none.1 The first time my spirits have been affected by the state of things.

Read Homer. What constitutes the difficulty of the Greek language? And why is it that after reading one book and knowing it well, you appear so little equal to reading another. Afternoon at home. Plutarch in the review, and Agathon. Wieland is certainly a great writer. He has wit, knowledge of books and knowledge of the human heart, but there is some levity in his principles.

Evening at home. Mr. Brooks came in and sat an hour. Nothing new to tell us. A few pages of Moore afterwards and then Victor Hugo whose extravagant fancies seem to take a wide scope in this romance of Notre Dame, but it may be doubted whether Nature is not the durable object for imitation.