A very beautiful day, and one very well adapted to the raising the frame of my house although I do not propose to be there to superintend it. My time somewhat occupied in accounts. My father’s tenants made some progress today in payment and I thought it best without further delay to make a remittance of as much as I could leaving myself somewhat bare notwithstanding the extent of the payments to which I am soon liable.1 I confess I am made by the position a little anxious. The money concerns of the Country do not get much better.

Homer. Then to Mr. P. C. Brooks’ to a dinner of the family, Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham, Governor and Mrs. Everett, and ourselves. Tolerably pleasant but nothing new, excepting the accounts from New York which are worse and worse.

Home, where I read Agathon for some time, and then Moores Life of Byron to my Wife. His latter days are not his best days. At least if we may except his Greek project which after all was rather a feeling than a principle. Afterwards, Victor Hugo, finishing the second vol-237ume which has a succession of pretty powerfully drawn scenes. Disagreeable, unnatural and yet not at all unlike or improbable.