Morning warm and clear. The rain appears to have ceased for some time. I went to the Office after passing an hour in reading Boileau’s Art Poetique. One of the most finished specimens of versification extant. If any thing the artificial construction so apparent is the thing least calculated to please. Poetry certainly is pleasing in a negligé dress though not slovenly. Yet I admire the vigour of the style, the point of the verses and the finish of the measure. Nothing in French exceeds it in its way. But I do not think that he equals Horace in the passage imitated from him, which I have already noticed.

Went to the Office where I met again Mr. Peabody who has just lost his Father1 and has been absent from Boston a good while in consequence. Corrected several of my fathers Bible Letters. Richardson called to pay me a visit and to inform me of his engagement to be married, upon which I congratulated him.2

Afternoon, reading Cicero’s Thirteenth Book, many letters of which are merely recommendations. A few more interesting. Read Bacon’s Essay upon Unity in Religion. Great as his mind was, he could not take in the possibility of general toleration of religious differences. And yet the Puritans have been condemned for not knowing the thing to be practicable.

Evening. Walked with my Mother to Mrs. Frothingham’s. Saw her husband and passed half an hour with him. Returned, read more of Grahame, and two numbers of the Spectator. My Wife has been tolerably but is still very weak, the child seems comfortable.