Morning opened cloudy and with rain. I sat in my Study after breakfast and wrote a letter to Mr. Sparks1 besides doing some other little necessary things. As it was the day devoted to Thanksgiving, I was unable to have a command of my time, sufficient to sit down to any serious occupation. I only read two or three of the pieces in the Melanges Litteraires of Voltaire, which only tended to confirm me in my great admiration of the particular elegance of that Author.2 Writing as he did upon all subjects it is wonderful to perceive how delightful he can be upon them all. We were called for and so I stopped.

We rode to Medford with Mrs. Frothingham, and Mrs. E. Brooks. The day was rainy throughout and what might be strictly called gloomy. But I did not feel it quite so much as heretofore, although far from being in very exalted spirits. We found on arriving, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, Mrs. Everett and children, my father, Edward Brooks and Mr. Frothingham the two latter just arrived before us. The time passed pretty much as such time has often passed before, in the demolition of eatables which were given us in fair quantity and quality. I sat next to Mr. Frothingham and Eliza Brooks and did not derive much pleasure from their Company. The former is not a man to my taste, the latter is a pleasant woman but reserved and distant. The dinner passed off tolerably and in the Evening as Abby and I were to return with my father tomorrow morning, the Company left us to return before dark. We were therefore at home alone, and passed the evening very quietly in Conversation upon miscellaneous matters. It was a little sleepy but on the whole passed off well. I feel a species of constraint here which I cannot get over in any way and it troubles me exceedingly for I am aware that it hurts me with Mr. Brooks and with the rest. Strange to say, I feel it no where else excepting here and at home when they are present. For with strangers it seldom happens.

We returned to town this morning, my Wife in the little Carriage with my Father, myself with Mr. Brooks. The weather had cleared off and was rather pleasant although the roads were obstructed with the snow which fell in quantity of about three inches upon a surface during the Night. Such are the varieties of our weather. I found my father at the Office, and we then performed a considerable number of the remaining little pieces of business necessary to be transacted previous to his leaving this part of the Country. This took a considerable time and I had not much of the morning left. The remnant of it was taken up in reading a Number of the Edinburgh Review which I had brought with me from Medford which had an interesting article upon America and one upon the Drama.1 I read them with much interest and although I cannot think that they are fair or correct Articles yet I must allow them to be interesting. My father who looked into one of them appeared much incensed. He is almost too quick however upon matters relative to this Country.

After dinner, I occupied myself in making a draught of what I had translated during the two last days of Aeschines into my little pamphlet book,2 and as Abby went down to take tea with Mrs. Frothingham, I read Potter’s Translation of the Seven against Thebes of Aeschylus and tried to steer clear of the excessive partiality of Potter on the one side, and the other extreme of La Harpe on the other. Aeschylus must not be read as an Author of Dramas of the present day. But he contains much which has never been since exceeded. I had barely time to finish, before it became time to go down and hear Mr. Channing’s second Lecture to the Society of Useful Knowledge. It was upon Climate acting physically, and upon Diseases the effect of Climate or Soil, particularly alluding to those which go under the names of Yellow or Malignant Fever. It was interesting, to some extent, although not in itself so much so as to pay me for my trouble in coming down. On my return, called for Abby at Mrs. Frothingham’s, this lady 89being sick with a headach we hurried home, and I passed another hour in reading Voltaire’s criticisms upon Moliere’s Plays.