The Weather holds on unusually cold. My Wife grows slowly better but her patience is giving way under the constant pressure of her sickness. The Baby is rather better. My man has gone to other Quarters 197and so on the whole I feel myself much relieved. I went to the Office, although from these peculiar circumstances quite late. Time was spent in writing up my Journal and Accounts and drawing up my statement for T. B. Adams Jr. of his Affairs in my hands. Returned home and went from thence to Mrs. Frothingham’s to dine. Then back but my Fire was in so poor a state that I consumed some time in getting it up, and therefore did little more than finish the third book De Natura Deorum which contains all that can be said in favour of Atheism. The Argument is undoubtedly a plausible one but after all it is weak. What is Man that he should set himself up as the creature of accident? What known state of things resulting from chance could ever authorize an argument in its favour as the cause of all the regularity of Nature? It is harder to believe in accident than in a Deity. Evening. Read Gibbon. Second Volume embracing the latter Roman Emperors of the Western Empire. His Style though satiating is still very good. Read two good Numbers of the Spectator.

Weather excessively cold. I went to the Office. My Wife not quite so unwell as she has been though her spirits are exceedingly depressed. The family in utter confusion, and comfortless as possible. Engaged all the morning in writing and after all accomplished only a Letter to T. B. Adams Jr. covering my Account up to the 12th instant, and a short one to my Father.1 This was no great matter but it was better than nothing. And the air is so sharp that it freezes the powers and nips one almost into nothing. The duty was performed and that always gives gratification.

Dined again at Mr. Frothingham’s. His brother was there. Is the Cashier of a Bank here and a respectable though evidently not a bright man.2 Returned home to chill again over a poor fire and accomplished nothing but copying my Letters. This is a miserable waste of life, and comfortless as miserable but what is to be done?

Evening. Carried my Letters to the Post Office and received one from my Mother with a Commission in the Navy for J. H. Adams.3 We shall now see the result. Read Gibbon, the Iliad Book 9th and the Spectator.