The cold now begins to make us sensible of the approach of Winter. I went to the Office and passed my time in reading the remainder of 216 image Milton’s answer to the publication made under the name of the King called Eikōn Basilikē, in modern character. There is roughness and yet vigor in his manner of controversy. I should prefer some more polished weapons. There is one merit however in his style worthy of imitation. There is no surplusage in his style. No superabundance of words to represent ideas.

Took a walk as usual and in the afternoon, read Bacon’s Novum Organum which I find I have mastered pretty well. Here is an author who has more ideas than words, whose style becomes involved because he is so cumbered with them. Yet his page is one a man will return to again and again, while the mass of works of the present day pass to be forever forgotten. I read my usual portion of the fifth book of Virgil.

In the evening, read to my Wife from Tom Jones1 —A mine of sense and feeling but unfortunately alloyed with immorality and with disgusting ideas. Delicacy seems to be unnatural to the native English mind. All its vigorous productions of an original character are coarse.

Very cool indeed. I went to the Office and was busy in reading Milton although not with a great deal of profit. Called upon Mr. Hallet and had a conversation upon political affairs. I asked him to withdraw my name from the Antimasonic list of Representatives. He demurred. I told him how I was situated, that I did not wish positively to refuse but that if it was a matter of indifference to the party, I would rather have it taken off. He said he would see how the thing was received and if he could do it easily, my request should be complied with, but that they wanted names and especially Lawyers. My Law is a vast thing to be sure.

Received a letter from my father with a caution about the Post Office. It seems, one of my packets came quite open, but whether forced open or merely worn through, I cannot say.1

Miss Julia Gorham dined with us. Afternoon continued Bacon, and read three hundred lines of Virgils fifth book. Evening, Tom Jones, and Racine’s Andromaque. I have now finished all Racine’s best tragedies. I admire them as fine specimens of versification, and strong personation of passion and character, but I regret the clogs which the stiffness of the French taste has embarrassed him with. All Plays in 217French are alike. They all turn upon love, and they all have heroes and heroines out of nature, with each a confident or confidente to work out the plot with. And this in the face of the fact so often stated by the “Grand Condé,” that no man is a hero to his Valet de Chambre. They use no bigger words than the mass of mankind. What call is there to elevate them out of nature?