On the first day of each Quarter I am usually much occupied with matters of Account. Accordingly after reading as usual some of the thirty years War, I went to the Office. The day was uncommonly agreeable—One of the few which we can enjoy at this season of the year. My Wife is still suffering from her cough which does not abate. 108These complaints this year seem to possess unusual tenacity. I am still suffering from mine.

Called upon Mr. Foster who looks very ill and tells me he has a recurrence of his complaint of the Lungs. He looks to me as if his fate was settled. Paid him Interest as usual. Mr. Geitner called to request a delay of a few days for the payment of rent. He is also sick and dispirited, says he is afraid he shall die before he can get away from Boston. This sort of thing is among the most painful incidents of life. I have now arrived at the age when one perceives people beginning to drop around about, people with whom one has been in relations of friendship or civility. The ties of life begin to draw. I feel myself every day in a process of change.

Walk and lounging at shops, which is unprofitable. Read Wilhelm Meister, and the Manufacture of glass and porcelain. Felt dull. How much I have felt of this during the past Winter. Inexplicable.

My Wife’s cold remains much the same and mine does not wholly depart. I read a little of Schiller this morning, then to the Office where I was occupied in writing and accounts, had time for a short glance into the last number of the North American Review. An article upon the Bubbles by an old Man,1 by Mr. E. Everett, and a very singular Article upon Coleridge, which I was unable to finish this morning.2 Walk. Home. Wilhelm Meister.

Afternoon. Began the Memoirs or Autobiography of Marmontel,3 a work I found in the Athenaeum. There is something exceedingly pleasing in this style of writing. It leads one so much into the private thoughts and feelings which disclose man as he is. For after all, though a writer about himself always shows the picture in its best light, yet he tells much incidentally which deepens the shades and raises the colours. De Grimm as usual.

Evening at home alone, with my Wife. Mr. Frothingham and Miss Lydia Philips came in and we had an agreeable hour. Conversation desultory. He informed me that the Author of the Article upon Coleridge was Mr. Cheever a man who has made some noise at Salem lately in connexion with a personal affray growing out of slanderous statements made in a Newspaper. Wilhelm Meister.