Weather cold and disagreeable. Snow and rain all day today. I went out late after the death of Gustavus Adolphus the Lion of the North, and by desire of my Wife called to see Mrs. Frothingham upon certain matters relating to our summer removals. Then to the Office where I was mainly occupied in bringing up my Diary which has fallen behind hand amazingly. The day was so bad I found no pleasure in being out and therefore omitted my walk. Lounged away some time at the bookstores. Home. Edward and P. C. Brooks and Mr. Frothingham dined with us. A pleasant time. Afternon read Grimm and M. Thiers.

Evening, began a new dramatic Poem called “Philip van Artevelde” by a Mr. Taylor.1 This has been exceedingly lauded by several of the English Reviews and described as opening a new poetical era. Mr. Taylor is himself a leading contributor to the Quarterly and all criticism in England is now so entirely one sided in consequence of political feeling that no confidence is to be placed in it. I am pleased however with a brief criticism introduced before the piece, upon some of the defects of the Poetry lately fashionable. Finished Wilhelm Meister.

Very cool for the season with a brisk North Wester. I read Schiller until late, then to the Office and House to superintend Repairs. Received a letter from my father being the last of the series he has sent me.1 In it he alludes to his own situation and defends himself for his return to public life. His reasons are certainly strong and as applied to him convincing but I can only regret the more that they should be so. His mind is of the fiery, ambitious stamp impatient of ease and preferring to it the most violent commotion. To him action is necessary.2 The more is the pity, for the close of such a man’s life is rarely dignified. We must submit with patience.

My morning was much cut up. Returned home and found the family under some uneasiness from Horatio Brooks who had suffered somewhat by being thrown out of a chaise on one of the Bridges. He came home but was lying down. He has behaved himself with such propriety that I regret the incident as well on his own account as that of his father whom such things severely mortify. Such is the fate even of the happiest. Such are the counterbalancing evils attending the great privilege of children. When I look round me and think of my own, how I look up to the Deity alone for protection for them and myself. There is not much on earth. Afternoon, Grimm and Thiers whose first Volume I finished. Evening instead of German, the Autobiography of Sir Egerton Brydges, a curious book.3