Fine morning. I went to the Office and was engaged there as usual. Mr. Spear came in from Quincy and conversed with me upon the subject of the various matters left by my father. He has acted more strangely this time than ever. He has left all his Affairs at sixes and sevens and intrusted none to me. I am not sorry for this as I have enough of my own to take care of. But I am afraid his property will not be much improved by the change.

Diary, and out to take a walk. Called at Cunningham’s to see some 269Coins advertised for sale. I should like to have them but cannot at present afford them. Walk. Home. Juvenal. Finished the eleventh and began the twelfth Satire.

Afternoon, reading Rousseau’s Contrat Social. He is a strong writer and a very ingenious thinker. Let Voltaire say what he will of him. I then wrote part of an Essay for the Newspaper the commencement of which satisfied me better than any thing I have done.

Evening quietly at home. Worked upon my Coins but little. Instead of which I read some Biographies in the Portrait Gallery.1 The baby was sick and the Dr. came to see it.

Morning cool and cloudy. I have now got back pretty thoroughly to the old system of living which I am in the habit of pursuing in winter. The summer is gone and a very pleasant one it has been, but I like the variety of peaceful domestic life. Sickness of children is the only drawback. The baby had a very bad night and seemed this morning far from well. The Dr. came in again.

I spent the morning in writing. Afterwards Attended divine service. Mr. Frothingham. Psalm 104. 19. “The sun knoweth his going down.” Reflections upon the application of the text to man and an exceedingly pretty tribute to the late Dr. Freeman. Afternoon 1. Peter 3. 8. “Be courteous.” An old but a very good Sermon upon moderation of manner and respect to the aged.

Read Dr. Barrow, following out the text of last Sunday. He discussed the causes of delay to repentance, and its effects, upon youth, upon age. A judicious discourse. Evening quietly at home. Wrote to my father.1

A regular snow storm this morning. Winter appears to be coming on suddenly. It made me dull to reflect upon the cheerless appearance of the external world. And yet I am the last person who ought to be depressed on any account. Have I not comforts and luxuries in abundance? Am I not protected from the elements? Yes, very true. But the 270months of November and December are always somewhat dreary to me and although they do not in reality take off from my happiness, they give me a sort of melancholy which lasts for a little while.

I went to the Office. Received another letter from Mr. Treadway upon Greenleaf’s business.1 Diary and Accounts as usual. Called at Mr. Walsh’s and conversation with him. Nothing particular. Home to read Juvenal.

Afternoon, writing, copied my letter to my father and finished the first of my series of papers about Pennsylvania. The children are ailing which is always unpleasant in a house. But, thank Heaven, today they do not appear ill. Evening quietly at home, reading the Portrait Gallery, and afterwards continued my Work. I am sick and tired of it—A very miserable business.