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.

It looked really like Winter this morning. The Streets were a sheet of ice. I went to the Office and after the usual work rather idled away my time. Wrote an answer to Mr. Treadway.1 This is a tiresome business, and I wish I was rid of it. But the change having now arrived when I have always a good deal of leisure time at the Office, I must try and turn it to some account. Walk, and home to read Juvenal whose twelfth Satire I got through with.

Afternoon copying my letter to Mr. Treadway and finishing my second number for the Advocate. I have some doubts about the merits of these. They do not strike me so favorably as other things I have done. And I hope they will prove the last. Politics are not agreeable to me. I pursue them in order to maintain my standing in the eyes of others. Read Madame du Deffand and Voltaire.2 Evening, the Biographies of Voltaire and Rubens in the Portrait Gallery. Afterwards writing without satisfaction.

Morning clear and mild. But the snow gives altogether a different aspect to the Country and chills the air to a very different temperature from what it would otherwise be. I went to the Office and passed my 271time a little more profitably. Read part of Rousseau’s Contrat Social besides writing Diary and Accounts as usual.

Called on Stephen Brown the broker and asked him to sell for me one share in the Merrimack Manufacturing Company. I dislike so much the appearance of public affairs that I have concluded to realize on this Speculation. Manufactures may continue to flourish, but I have quite enough from which to draw benefit besides.

Walk and home. Juvenal. Thirteenth Satire. Afternoon, I began over again upon my Grandfather’s Papers. These drag on heavily. But I mean to do the work sometime or other. I picked up some Autographs among them. Evening quietly at home. Read the biographical notices of Titian, Claude and Boccaccio. Afterwards at work upon the last of my three numbers.