Another severely cold morning. If this is a specimen we are to have a very tremendous time of it this winter. I finished this morning the novel of Dacre. Rather above the ordinary level of the books which treat of fashionable life and evidently from the hands of an experienced Stager, but after all I hardly feel as if I have employed my time when I lay down such books.

Attended divine service and heard Mr. Frothingham Luke 24. 5.6. “Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here but is risen.” The resurrection, but I could not fix my attention. This is a fine sub-277ject. Mr. Francis treated it in the same Church on the 28th June last. Afternoon, Mr. Greenwood. John 1. 46. “And Nathanael said unto him Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth? Philip said unto him Come and see.” Quite a discriminating Sermon upon the nature, causes and value of prejudice and the line where the indulgence of it should be made to stop. Alas, Mr. Greenwood preaches to ears which catch the rule but do not remember the exception. Prejudices no doubt are useful to sustain feeble principles, but they as often embarrass strong ones.

Dr. Barrow’s other Sermon upon the inducements to Industry as good as the last, and both very well worthy of attention from me. Finished and copied letter to my father. Evening, A. H. Everett and his Wife passed a couple of hours. Some political talk, but nothing material.

This is still cold weather. I went to the Office and was engaged in writing and Accounts. Despatched more of my Pamphlets which appear almost entirely forgotten—Although my father’s letter tells me it is known pretty well at Washington.1 There is some comfort in all these things. There is comfort that an effort to strangle my strength in it’s infancy should not entirely succeed.

Nothing new. Home, where I read the thirteenth Satire of Juvenal over again and was again impressed with it’s superior beauty and merit. Afternoon, read Levesque’s Account of Peter the first of Russia, but I ought to be doing something more. And was amused by a part of the Correspondance of Voltaire and Madame du Deffand.

Finished and despatched a letter to my father2—Cannot tell how he will receive it. There are some hints respecting his course which he may not like. Evening, I read to my Wife from whatever Novel she selects, this evening it was Beatrice by Mrs. Hofland.3 Afterwards, Coleridge’s translation of Schiller’s Wallenstein.