Morning pleasant but the Easterly winds are beginning to remind us that Spring with us is nought but hope deferred. I went to the Office. Mr. Spear called from Quincy and discussed matters a little. The remainder of the time spent in a reading of a new publication by the Society for entertaining knowledge, entitled the Backwoods of Canada,1 being written by the Wife of an English Officer who took a grant of land in commutation of his place. I pitied the poor woman at every step. She is an exile for life from home, expecting nothing and anticipating no change sufficient in her life time to restore her to the society of her youth. Poverty in the old Countries is as great a misfortune as great wealth appears to be in this. The children of this marriage were not likely to have any chance in England so on their account the parents come here. Walk and home where I read Livy my full 357hour, for once. Afternoon, a snow storm set in. I luxuriated upon Sismondi,2 and de la Motte Fouqué. Evening Madame Junot and Swift.

Morning pleasant after the snow which was quite deep for the season. I went to the Office—Read a portion of Rousseau’s Prize Essay in which I thought I could discern the sophism. He assumes for a state of nature what never at any time could have been the state of man. He supposes an absence of affections and passions which no age and no experience justifies. For him, the wildest savage yet known is actually in a state of civilization. It is pleasant, the weaving of the web not obscuring the true nature of the material, from that time to perceive it’s progress.

Diary and accounts. The Florida news is better today. General Gaines is relieved by Clinch and is about to pursue the war. Walk. Athenaeum where I could get no books, that I wanted. Home Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi and Corneille’s Cid which I have the curiosity to read, not having ever to my recollection done so before,1 de la Motte Fouqué. Evening at home, Madame Junot and Scotts Life of Swift which I finished. What a crowd of thoughts does this account give rise to—What a life and what a death.

Morning clear and pleasant, but it afterwards clouded. I went to the Office. My present uneasiness is great about my daughter Louisa who seems to be subject to severe turns of a complaint the nature of which I do not know, but which takes the intermittent shape. She has always been the subject of much anxiety to us which increases rather than diminishes.

Mr. Walsh came in and talked—After which I read a little of Rousseau and wrote Diary. Called upon Mr. Brooks and showed him a letter I received today from Mr. Johnson which signifies neither one thing nor another.1 He advised me to go on with the investment of the rest. Walk, and home to read Livy.

Afternoon, Sismondi, whose Literature of the South of Europe I have taken up for the present. Some account of the Provençal poetry and that of the troubadour, which romance has invested in such faèry colours. Corneille, 3d Act of the Cid which is a noble play, and de la Motte Fouqué. Evening, Mr. Brooks took tea and afterwards my Wife went out with Mrs. Frothingham, so that I spent my time answering a letter of my Mothers.2 Swift’s Journal to Stella.