Cold continues. I went to the office after reading Oberon. Fire missed catching and therefore cold and comfortless. Mr. Beale called in from Quincy with several items of information. His particular business an application for an answer by my father to an offer of a Long Lease of one of the House Lots in my Grandfather’s donation to the town.1 He is living at home this winter with his children. Cold enough. I took my walk though not without considerable discomfort.

The whole town talking of a melancholy suicide. A young woman, daughter of N. P. Russel just married to a Clergyman Mr. Barnard. An unhappy affair. This town is too gloomy. Yet gayer ones have more suicides. The spirit of gaming drives these.

Afternoon, Letters of Samuel Adams and Ralph Izard. The latter a very uneasy, passionate spirit. It is not a little singular however to find him taking up the Cudgels for the Fisheries against my grandfather who probably from a spirit of contradiction some say in conversation with him argued against them. Such are the perversities of the human mind. Evening, read Mrs. Trollope’s Belgium.2 A poor thing with not half the spirit of her American book. Oberon.

Still very cold. I went to the Office and occupied myself in Accounts and Diary as usual. As I collected some Money today, I thought I would do my duty and put it into circulation again. So I went round paying various bills. This took so much of my time that I had no opportunity for my usual walk. And upon returning home found my hour for reading Ovid very much cut short. Afternoon Looked over the letters of Richard Rush and found one or two valuable things which I did not expect. This led me to the correspondence of Dr. Rush his father who was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.

In the evening I began to think again of dipping into political composition. I must write to keep my hand in exercise. It is not a little singular how awkward I find myself when I go back after a long cessation of it. I began ten times tonight and finished nothing. My present work is upon a project to bring Mr. Webster forward as a Candidate for the Presidency, by Massachusetts. Absurd enough. Read a little of Oberon.

Thermometer below zero. Office as usual where I was so wholly engrossed by my Accounts as to be entirely unable to take up my Diary. Mr. Hurlbert the Tenant was my only visitor. I was unable to take as long a walk as usual and from Mr. Brooks dining earlier lost my time for Ovid. I made it up however in the Afternoon, and read a good deal of the correspondence of Dr. Rush. His children did right to decline the publication of his letters. For he was evidently no friend of Washington, and a member of the Gates and Conway party.1 Yet there is great good feeling in the Letters, and a general honesty which highly recommends them.

Mr. Brooks and my Wife went to Medford so that I was uninter-51rupted and wrote with more ease and fluency. Received a letter from my father2 which depressed my spirits somewhat. He is still struggling with his affairs there and appears to grow more hopeless as he proceeds. This devolves upon me the duty of considering what it is proper for me to do in the case. Shall I continue to be dependent upon him to his own ruin, when a little sacrifice on my part may contribute to relieve him.