The wind was blowing hard from the South west and it looked a little as if it might rain when I started with Mr. Ayer in my Gig to go to Quincy. Having reached there I earnestly set about work, first in laying out the ground not yet marked out with the Carpenter, and then in setting out some trees that I had procured a day or two since. My time was actively taken up, and I was glad to see some indications of the same in others. The frame is now nearly all done and it remains to raise it which I am promised will take place tomorrow, although I have very little confidence in the fulfilment. The delay hitherto has been great.

I returned at noon. Homer. Afternoon at home. Letter from my father still further delaying his return until I begin to doubt his coming at all.1 This a little discouraging to me as I should have liked their coming early this year. But in small things I have my share of disappointments and remain content with the reflection that they are small. Plutarch and Agathon.

Evening, called with my wife upon Governor Everett and his lady. Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham came in. Home where I read a powerful scene or two from Notre Dame.

A very beautiful day, and one very well adapted to the raising the frame of my house although I do not propose to be there to superintend it. My time somewhat occupied in accounts. My father’s tenants made some progress today in payment and I thought it best without further delay to make a remittance of as much as I could leaving myself somewhat bare notwithstanding the extent of the payments to which I am soon liable.1 I confess I am made by the position a little anxious. The money concerns of the Country do not get much better.

Homer. Then to Mr. P. C. Brooks’ to a dinner of the family, Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham, Governor and Mrs. Everett, and ourselves. Tolerably pleasant but nothing new, excepting the accounts from New York which are worse and worse.

Home, where I read Agathon for some time, and then Moores Life of Byron to my Wife. His latter days are not his best days. At least if we may except his Greek project which after all was rather a feeling than a principle. Afterwards, Victor Hugo, finishing the second vol-237ume which has a succession of pretty powerfully drawn scenes. Disagreeable, unnatural and yet not at all unlike or improbable.