Another cold, grey day. As this had been made a holiday in London I concluded to remain over. Mr Sturgis however went to town for a few hours, and brought me out my letters. There had been a delay in the trip of the Canada, so that my application had not arrived at. The suspense must therefore hold over another week. My morning was spent looking over a new edition of Dante’s Inferno, with a French version and illustrations by Gustave Doré. They are interesting from the great use made of light and shade, producing more effects than outline, as in my own folio Italian copy at home. I followed the text with the occasional aid of the version, and gained a fairer notion of the grand and yet grotesque nature of this poem. The imagination running wild now soars to a lofty height and now sinks to the bathos of the repulsive and the ludicrous. The cast is given and gloomy. Towards evening I walked with my son Brooks round by Weybridge through the Park and back by the highway. Mr and Mrs Norris dined here. Colonel Hawley left in the morning. I saw young Henry today. He looks thin and wasted. His difficulty is an affection of the hip or loin brought on by a severe cold. It is likely to lay him up for a long while. A quiet evening for the children, and more of the ordinary amusements.