The morning came in the most lovely shape of Spring, bright and warm. We returned to town and I found myself at the Office writing with my windows open, a thing in itself unusual at this season, perhaps imprudent. But the day was most uncommon. I was engaged during the time in reading, which I did with much less interruption than usual. Mr. Farmer came in very much humbled in his tone and talked of a settlement and reconciliation very strongly. I urged him to make it and he went away with the feeling so strongly upon him, that I feel as if I may escape this unlucky business without much injury. I hope the very lowering state of things is gradually cooling off and growing bright. But still there is much to trouble me. The very considerable amount due to me from Whitney, the small sum actually in hand are troubles which at present annoy me. Miss Longhurst’s failure also is a troublesome thing. Mr. Haskell came to have his bill of repairs paid upon the Store, which after having canvassed it considerably I settled.1 To me who am in a great measure ignorant and inexperienced in matters of this kind, it is no small source of uneasiness that I am subject to so many chances of imposition.

I read several Eulogies in Williston and was scarcely pleased with any. They are not sufficiently in the natural style. Too turgid.2 Afternoon reading Demosthenes, in which I go on so rapidly now that I soon shall finish this Oration. A noble effort and strongly illustrative of the power of words. Every one should remember that words are things. Evening at home. Abby was unwell, and it was not at all agreeable.