Morning cloudy and cold. The Weather for some time past has been of the most disagreeable kind we have. The Easterly Wind quite sharp and piercing. After sending to be sold some of the books belonging to my brother, which are duplicates of those I myself possess, I went to the Office, where my time was passed in translating as usual. J. B. Davis called upon me about a Communication I had sent to the Patriot. His proposition was that he should put it under the editorial head of his paper, to which I very willingly consented although he proposes so much to adopt1 it, as not to allow me the authorship. This may be flattering but I can scarcely fancy it fair. However this is a mere premier pas.

I got something beyond my former mark in translating Aeschines before. Afternoon, began the final perusal of the same Orations in Reiske’s edition to read the Notes.2 But I begin to feel exceedingly wearied by an occupation of which even as yet I see little or no termination, and am moreover doubtful of my success. Yet as nothing new offers itself, and I am ashamed to turn back, it is as well to go on. Perhaps if I can find a light subject in the mean time, I will try it. Evening, read to my Wife a part of the Arabian Nights—Stories as amusing to me now as ever. After which I read more of Aeschines.