We had a fall of snow during the night and it was dark and cloudy today. Went to the Office, finished my third Number upon the public lands with which I was well pleased and sent it.1 The Vanity of an Author is perhaps the most deceptive thing in the world. I write and write. Nothing of mine has ever yet been at all taking, and yet I flatter myself along, that what has not yet been, may nevertheless be. 207So is it with the young. My next task is fully equal to all the ability I can muster. Went to the Athenaeum and tried to look up the subject.

Afternoon, continued and finished the second book de Officiis. But instead of going on with the Treatise I began to reflect upon Mr. McLane’s discussion of the Tariff.

Evening, after reading to my Wife, part of the Canterbury Tales, I sat down to commit my ideas to Writing, but I found infinite difficulty in giving clearness to them. The subject of Political Economy is even now a most puzzling subject to the most thorough student of it, because its laws are not yet fully understood. To me who see but as through a glass darkly, though I know Mr. McLane’s error I can not quite describe it. My attempts did not please me at all. I left off late to read the Spectator.