A cloudy day but very warm. I went to the Office as usual. The election is in it’s heat. Prophecies for and against in plenty. I say 259nothing and think nothing. The extraordinarily distracted condition of parties must speak for itself, in the result. I pity all the politicians who depend upon it.

Just as I was sitting down about my usual business came in Mr. Treadway of New York, who married Susan B. Clark and sat three hours conversing upon various topics of interest to himself, more especially upon a difference between him and Mr. Greenleaf relating to an alleged invasion on his part of copyright of this gentleman.1 I gave him the best advice I could and heard the whole story. But I was entirely cut short in my work.

Walk to restore my Appetite. Spirits dull. Home, Juvenal. Finished the ninth Satire. Coarse enough, but strong. Afternoon Aristotle. Evening on my Coins. Nothing of particular consequence.