A regular snow storm this morning. Winter appears to be coming on suddenly. It made me dull to reflect upon the cheerless appearance of the external world. And yet I am the last person who ought to be depressed on any account. Have I not comforts and luxuries in abundance? Am I not protected from the elements? Yes, very true. But the 270months of November and December are always somewhat dreary to me and although they do not in reality take off from my happiness, they give me a sort of melancholy which lasts for a little while.

I went to the Office. Received another letter from Mr. Treadway upon Greenleaf’s business.1 Diary and Accounts as usual. Called at Mr. Walsh’s and conversation with him. Nothing particular. Home to read Juvenal.

Afternoon, writing, copied my letter to my father and finished the first of my series of papers about Pennsylvania. The children are ailing which is always unpleasant in a house. But, thank Heaven, today they do not appear ill. Evening quietly at home, reading the Portrait Gallery, and afterwards continued my Work. I am sick and tired of it—A very miserable business.