It is now nearly a week since the sun has been seen, and every thing looks gloomy enough. My second Letter to Slade appeared today, but not very correctly printed. I went to the Office—Occupied in reading and writing, principally Diary and Accounts. I have been in duty bound to reply to Mr. Treadway for a long time, but have not been able to squeeze time for the requisite ten lines. I must also write to my father. Home early to read Livy.

At two o’clock I walked over to Charlestown to attend the funeral of Mr. Everett’s little child. There were present only the immediate connexions of the family. The service was a prayer, solemn and simple and rather touching, but the difficulty here as every where in New England ceremonies is a cold exterior which robs words of half their power. Mr. Everett looks much fatigued and depressed. He has had a fortune more brilliant than solid. We returned by three o’clock.

Afternoon which by the delay of dinner was rendered very short, writing and finishing the third letter to Mr. Slade. Evening, read to my Wife from Gil Blas, which is human nature all over, particularly those fine touches respecting Dame Lorença Sephora and the Archbishop of Granada.