Morning still darkling and wet. I went to the Office and occupied myself much as usual. Accounts and Diary. Went through all my business which has been heretofore hanging in arrears and carried down to the Advocate Office the third number of my Address to Mr. Slade. The pressure is so rapid upon me that I fear I shall not do myself justice. And it is important to put him in a corner if possible. I mean to try and think I certainly should succeed if I had more time. But the moment is important as the Convention for amending the Vermont Constitution is about to sit.

Home after going to the Athenaeum. Livy whose account of the Tarquins is edifying. In the afternoon I ought to have continued writing but this constant work makes Slavery and I determined to enjoy the afternoon over the third Volume of that strange medley of thought and learning, the Doctor, a book written as I have no doubt by Southey.1 This has the peculiarity about it that a reader follows it along without knowing exactly why, or being sure he is not wasting 307his time. Evening at home. Read Gil Blas and after it, Goethe, which I will pursue.