Morning pleasant after the snow which was quite deep for the season. I went to the Office—Read a portion of Rousseau’s Prize Essay in which I thought I could discern the sophism. He assumes for a state of nature what never at any time could have been the state of man. He supposes an absence of affections and passions which no age and no experience justifies. For him, the wildest savage yet known is actually in a state of civilization. It is pleasant, the weaving of the web not obscuring the true nature of the material, from that time to perceive it’s progress.

Diary and accounts. The Florida news is better today. General Gaines is relieved by Clinch and is about to pursue the war. Walk. Athenaeum where I could get no books, that I wanted. Home Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi and Corneille’s Cid which I have the curiosity to read, not having ever to my recollection done so before,1 de la Motte Fouqué. Evening at home, Madame Junot and Scotts Life of Swift which I finished. What a crowd of thoughts does this account give rise to—What a life and what a death.