Morning cool and hazy but it cleared afterwards. I went to the Office but was for the most part engaged at an Auction of Furniture at which I was desirous of purchasing some things. This consumed pretty much all of the morning.

Nothing new from Washington excepting some little matters of difference between Clay and Webster which betray a feeling I have all along suspected. There will be something perhaps grow out of it.

Home to read Oedipus with which I am charmed. Afternoon I read over the preface to Miss Baillie’s plays again. A good deal of thought in 392it but not enthusiasm enough. Evening read Lockhart to my Wife and after it, finished the last draft of my little biography.1