The opening of the day brought with it winter and storm. The snow was several inches deep already, and rapidly increasing with a violent 197wind from the Eastward. I hesitated long before deciding to go to the Office, a business not of the pleasantest. When there however, I was paid by receiving a letter from my Mother in tolerable spirits speaking of arrangements to come on.1 I am a little doubtful whether this is not all Smoke as usual. We shall see. She speaks very doubtfully of Mr. Everett.2 I do not exactly know why, but so much like a snake are his windings, that it is impossible at a distance to guess at them. Dr. Storer called in about this business of Farmer’s. The latter insists upon the sum of two hundred dollars which I think an enormous piece of extortion, and accordingly I am of opinion that the suit must go on. We talked it over and I could not help feeling galled at the idea that the scoundrel had of his hold over me. If it must be war, it shall be, and damned be he, who first cries, hold. Mr. Welsh spent an hour in conversation, the rest of the time was passed in reading Clinton’s Address to the Society at Columbia—A very uncommonly good production, with which Williston’s book closes.3 I have derived some benefit from this work, though not disappointed4 by the general impression it leaves of dissatisfaction. There are few specimens of true Eloquence, much rant, great bad taste and a good deal of brilliancy. At home after dinner reading Demosthenes on the Crown, which I am rapidly closing. Tomorrow finishes.

My wife has today been quite unwell and suffering. In the evening, I tried to resume Clarissa Harlowe in the last volume, but she was unable to hear. So I advised her to go to bed, and sat myself reading Campbell on Rhetoric, until I came to a metaphysical Chapter which posed me though I read it twice, and it is on a question which is curious. Why do sensible men sometimes write nonsense?

Morning clear and the snow began to melt with great rapidity. I went to the Office as usual and passed most of the morning in writing to my Father.1 Dr. Wendell called upon me and paid his little balance, which thus clears off another of the very disagreeable trifles that have been pressing me. I hope in time to get through them all. My letter was upon business and a brief and clear statement of his affairs. Not 198over flattering to be sure, but still worthy of attention. Half an hour was passed attending a Stock Sale,2 which turned out however in nothing material. I have funds to invest but fear I shall not be able to make them fully available, just yet, this I regret, as the Atlas Stock which I propose to purchase went low.

Returned home and after dinner was employed in reading Demosthenes, and finishing the celebrated oration on the Crown.3 It is a great effort and deserving perpetual study. The remarkable point is that he manages so well to throw over the whole the strong colouring of truth. Who can help feeling as if he had truth on his side when he recapitulates his services and his motives? Who does not feel as if Aeschines his accuser is playing a low game? On the whole, I think I have been fully paid in this study, by the insight given me into the power of words. Who does not feel the truth of Mirabeau’s explanation of his power when he said that he always considered Words as things.

The Evening was passed at the usual meeting of the Debating Society. The question of Theatrical Exhibitions was again brought up and discussed. I took no part in it however this evening as I had on the last exhausted all I had to say. It was a little singular that Chapman followed my ground precisely. We carried our point. This was the closing evening in this season. In looking back to the beginning, I find I have not lost my time, for in ease and self possession, in the knowledge of division and exposition, I have made considerable progress. This is all however, but little compared to what I wish.