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.

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.