I was busy all day in making up arrears, in writing notes of various kinds and in attending to my accounts, after which I took a long walk in the town. I am not yet altogether recovered from my attack at Lynton, and that with the news from America and the return to city habits made me lowspirited. The approach of another winter here seems to be exceedingly distasteful. The novelty of the scene is warn off and its chilling repulsive features present themselves more and more forcibly. The view toward the west is scarcely more cheering. I see that progress is making to the end, but I dread all the events of the transition, and the result itself looks more and more gloomy. The resistance of the South only seems to portend its more complete social overthrow. There cannot be a reunion In the mean time we are walking over burning ploughshares. Such reflections are not agreeable, and I return to them with loathing. But at the same time, we are in the hands of God and can only pray that out of the present chastisement we may draw the benefit of purification and refinement in our future lives. I must be content to continue here so long as it may be the pleasure of my country to consider that I can be useful.