It snowed at day break but was afterwards a clear and mild day. The Child seems to be improving and has recovered her usual animation. I went to the Office. Occupied a little but I found myself suffering under a heavy cold and pain in my head. This with me generally paralyzes all exertion. Read Lingard. Went to the Athenaeum and took a Walk—Nothing occurring of any consequence. Afternoon, I pursued the perusal of Anquetil and I wrote a little of the Article but without much spirit in either. My exertions have been so useless that I feel a total want of self confidence. I believe that it would be better for me to remain quiet and philosophize upon life. To strengthen myself by private practice without venturing upon the opinion of the world. My notions are many of them not particularly likely to catch the tone of the vulgar. Evening quiet. I did nothing. Edward Brooks came in and spent an hour, but I felt stupid and heavy. Exertion in such cases is dreadful.