Fine day. My Wife seems to be slowly but gradually improving. My Mother on the other hand does not recover decisively. She thought change of air might do her good, so she concluded to go to Quincy today accompanied by my child Louisa and her Nurse. She is somewhat unwell from the process of teething. This did not however take place until afternoon.

I went to the Office. A short visit from Mr. A. H. Everett. He talks politics, is in a difficult situation and can foresee nothing. The Masonic 179Interest is unexpectedly predominant in the elections to the Worcester Convention. By unexpectedly I mean more than was expected, for that it would be very strong nobody with common sense could doubt. The consequence is in all probability a distracted election. This is not a ground of dissatisfaction to my father.

I went to the Athenaeum and accidentally took up a book called a Sunday in London.1 The picture is not a pleasing one and might be used to advantage in considering the virtuous horrors of Mrs. Trollope or the civil sneers of Hamilton.2 Walk as usual. Afternoon, Voltaire and d’Alembert—A very bad spirit in these letters. Yet there is sprightliness. Domestic Habits of birds.

My wife seemed better after she had been relieved from the anxiety about my mother’s condition. Quiet evening. Call from Mr. C. C. Woodward a polite beggar. I would have assisted him if I had not lately seen in the Newspapers something which earns for him the addition of swindler. Finished the last numbers of the Mirror.