Fine day. I went this morning to town. My boy is this day one year old. I always think of the passage of time as it respects the children with gratitude to God. One year ago, the day was one of immense and trying anxiety to me—My mother taken ill fearfully in the morning, and my wife in childbirth before night. I am, thank God, easier now, although a man after he acquires his relations in life is rarely free from anxiety. My Mother is now very ill and my daughter is ailing. Yet my lot is a blessed one in having health myself and in my Wife as well as uncommonly healthy children. Let me trust every thing to the Deity.

Busily occupied this morning with my arrears. Then to the Carpenter’s who was not there and to the Athenaeum. Attracted by two numbers of Jacob Faithful a story in the Metropolitan Magazine, which appear to me far superior to the rest.1 Remained there longer than I had intended. Received from my father for my son, a silver cup as a birthday present.

Went to Quincy. Found my Mother a little better but still apparently quite ill. Passed much time with her, the remainder in reading the second volume of La Fontaine’s Novel. T. B. Adams came in. J. Q. Adams his brother has got an appointment in the Navy and sails in the Potomac. This is the fourth appointment to the United States Service in that family and two of them with reasonable ground for doubt of their propriety.2 But I say nothing. Evening. Conversation with my father upon the prospects of this Country. Afterwards, sat up until late deeply interested in Herr von Lange.