Morning cool and delightfully pleasant. I occupied myself for an hour after breakfast with my coins and then went up again to renew my negotiation with Mr. Sharpe. But I did not find him. At the Office engaged in Accounts and Diary.

My No. 4 of my publication appeared this morning in both papers simultaneously. No editorial comments in the Centinel. I fancy he finds the thing beyond his mark, and abandons in despair. So much the better. Those articles cannot fall to the ground, they are too strongly reasoned not to produce some public effect.

I though I would go to Medford at noon. Accordingly I started at a little after one and arrived to dinner. Found my Wife and children tolerably, but the former not so much improved as I had anticipated—indeed as I thought not looking so well. Mrs. N. Hall dined there. In the afternoon I took a lounge and a nap in the grove upon my return from which I found the house full of company. Mr. and Mrs. R. D. Tucker, Mr. R. D. Shepherd and a Mr. Mayhew from Baltimore. Mr. and Mrs. Palfrey with Mrs. Phillips and Miss Salisbury. This is the weariness of Medford.

I could not help a feeling of relief when I thought I was not living 180here this Summer, to go this heavy round every day. My Wife is gregarious like all other Americans and this is perhaps what I regret most in her. The party retired at sunset, and in the evening I remained at home, in spite of an invitation to Jonathan Brooks’. My Wife was so fatigued as to stay too. Read an Article upon Coleridge in the new Edinburgh.1