The lovely weather continues and as it seems to me grows finer and finer every day. I went to the Office and passed my time in writing and Accounts. The Newspapers take no notice of my sixth number of the Massachusetts Voter although it is about as severe a castigation as any party ever received. There is something truly curious in the manner in which they treat me. Silence which betokens fear, and a crawling under the lash as if by getting closer they could avoid its blows.

I rode to Quincy, and my Wife went to Medford. My father and mother only at home. Mary at Mrs. Adams’ passing the day. Conversation with my father. Dr. Waterhouse has written him a letter in which peeps out the manner my “Appeal” is treated in State Street. They say it is from my pen but my father’s brain. He then calls my papers of the Massachusetts Voter too laconic to be explicable. He cannot understand them.1 Poor soul, he is almost past the age of comprehension and writes long foolish epistles for the sake of catching replies which my father is hardly sensible of the effect of. I cautioned him today.

About sunset I started to return calling at Mrs. Adams’ for Miss DeWint who wished me to take her in to be ready to start tomorrow morning. Quiet evening at home. Resumed the papers of the Massachusetts Voter.