I did not feel perfectly well even yet. My digestive powers not appearing to be in their usual order, I went to the Office and was occupied as usual in Accounts and in Diary.1 Nothing of any consequence occurred.

I went down and tried to find Mr. Hallett but could not succeed. He has left town in some direction or other. And in the mean time his Paper is heavy and flat. The newspaper indications are that Mr. Webster will be the final candidate of the party. I am getting into such a snarl that my safest course will be at once again to withdraw from politics. I mean first to write an exposition of the absurdity of the Webster nomination and then rest upon my oars.

Walk, and Juvenal. Afternoon finished my work of pasting and read some of Rousseau’s Contrat Social. It rained heavily. Evening. Coins and Medals. Writing without satisfaction.