Cold and clear. I went to the Office—Time passed partly in writing Diary and Accounts, partly in reading Mr. Everett’s Europe. Politics look blacker than ever. There is at last an open breach in the democratic ranks between the Morning Post and the Worcester paper, the result of which appears to be an entire prostration of the possible chance of success in the Autumn. What a wretched business, and yet in the mean time the Advocate is dealing in twaddle about the Orange Lodges and so forth.1 There is no guiding such a paper with any view to great results. It prefers to write an article of buffoonery about our militia system to the best Essay upon the interests of the Country, and this is the taste of the people. Well, no wonder their politics are in so entangled a state.

Walk and then to read Livy, the account of that wonderful passage across the Alps which Hannibal accomplished. How refreshing it is to turn back and look at the past disencumbered of all the littlenesses of life. Joseph H. Adams dined with us. Afternoon, Sismondi, Ariosto and Fouqué–Nothing new and the MS still neglected. Evening, my Wife and self to a small party at Mrs. Carter’s, only about twenty. Dancing on the Carpet, rather pleasant. Home late.