Morning warmer. I went out with the children, but Louisa seems quite poorly. After a little run on the common, I went to the Office. Conversation with Mr. Everett upon the extraordinary course of the Globe against my father. He showed me a letter received from him last Saturday1 before this last event, in which I see clearly an approximation towards Mr. Webster and the Whig policy in the House. This is what I have been fearing and it shows the necessity of my keeping free from party engagement.

Visits from I. P. Davis about my Picture of my Grandfather,2 and from Ruf. Davis the Revolutionary veteran as well as a tenant. Nothing new. Home, read Livy—Minucius, Fabius Cunctator &ca. Afternoon, reading Sismondi and Ariosto. I am out of humour with Forster who germanizes. My spirits a little depressed—Why or wherefore I cannot clearly imagine.

This political turmoil is the uneasiest sphere in which to live that can be conceived—I mean to keep out of it. Evening at home with my Wife. Conversation until nine, when I made another attempt to write to my father which I did not leave until I signed my name.3 That is the only way.