A succession of fine weather such as I have rarely known in this climate. I went to the Office. Read the President’s Message, a Valedictory full of all Sorts of things, but on the whole more moderate than usual. He is very cautious about Texas as well as the Tariff compromise, is very obscure about the Currency, discusses the distribution bill and takes his leave. Such is the end of Andrew Jackson’s Presidency. One of continued storms, from which he emerges a shattered hulk with hardly power to keep from sinking. Well, he is not to be envied, although I hardly think he should be as much hated as he has been. Talk with A. H. Everett. At any rate, we are much relieved here in Massachusetts.

Athenaeum where I could find no books. Afternoon short for Mr. Walsh dined with me. Swift. My child Louisa is again sick, and I am unaccountably depressed. Why this should be I know not, and how wicked it is, I know full well.