Day clear and warm. I went to town. Engaged in accounts and commissions, interrupted only by a short visit from Mr. Walsh. Nothing of peculiar interest from Washington today: the election of printers not having been decided by the house. But the secession of the third or conservative party from the Administration begins to show itself here, numbering twenty three votes in favor of the editor of the paper lately set up and called the Madisonian.1 When I look round now and think of myself, how encouraging is my prospect for fulfilling the injunction of the epigraph to this volume. Is this my fault? If so, and I am not prepared confidently to deny it, I must only work the harder.

I felt unwell and rambled down to the Athenaeum to look at the 312Advocate which I have entirely lost sight of since my subscription stopped and to find a new book or two. The Advocate exhibits signs to my mind of mortal decay. As to the books, I could not find them. Home.

Afternoon, the ladies went to Boston to see Mr. and Mrs. E. Everett. I remained to see to my work but I found only one man at my house and felt myself so unwell that I soon came down and after reading a few pages of Humboldt laid down. This quieted me at first and I got up to tea and played Loto with the children, and then tried to write my Diary. I accomplished this but could do nothing more and went to bed. These headaches are a singular infliction in regular health.