The morning was cloudy but without rain. I felt as I have of late inclined upon the occasion to feel a gentle sense of melancholy that the active period of life is passing with me, although less mingled than it has been with any sense of inertness on my part in making use of my advantages. During the past year I have done something towards earning for myself a reputation somewhat on a footing with that of those who have preceded me. And although my exertions receive no adventitious aid and experience much insidious hostility, they have not failed of their great purpose, the winning for me the good opinion of those whose good opinion is worth mentioning.

At home I have been blessed as ever, with uncommon good health among the members of my family, and with an escape from the cares and anxieties of the period to an extent which considering the nature of my undertaking at the outset is certainly worthy of reflection with increased reliance upon a divine providence which has ever been merciful to me and mine.

The day brought it’s usual number of little remembrances to the children with which they were gratified though not today so satiated as to react disagreeably upon themselves. I went to the Office where I was occupied in packing off my pamphlet and in Accounts. But these latter, I hope are not quite so numerous as they have usually been for I have taken pains to reduce them as much as possible. Home to read Herodotus. Afternoon at home reading the Correspondance which was more amusing again, but I feel a little ashamed to lounge so much. Perhaps there is no greater luxury than light literature, and yet no intellectual occupation attended with less profit.

Evening to Governor Everett’s in order to attend a small party given to Madame Caradori. There might have been thirty or forty there. Principally neighbors although without any very obvious principle of selection. There was singing by Miss Grant, Miss Bradbury, Mrs. Derby and by Madame Caradori—the latter of course the only one worth hearing. She sung a piece from the Tasso of Donizetti which was beautiful. Her singing is particularly charming. There is a perfec-373tion in her roulades which is not often found in the most accomplished performers. At Supper, I. P. Davis spoke to me of my Pamphlet, said Nathan Appleton had read it and approved of every sentiment. Perhaps he is as good a judge as we have. And I have no cause to be ashamed of my production. Home at eleven.