I was aroused very early this morning by my Wife with the announcement that her confinement was at hand. This made it necessary for me to go down and see Dr. Bigelow who happened to have an engagement to deliver a Lecture before the Medical Society today. I thought it doubtful whether he could give his services and called for the purpose of ascertaining. He said he was at liberty excepting for one hour and would make an arrangement for that. I then went to Medford to see Mrs. Reed the nurse engaged and brought her in with me. All of which before breakfast. Afterwards I was on and off at home all day. Calling in from hour to hour. Nothing material done on that account.

The Afternoon and evening devoted to the seventh number of my speculation. This morning the sixth appeared and is well written. But what the effect of these Papers will be I do not know. The Atlas contains a short and spiteful notice of my last which shows anger rather than the power to resist. All that I must expect.1

I sat up very busily writing until midnight so that my anxiety was in a measure kept down until my Nurse came to inform me that my Wife was safely delivered of a fine boy,2 and had suffered less than usual. I could not realize it, so great has been the tension of my mind for months past, and could not retire until I had the Drs assurance as well his action by retiring to bed for her safety. I poured out my soul in gratitude.

After breakfast and finding my Wife still pretty well I concluded to go to Quincy for the purpose of setting in motion the airing and drying the House which my situation has prevented my attending to before. A cold fog from the North East. I gave all the directions which could be given, but it looks dreadfully cheerless and desolate out there. I was glad to return home.

Afternoon quietly at my Office. Read Duclos and a little of Madame du Deffand. Crabbe’s Parish Register, Marriages and Deaths. The colours are too dark. What is life in it’s realities? Not generally an encouraging prospect. The agreeable visions of the imagination form half of the enjoyment. Then why bring up those which are not so, voluntarily, I mean.

Evening after sitting until eight with my Wife I withdrew to my study and sat down to an earnest remodelling of my seventh and most difficult Political Speculation. Finished but half before I retired and it was then unusually late.

Very warm. I was again obliged to go out to Quincy for the purpose of putting in motion the People whom I have got there. I did as well as I could but found myself at every step puzzled exceedingly for want of knowledge where every thing is put. This is a sad obstacle. On the whole I hardly know where to begin in my arrangements and from the cheerless aspect of the place feel less heart to do any thing than I have ever done. A shower detained me doing little until I barely got home to dinner. A letter from my father that they would not return until Sunday.1 I am not ready for them even then.

Afternoon, I went down to see the Editor of the Advocate. A long conversation with him upon the present state of affairs and prospects for the future—The character of Mr. Webster and the efforts he has made to destroy or see destroyed through his friends my father’s influence in Massachusetts. I am resolved upon an attempt at counteraction and for this purpose laid down what I think is the only mode. He seemed well disposed to sustain the course proposed. We separated with a prospect of pushing the support of Mr. Van Buren from an independent source. Evening continued and finished No. 7.