Morning exceedingly warm but at two the wind came round with a jerk and the consequence was an extraordinary chill in the atmosphere. I went to the Office. Mr. Walsh came in and talked but there 381was nothing new. The political world seems to be in a state of calm. But the Globe has published a manifesto in which it is said is manifested much alarm for the result of the election and an admission that if it goes to the House, Mr. Van Buren will be defeated.1 I do not feel very sorry for this. In the first place it will take down the overbearing and dictatorial tone of the party, and in the second, it will make them more conciliatory to us in this quarter, which is very much to be desired. And even after all, if Van Buren fails, there will be no great loss to the Country. I support him as a choice of evils, and shall not cry my eyes out for the success of the ninny Harrison or the booby White. Under the latter especially the Government would be feebly but yet honestly administered. I am not sorry for this on many other accounts all connected with public considerations as very certainly any other result than the election of Mr. Van Buren effectually blocks up every path for me. I think this shows my disinterestedness pretty clearly.

Accounts and Diary, then on two or three commissions. Went to see Mr. Pickman’s House which is to be sold tomorrow2—A very nice house, but my object in looking at it is only curiosity. Livy. J. H. Adams took his departure from our house after dinner for Quincy where his mother has opened her’s. He has been quiet and cheerful, giving us no disturbance.3 Evening, a thunder shower. Madame Junot. The seventh volume is tiresome, Swift.

Cooler but a clear, fine air better than that of the two last days. I went to the Office and passed my time partly in my usual avocations and partly in reading Mr. A. H. Everett’s Europe which he has lately presented to me.1 An old story by this time, but one which contains speculations of much value.

Received a letter from my Mother2 acknowledging the receipt of mine and mentioning my father’s state of health as quite alarming. And yet the letter is the most cheerful I have received this winter. 382I am therefore doubtful what to think about the matter. My mother like all women often deals in superlatives which she does not feel. I hope that is the case now.

Walk. Home, read Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi and Ariosto. I must go back to the Manuscripts which I am shamefully neglecting. Fouqué. Evening quietly at home, reading Madame Junot, the last chapter of which we have reached. I afterwards read several of Swift’s Pamphlets, but the views I have taken of politics are so much clouded that I am beginning to lose all my zest for them. What a penny halfpenny business it has got to be.