Clear and windy day. I remained at home most of the morning busily engaged in copying the remainder of the Eulogy which I finished a 101few minutes before dinner. I do not know that upon any thing of late I have worked more steadily. The practice of writing is one to which I have familiarized myself and yet to go on so steadily for so many days makes my wrist ache. I again omitted reading Livy in consequence. But having got through, in the afternoon I walked up the hill to see the well diggers who are still busy upon their water search without yet finding enough. They are becoming restless and complain of the long search. From thence I went to see if Hardwick was doing any thing and to get him to sign an agreement if he was but not finding him on the spot I went to Colburn’s ledge to get an answer respecting the Stone. They wanted more precise information respecting the dimensions. I agreed to furnish them as soon as I could. From thence I went to the Canal and lumber yard and made a final agreement with them about the timber for the frame but did not conclude upon the boards. They spoke to me also of some brick which they would be able to supply. Home. Evening my father read aloud to the family most of his Eulogy.

At an early hour this morning we were up and dressed, ready to go into town. The day was cloudy and appeared to threaten heavy rain. This was rather unexpected to me as the evening had been so clear. My father and I with my little Louisa started in the Carriage for Boston a little after seven and reached my house before nine. I there left her and accompanied my father to the Mayor’s house. It had been arranged that the procession should start from the State House at ten o’clock so we found Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong ready and waiting for us.1 The lady had evidently expected my Mother whom I had persuaded to remain at home.

My father went in the procession but under the protection of Mr. Cruft. I joined Mrs. Armstrong’s party and we were admitted in the ladies gallery to the seats reserved for our family. Here we waited an hour and a half. The procession finally came in and filled the place, the Odeon,2 to the utmost. In witnessing this dense crowd and the interest they appeared to take in my father, I could not help reflecting upon the mutability of the popular passion.

My father was two hours and twenty minutes in the delivery. He was listened to with attention but was not heard very generally. His voice was feeble and the darkness of the day prevented his having light enough to read with facility. Indeed at one time I was very fearful he 102would stop altogether. He however got through and by giving full effect to his close succeeded remarkably well.3

I had entertained doubts of the result all along. The subject itself admitted of little rhetoric, and the disadvantages under which my father always labours before a Boston audience, though less perceptible on this than on former occasions, were considerable. Added to this his voice and his age, and I felt remarkably well satisfied that the result was as good as it turned out. These are scenes which prodigiously attract some people but they never recommend themselves to me. Either I take no interest in the speaker and then the thing is tedious, or I take so much as to make every movement painful. In neither case do I enjoy that evenness of mind which to me appears the point of all earthly happiness.

My father had engaged to dine with the Mayor so I was joined in the invitation. Dr. Lowell who officiated as Chaplain and two of the Marshals of the day, Messrs. Bigelow and Homer with Miss Walker a sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s made up the company. The dinner was pleasant enough but there is a something indescribable in such occasions which no principle of republican theory can entirely obviate. I felt it even against my will. We left at five o’clock and returned to Quincy, where I retired to bed very early.