This appears to have been the coldest morning of the winter thus far. The thermometer falling to zero shortly after sunrise. I went to the Office as usual and spent my time in drawing up Accounts and writing Diary.

I gave about an hour to Mr. Forsyth and Mr. Gorostiza, after which Mr. Everett came in. Nothing new. Congress goes on very slowly and even the discussions about Mr. Van Buren’s cabinet are done. Mr. E. 156says that the Jackson party is to begin the campaign vigorously and for that end is about to enlarge the size of the Morning Post next week. As things now are, I incline to the opinion that they will next year carry the State.

Short walk. No letters from Washington. Home. Livy. Afternoon, read Burnet’s Memoir of his own time. Rather a heavy book. The great mass of educated men at this day certainly write better. Evening at home. Read Tom Cringle’s Log, one of the Navy tales of the day. Afterwards, Goguet.

Very cold day. I went to the Office and passed my time much as usual. Finished the draught of my Quarterly Account and had a talk with Mr. Walsh, then to the Athenaeum where I looked over the publications, and got a book or two. Then home. Read Livy. Afternoon, Plutarch’s Essay upon the management of public affairs parts of which are admirable, and Burnet.

I received a letter from my Mother today in answer to mine. She takes it very ill as I feared she would but I hope it will do final good.1 My situation as it respects her is one of not a little delicacy, and I do not act as I do without considerable reflection on my duties as well to her as to others.

T. K. Davis came in to tea and spent the evening. Various conversation. After which I sat the old year out quite unconsciously, so interested was I in my father’s old pamphlet, the Review of Ames’ Works.2 Thus has passed another year of this fleeting existence, and become only food for memory. May that memory never have any thing more painful to record, I would hope and pray in all fear.