Not so cold as yesterday although still pretty well. I went to the Office. Occupied in Accounts as usual, and finished the Article of Mr. Everett upon Nullification. Well written but superficial. Went to the Athenaeum and in that manner lost my walk. My cold has disordered my system again. I have for six weeks or more enjoyed excellent health but now I suffer from my Summer difficulties. Ailing, uneasy sensations about the region of the Stomach.
Nothing new of public interest. After dinner, busily engaged in my writing which I wish to throw off and have done with. It is of no use. Mr. Everett will not publish it and he will crowd his periodical with papers which strike me as meritorious only for their flatness. That is to say they keep the juste milieu until a man is tired to death. I do not know that I ought to be discouraged, yet it seems to me difficult to prevent it.
Evening at home. Read much of Lady Craven’s book which seems to be partly an olla podrida of old album reflections made by a woman who thinks herself more sensible than she is. The whole book is extraordinary enough and worthy of nobody but a lady of the noble blood of the Berkeleys. Continued my work in the evening.