Diary of Charles Francis Adams, volume 8

Wednesday 17th.

Friday 19th.

Thursday 18th. CFA Thursday 18th. CFA
Thursday 18th.

Warm day. Morning to town. After dinner at home. Evening at the Mansion.

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Although not my day, I went to town this morning, partly for the purpose of accommodating my father who wished to go in and partly to attend to my house in Acorn Street which has lost the best tenant I ever had. The weather extremely warm. And as has often happened with me, I had more to do in walking than usual.

Returned as usual. Afternoon Tacitus book 3d of Annals, c. 20 to 40. I find this particular book is one with which I am not so well acquainted. Grimm and Le Comte, finishing the first volume of the latter.

My last paper upon South Carolina was published this morning with which I am inclined to think I shall terminate my labours for the Courier. It is a little observable how tenaciously the press adheres to it’s rule of entire silence respecting any thing I write. It carries it so far as in the case of what I write under my name for the New York Magazine, to omit my particular article in the general notice of that publication which has that signature whilst they notice the one I wrote anonymously.1 There is something rather complimentary in this, but it is uphill work. I believe I am beyond the day of discouragement. Evening at the Mansion.

1.

Notices of the first issue of Hunt’s Merchants’ Mag. had been printed in a number of newspapers since its publication in June. None, apparently, that had come to CFA’s attention singled out for mention his signed article that had appeared in the issue (above, entry for 25 June). The irony that impresses him here probably derives from the praise recently given his unsigned and misattributed North American Review article (above, entry for 4 July). His second signed article in Hunt’s (below, entry for 25 July) would be praised as “a lucid, practical, and philosophical exposition” in the Quincy Patriot (10 Aug., p. 2, col. 4), but this would receive no mention in the Diary, nor would it assuage the bitterness he felt over his neglect in the Boston press.