The morning promised to be so warm that I thought it inexpedient to go through the process of travelling to Boston. Remained busy at 66home in arranging Papers to which however I do not devote my whole attention. I am sick of the business at present. The Letters are however many of them very curious, especially those from Mr. Jefferson most of which have been published. I also read more of Rousseau’s Emile which I like less as I progress. The man shines out at every page. A maker of paradoxes. A fashioner of gaudy instruments, bright to the eye, but utterly unsafe to use. The beauty of his style makes the wildest things easily swallowed, and the occasional clearness with which he lays down truth, in order to apply it wrong.1

My father, Isaac Hull and I went to bathe at Noon. The water was cold owing to an Easterly wind and Spring tide. Afternoon, read the Oration for Ligarius which may be included and make part of the subject commented upon yesterday. The flattery is rather gross, for Caesar after all was guilty of a high crime, yet one feels half inclined to give up the principle or at least to wink it out of sight. Evening, Grimm, and the Spectator.