Morning cloudy, but as I thought it probable that it would not rain, I went to town. Passed my time in bringing up my Accounts for the past Quarter and in reading Monsieur Mirabeau, who discusses the rate of Interest and the importance of Commerce. This has become a part of a leading Science of the present day1 which has had many Writers and acquired through their means a kind of cant language rather ridiculous than otherwise to those who require that words should distinctly represent ideas. With many authors, this jargon appears fascinating. Certain positions were established by Adam Smith, and those may be considered as solid. All the building upon them that I have seen proceeds from theoretical views and not such as are reduced to the scale of the world’s actual condition.

I returned to Quincy to dine. Afternoon, read some spurious Orations, attributed to Sallust and Cicero, which seemed to have been written as studied imitations of the Style of the two Authors, but they are too much alike, and the roundness of Cicero’s periods is not preserved. I believe I shall stop for the present, as I do not read with the same accuracy at Quincy as in Boston and as the period for my return is approaching. I continued to file Papers with some success.

The Evening was rainy. I read a part of Timothy Pickering’s famous Review of the Cunningham Correspondence. It is the essence of Wormwood. But it failed of it’s effect. My Grandfather was honoured as few men have been at their death, and Col. Pickering lived to see it, in the Presidency of my Father.2 Afterwards I read Grimm and the Spectator.