Fine, clear day. I went to Boston and passed my time there with my usual waste. The accounts of the Cholera from New York are bad enough and the People seem to be able to talk of little or nothing else. Indeed to read the Newspapers much and to hear the talk are enough to give the disease almost. I went to the Athenaeum, to my own house, to Mr. Brooks’ room, &ca. and was glad when the time came to return.

Afternoon, read Seneca. Finished de clementia. It is very imperfect however. The treatise is full of fine sentiment. Occasionally the morality is of a very superior order, and it is only by considering the flattery of Nero and his subsequent character that we deduct from its merit. It is not possible to suppose him such an adept at dissimulation as to conceal his propensities. And Seneca must have known them if any body. He should therefore have spared his encomiums.

We have been slightly expecting my father today. The last news of him is of Thursday at Philadelphia.1 We wish to hear of him this side of New York. Quiet evening.