I went to the Office this morning but had scarcely got there before I perceived I had left my keys with the child to play with. The consequence was that I could do nothing. I therefore went down to the Althenaeum to read the Newspapers and try to make up an opinion upon the speech and bill of Mr. Clay. On reflection, I think the speech is worse than the other. It is unstatesmanlike, and unsound. It gives no views that are either just or generous. It stamps the man.

I read or rather skimmed Henry Lee’s publication in answer to the Memoirs of Jefferson. It falls into the very vice it blames. It is abusive to Jefferson, my grandfather and father, and lauds Hamilton. Mr. Lee has erred extremely. He might have made a strong case against his adversary if he had only been careful to avoid that kind of crimination which shows a partisan. His hostility to my father is excessive, considering that the latter has generally thought rather favourably of him. His moral character is so bad that no little pains ought to be taken by him to avoid unnecessarily aspersing those of others.1

Walk, and dined with Gorham Brooks at the Tremont House. Mr. Brooks, Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham and Abby. His wine is good. I returned home for half an hour which was wasted, and went down again to tea and the Theatre. Masaniello again. It was well done, home late. Read the World.