Fine day although the East wind prevailed. As I had asked a friend or two to dine with me, I was occupied first in providing the neces-302saries to entertain them, next in making up the party which cost me a great deal of trouble. Having delayed it so late, most persons had made their arrangements for the day. Read a considerable number of Jefferson’s Letters which interested me in him somewhat. His character however is dreadfully artificial, warm words but nothing generous. The phrases always appear to outrun the man.

Walk. Messrs. T. Davis, E. Quincy, T. Dwight and J. W. Gorham dined and passed the afternoon with me. Conversation. Evening at home. I believe this is the last dinner of this description that I shall give. There is too great temptation to drink too much wine—And by barely saving appearances to escape the blame of excess, without escaping the error. In future, I shall mix a greater proportion of older persons. The conversation of convivial dinners is not overrefined, although I can boast that at my table it has never descended into coarseness. Literature and it’s collateral subjects generally prevail, but it is not that which draws out the mind. Read the last Debates in the Intelligencer which are fiery enough—My father as usual in the midst of the fray.1