Morning clear but cold with a blustering wind which reminded us strongly of the approach of Winter. I copied a letter for my father,1 and held some subsequent conversation with him upon the project of electing him to Congress. He does not disappoint me as I wish he had done. His is not the highest kind of greatness. And much as he may try to conceal his feeling under the cloak of patriotic inclination; My eye is a little too deep to be blinded by the outside. I regret the decision on his account. I regret it upon my own. To neither of us can it prove beneficial to be always struggling before the public without rest or intermission.

Went to Meeting and heard Mr. Whitney preach a couple of Sermons during the day which were dry and dull as usual. He is a per-332severing speaker of nothings. After service in the Afternoon, my father and I went to ride in the gig, round to the Mount Wollaston Estate. He went out in search of Acorns, and left me shivering in the Gig. I felt less partiality for the place this time. It is cold and bleak, and what are my ideas but vanity and vexation of spirit. I have no motive to hope for perpetuating the property.

Felt glad to return home, and after tea walked to the Judge’s, my Uncle’s. Saw him and the young ladies, but Mrs. Adams had gone to Haverhill. Passed an hour in conversation, and then did my regular Quarterly business, after which I returned to read two Articles in the Quarterly Review before retiring.