This is the Anniversary of our Independence and therefore a public 398day. I am not fond of noise and bustle, therefore prefer a quiet residence at home. I had this morning much conversation with my father upon the prospects of the family. John has decided to desert the State, poor George is now no more, and I am the only one who remains to keep the name and the family on our branch at least from destruction. This result I have never before suspected and it presents to me most perplexing circumstances. My own peculiar situation renders the thing trying, because I feel fully aware how slender is my dependence upon life and hope. I have trusted not without bountiful mercy being bestowed upon me, in an all seeing Divinity who can search and guide the ways of man when his own judgment and power is but a bubble. I will do my best and place my reliance for other help upon a higher power.

After an earnest conversation, we walked up to my Uncle’s, there to make some arrangements if possible in regard to the little shares of property belonging to the two girls who are now of age.1 I am anxious to fix it upon them so as to remain a permanent fund bearing interest all their lives. So that they can have no control over the principal either themselves or by their husbands, when they have them. But I am afraid my good project will not succeed. Women seldom feel the value of certain independence. On our return, we crossed over a part of the Farm, the boundaries of which my father appears to be anxious that I should know. How little did I ever think that this would be my lot. Degrand dined here and talked about money. We drank the fourth of July with great spirit. Afternoon quiet. John went to town and did not come out until late.

The rain came down with great force during the night and the morning was misty and disagreeable. I attended service at Quincy and heard Mr. Whitney preach a sermon upon integrity in business, good and practical. The remainder of the day was passed in reading Bishop Burnet’s History of the Reformation which is very interesting, though told in rather an old woman’s way.1 This quiet and literary life pleases me much, and I might grow much attached to Quincy 399as it now is, if I did not feel as if I had other more urgent duties to call me from thence. Evening, much literary conversation with my father—The English Writers, and the French biographical Memoirs of the last Century, My Grandfather’s Library, which is exceedingly valuable. John returned late from town.