Morning cloudy with an Easterly Wind, which terminated in very heavy rain in the Afternoon and Evening. After reading over part of Aeschines I went to the Office and was first taken up by a visitor. Dr. A. Phelps is the chief of the Antimasonic Party in this State. He came to shew me a Letter and to request to know when he could see my Father. His purpose was to know whether my Father would be a Candidate for the Presidency on the Antimasonic ground.1 He shewed me a letter from Pittsburg urging the nomination of him at Baltimore very much. On this subject I told him that I could say nothing. Whatever he might reply, would of course be to me very right. But that his family felt and I felt as if it was hard that the last days of his Life should be molested by attacks more bitter even than any he had yet experienced. That this would be a war of great violence and it’s result would undoubtedly be defeat. I therefore dissuaded him from making a nomination. He took the opportunity to indoctrinate me on Antimasonic subjects which I bore with great good-nature. My father came in presently and sat an hour.

Returned home early in order to dine and get the family ready to move off. This was the afternoon for the Eulogy upon James Monroe and it rained heavily. After some waiting I got my Father and Mother off in a Carriage, and we reached the Church in safety. The Crowd was great. The Eulogy was successful but not so much so as the Oration. The matter was harder to manage.2 It was late before we reached home. But my Father and Mother decided upon returning to Quincy. She was really quite sick. My head ached badly and I was glad to go to bed after a fatiguing day. Read the Spectator and Bacon’s Essay on Marriage and Single Life.

Some hint of the reception of the speech may be had from the Boston Daily Advertiser’s comment, “[T]he Orator has formed a much higher estimate of Mr. Monroe’s talents and services, than, we believe, will meet the sanction of most men, who have been acquainted with his public life, and has consequently celebrated them in terms of eulogy which appear a little extravagent” (26 Aug., p. 2, col. 2). For CFA’s opinion, see entry of 10 Sept., below.

Morning clear and warm again. I arose refreshed and delighted that the whole of yesterday’s affair was over. This bustle is a terrible thing. I know that I am not fitted for the noise of public life. The moment it surrounds me, I feel a most unconquerable disgust. I began my first draught of an Article upon the Oration on the Crown and accomplished a little. Then to the Office where I wasted the morning doing little or nothing. Talked with Mr. Peabody. Had two or three visitors: Mr. Degrand upon my Atlas Shares, Mr. Curtis about Mr. Boylston’s matters, and one or two others of less consequence. Called to see Mr. Brooks, and tried to read the Defence but could not make it out. My mind is losing its tenacity at least in the morning.

Dined at the Tremont House and after a walk went home where I spent my time in writing on my Work. This I continued in the Evening. My Wife though not quite so well in consequence of yesterday, was nevertheless getting along very tolerably. I read Bacon’s Essay on Envy and my usual numbers of the Spectator.

Morning cloudy with occasional rain. I went to the Office after writing a little upon my task with which I am already disgusted. I am sorry to say I am not equal to it. Abominable that I should fold up my hands and declare it.

Went to the Office where I passed the morning in reading my Grandfather’s Defence and occasional visitors. T. B. Adams Jr. in from Quincy. Announced that my Mother was much better than I could expect, at which news I was much rejoiced.1 Went to the Athenaeum for a few moments to obtain one or two books and thus the morning went.

Dined at the Tremont House, in company with T. B. Adams Jr. and Edward Miller of Quincy. Returned home and spent the Afternoon in reading and writing on my Dissertation of which I feel more sick as I advance. How hard it is to write. Yet one would not suppose so from 122 image the mass of stuff one daily sees. Read an Essay of Bacon’s upon Love, the opinions of which I do not assent to entirely. There seems to be an absence of clearness in distinguishing the excess of the Passion from the thing itself. The same error would condemn all things merely capable of abuse. The Spectator as usual.