Very cool with an Easterly wind. I was engaged in writing almost all day, excepting when going to Meeting. Mr. Ripley of Boston 319preached in the morning upon the immutability of religion. In the afternoon I was less attentive. Mr. Ripley is a good writer and a sensible man, but I am not much of an admirer of his Sermons. His manner makes them tedious. When he wishes to be solemn he becomes only slow, without adding a particle to the animation of his language. I often think, I could do better, but who can tell until he is tried.

Miss Smith dined with us, and Mr. Degrand called in the afternoon and took tea. He had little news of any kind to propose. Some farther notice of the Cholera which seems to be spreading along the St. Lawrence gradually. It is singular that it keeps water tracks, and would seem to sustain the doctrine of contagion. But whether contagion or not is of minor consequence so long as the mortality is great.

I walked up and passed an hour at Mrs. Adams’ in the evening. She is dull and unhappy, and I could not console her. Called at Mr. Miller’s but they were not at home.

Morning very fine. I remained at home today, and Completed the draught of the attempt I am now making. It has occupied me earnestly but continually for a week or fortnight, and it has led me to observe more closely the facts connected with the English History. I think I never before saw so clearly the demerits of Mr. Hume, nor so forcibly the real difficulties which followed the Revolution of 1640. These kind of researches are pleasant and profitable. They make learning appear less barren of good, and they fix the quantity of it. For the memory takes easier what has cost it a little unusual labour.

Not having any thing further to do, in the afternoon resumed Seneca and read part of the third book De Ira. As usual, a compound of wisdom and error. The checks to anger are wisely given. Yet by a species of syllogism he attempts to evade the maxim of Aristotle which is after all true in the main. Anger can give no strength. Anger is a kind of disease. Disease always weakens. Then anger weakens. Not remembering that the sick man can sometimes do an act which he never could have accomplished in health. Had he said continued strength, it might have been questioned, but with less reason. Evening, a long ride with my Wife. We lost our way and reached the Woods. Returned home safe and quiet.

Fine day. I concluded to remain very quietly at home as it was likely 320to be warm. I returned to the study of Thucydides which my late work had put a stop to. Continued the first book but I find I must not wear out my patience upon him as it only serves to retard my progress from understanding him less.

I attempted to do a little also towards methodizing rather more the Papers of my Grandfather. I came across many very curious and interesting letters in the process. It is much to be wished that these were put into a condition more likely to be durable. Yet my father’s inclinations and occupations lead him in any direction rather than in this.

Took a bath. The water was cold. I find this to be occasioned by the comparative state of the atmosphere. Afternoon, occupied in reading Seneca’s third book upon anger. A world of good advice upon the means of checking it. Took a ride with my Wife and quiet evening. My brother’s child being quite sick creates some uneasiness.1 Otherwise pretty comfortable.