My day was passed very quietly here in the pursuit of my usual occupations. I went to the Office, where after reading one or two fine Odes of Horace I pursued my business of reviewing old Letters. I came today, across a most remarkable file written from Philadelphia during the year 1776. Among them, is that extraordinary one which speaks of the 4th of July in such terms.1

My Grandfather was a very great man, with man’s imperfections 139clinging about him. He had more of the moral sublime about him than any hero of the Revolution without excepting Washington. His private Letters display tastes equally strong for the enjoyment of private life. In this he differs from my father who still is agitated by the restless worm.2 These are very valuable papers.

Afternoon, I read St. John who has become in the 3d. volume exceedingly dry. Evening quietly at home. Humphry Clinker. My Mother was better.

Fine day although somewhat cool. I went to town. By appointment I was to meet the Painter for the purpose of deciding upon what was to be done at my house and how. My rooms look badly enough and require an outlay which if to be repeated at such short intervals would exceedingly alarm me. And the tenure of the house is of so precarious a kind that I feel little satisfaction in it. After discussion and settlement, just as he went, my Wife and Mrs. Frothingham came in—The former having come to town with my Mother in the Carriage. After passing an hour and settling several things, we all left the house—They to return to Quincy and I to my Office. I passed a little while in Accounts, attended a Sale of Stocks and saw Mr. Brooks, then returned to Quincy.

The Afternoon was spent in writing, looking over Letters and reading Horace, the fourth book of whose Odes I began. Quiet evening at home. Humphry Clinker.

I afterwards finished the Observer. On the whole, the perusal has given me pleasure. It is a book full of sound morality, Christianity and valuable literature. It’s merits are far above the miserable productions which I have been reading for some time before such as the World and Connoisseur. And if I cannot approve his treatment of the character of Socrates, I am willing to concede something to his reasons for so doing. It was a mistake and not a fault.

Morning hazy with clouds of vapor, and excessive heat—All which terminated in the sharpest thunder shower we have had during the Season. I was occupied in the morning with my Diary and an Ode or 140two of Horace. Attended Divine Service and heard Mr. Whitney, first upon the Communion and in the Afternoon upon Death. My attention wandered very much in spite of myself.

Read a Sermon of Massillon upon St. Thomas Aquinas, 1. Esdras 8. 7. “He omitted nothing of the law and commandments of the Lord, but taught all Israel the ordinances and judgments.” His division is simple, first, respecting the desire of acquiring knowledge, second, the right mode of using it. There is a good deal of sensible matter in his discussion of both sides of the subject. But Thomas Aquinas in another Century will be totally forgotten. And his innumerable productions rather argue at the present day against the imitation of his example. Who reads them excepting here and there a book-worm or a metaphysician.

Evening, Humphry Clinker aloud, after which I began the Mirror.1 We have been for a week past expecting the arrival of my brother John and his family from Washington.