Diary of Charles Francis Adams, volume 6

Wednesday. 30th. CFA Wednesday. 30th. CFA
Wednesday. 30th.

Cloudy although the morning promised fair. I went to the Office and passed most of my time in examining the title deeds of the land 361which Mr. Tucker proposes to mortgage to me for Mr. Johnson’s account—A tedious process and one which I think under the circumstances it might be wise to decline.

Office where I found T. K. Davis looking over a pamphlet or two upon the Navy and presently Mr. Conant from Weston to pay his rent. Thus went all the morning, as well that for my walk as for reading Livy. Home. Afternoon, Sismondi and de la Motte Fouqué.

Looked into a work by Loudon upon domestic Architecture but it was not precisely what I wanted.1 I have taken a fancy to erecting a small Country house at Quincy for my family to live in during the Summer months, and I propose to take some steps to procuring a plan such as I want. This will abstract my attention from politics, which are a perpetual source of disgust to me.

Evening, went to a small party at Mrs. Josiah Quincy’s—Merely the immediate acquaintance and rather dull at that. I do not like the reunions of this class. Home at ten, a light supper.


John Claudius Loudon’s Forming, Improving, and Managing Country Residences, 2 vols., London, 1806, was borrowed from the Athenaeum.

Thursday. 31st. CFA Thursday. 31st. CFA
Thursday. 31st.

A fine day. I went to the Office and was busy in the never ending occupation of Accounts. This is about the close of the Quarter and therefore calls for my usual duties. In addition to these, I have now on hand Mr. Johnson’s funds which I cannot yet succeed in making available. My conferences with the Cashier of the Merchants Bank are fruitless. I called to see Mr. Brooks and state the case fairly to him.

Walk to the Athenaeum, nothing new. Home, Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi, Italian Literature, Dante, Tasso and Petrarch and Ariosto and Boccaccio, pleasant enough. Fouqué. Evening, finished the sixth volume of Madame Junot and obliged to stop there for want of the seventh.

I afterwards went on with the Journal to Stella, a most singular production. Of all strange characters, Swift’s is perhaps the most so. And the Journal to Stella is the oddest mixture of childish nonsenses1 with the gravest political allusions and the deepest personal feeling.


Thus in MS.