Morning cloudy and unpleasant. I concluded not to go to Boston this morning. My time was taken up in arranging the few Papers left belonging to the period previous to 1790 and returning the balance. Very few interesting ones in comparison with the great mass. I also read a large portion of Hurd’s Commentary upon Horace’s Art of Poetry. It exemplifies the art of book-making. For Horace needs nothing but a reflecting mind to relish all his beauties. It matters little to that whether it is a regular Essay, or a disconnected series of maxims.

Judge Adams and his daughter Elizabeth dined here today. The latter seemed well, and I took the opportunity to pay her, her money. The former is irretrievably dull. I walked to Mount Wollaston to look at the condition of the Orchard down there. Found it doing nicely. The trees generally look healthy though the cold weather of last Winter killed the extremities of many of them. I took off from two of them a collection of Eggs from some Insect which I did not know. It had been formed round the small limbs of the Trees, and strongly protected by a thick, black gummy substance, so as to resist considerable pressure. If I had intended to remain out here I should have pursued the investigation, but as it is, they were better away from all harm to the Trees.

Evening quiet at home. I read Mr. Everett’s Article upon the State 86of Europe. Tolerably bold, and containing many radical principles which I cannot swallow.1 I did not read the Spectator tonight.