Our Season is very extraordinary—High winds and cold with an unusually small proportion of rain. Altogether quite comfortless. I remained at home to improve my time. Read over some of Horace—One of the Satires and one of the Odes. His Poetry is certainly splendid. His imagery is powerful, but his was not the spirit of an ancient Roman. I read also a Chapter of Neale which goes very far to confirm me in the opinions formerly entertained by me. A little also of Hutchinson, in which I go on slowly from my desire to compare all the Papers of the day. This mode of reading has already cleared my mind prodigiously of the mists which surrounded it. I now have a definite conception of the immediate origin of our Revolution. But after all, it is manifest that the question was one of natural boundary between two energetic Nations. Let our’s only remain a Nation and it is invincible.

Afternoon, Read Henderson’s book upon Wines. How many new subjects there are for the human mind. The growth and produce of the vine connects itself with the whole history and Geography of the world. It gives new ideas upon many collateral questions. And so it is with almost every thing in existence. And yet men die for want of occupation, or what is worse they sink into vices of the most degrading character. Evening, Madame de Sevigné and the Observer. The child was better today.