The vegetation of the year which had promised so fairly begins to suffer from the want of moisture. We have not for two months had one day’s settled rain. I remained at home and read Horace, Neale and Hutchinson, devoting nearly equal portions of my time to each. The latter becomes more interesting as he proceeds to give accounts of his own experience as Governor. He was a man with a good deal of selfishness of character himself and therefore willing to attribute the same to others. There is an affectation of candour which makes rather against him than for him.

In the afternoon, I read a work of Mirabeau’s which has been hid until lately. It consists of a collection of Letters to many individuals unknown.1 They are many of them very characteristic and amusing. Mirabeau was one of the most extraordinary men of the last age. A monster of iniquity with a brilliancy of talent which smoothed all things to the outward eye in such a manner as to fascinate. Evening quiet at home.