It is now so many years since the Declaration of Independence that the vigour of its celebration is rather slackened. The City of Boston still holds on to its accustomed forms and here and there is to be found some place where the festival is held, but noise is not to me a necessary 121concomitant of rejoicing. I hope I felt duly grateful for the enjoyments of the day which were to be found in a profound quiet.

My time was taken up in writing, and reading Horace, Neal and the Life of James Otis. I compared the latter with Hutchinson and detected him in some want of candor. If I should again review anything I think it would be this book.

Quiet dinner at home. My father seemed unwell from a sever cold. In the Afternoon I rambled down to the Orchard at Mount Wollaston and spent an hour gazing at the view which was in great beauty today. The men were mowing exactly as if it was not a bit of a holiday. The trees of the Orchard look very stationary although they have gained this Season considerably. Returned home. Mr. Jo. Angier of Medford made a visit and took tea. He came over with his Mother and Mrs. Angier Jr. After tea we went up, and found Mr. Beale, Miss Louisa Smith and a whole room full. Returned and read some of Mr. Rush’s late publication upon England.1