The thunder of yesterday chilled the air for today. I went out early and rode to Quincy. Passed the morning in superintending the garden and looking over some of my father’s books and papers. Nothing material. The air was so cold that standing was not pleasant. Returned home to dinner.

Afternoon, at home read Maritime discovery, the first portion of which at least must be confessed to be dull. The author flies off to a dissertation upon the mythology of India. I sometimes wonder at the varied attainments of such a man as Sir James Mackintosh, and when I consider how little I have acquired and yet how much of my time is passed in literary occupation, I do not easily comprehend how men with four times the active occupation should have so many hundred times greater knowledge. I allow too for the difference of capacity and for the superior foundation of education.

Read Ovid’s heroic, Phyllis to Demophoön. Evening at home, but my Wife having been out late on an excursion on horseback we read nothing. Afterwards, German.