I had fixed upon this day to go to Quincy, but upon waking, I found it raining heavily which continued without intermission through the day. Consequently I sat down very quietly and deliberately to read and occupy myself at home. My time was not heavy at all. I began reading the Letters of Ortis in Italian,1 a work of high sentiment apparently upon the plan of Werter. I do not much admire the Author’s preface. My hours were divided between Mirabeau, Madame de Stael, Ovid, and this Italian, besides a Letter to my Mother which I completed and yet with nothing in it.2 The air was so cold as not to make it perfectly pleasant to sit out of the reach of the fire, yet I could not very well do much in the room where the family assemble. Mr. Brooks though he has uncommon resources for a man who has led so active a life, yet flags a little. Evening quiet at home.