Day pleasant although somewhat cooler. I read Italian for some time and then rode to town accompanied by Mr. Brooks. Passed some time in writing, reading from Mr. Jefferson’s work and at my house. Nothing new. Returned to Medford and occupied in the Afternoon in reading Mandeville. Ovid, Paris to Helen, an epistle the authenticity of which is very much doubted. There are fine points in it nevertheless. The objection however still exists of the immoral character of the piece, an invitation to commit adultery. Evening, Hume’s Essays.

We have now been two weeks at Medford and I find nothing to object to the residence except it’s enervating character. I feel a languor, an inaptitude to exertion coming over me which will very probably in it’s tendency be fatal to my success. I have tried to contend against it with some effort, but the influence of circumstances prevails. I may continue however to cultivate myself and enjoy the luxury of literature as a resource from the dangers of idleness and apathy.