Another cloudy day. I concluded to stay at home. Passed some of my time in reading Italian, then Hume, Dissertation of the passions.

Took a walk along the border of the Canal down to where it meets the road to Boston.1 There is something exceedingly pretty and rural about it’s banks which gives me a peculiar sort of pleasure. I am fond of the solitary but not the wild. I like to see the evidences of cultivation and industry but not the agents themselves.

Mrs. Gray and her daughter and son with Mrs. Hall came to dine here, and Mr. Brooks brought out with him for a few days the two eldest children of Mr. Everett. The Afternoon was consequently wasted. Evening short and I did nothing but idle over Walpole.