The morning was cloudy with an Easterly wind and rain. I felt unwilling to risk a day in Boston in a Storm so declined going; after my decision upon which, it cleared. I nevertheless spent a very useful morning and almost finished the paper book which I am copying. A curious account of a Journey to Stafford Springs, then a watering place of some repute but now eclipsed by Saratoga.1

Afternoon, spent some time in reading Pliny whose uniform egotism becomes tedious, and also in working upon the grounds. This has taken an hour of almost every day. I also rode with my Wife and the children to Milton in quest of some flowers, but we did not succeed in procuring any. Evening at home. Writing Diary and reading.