Fine morning. I remained at home very quiet and read a little of M. Chateaubriand, though far the largest portion of my time was devoted to putting the Garden in a state of somewhat better order than it has been of late. I pruned down the luxuriance of growth of the raspberry vines and Cherry trees. The greatest difficulty with us here is the excessive tendency to make wood.

In the afternoon, after having read a little of Seneca, I thought I would go down and visit the Orchard at Mount Wollaston. I found the Trees looking better than they did in the Spring, but still sickly and in a discouraging condition as to the future. I have interested myself in their success, believing the experiment to be a fair one. And I do not propose as yet to give it up, although things at present do not promise. I turned my eyes from the prospect to that of the scene around me, and thought I had never seen it look more beautiful. The day was one of the loveliest of the declining year. There was scarcely a breath of air and the setting sun threw a rich golden hue over every 363spot upon which it shone. I never was so much struck with the peculiar beauty of Mt. Wollaston. The Panorama is perfect and I felt for a moment as if I should be happy to possess a dwelling house on this situation.1 It was however but for a moment. The enjoyment of the scenery can always be had at a cheaper rate. Returned home. Evening quiet. Read a little of Dr. Granville.