The Season is at present delightful—Not too warm and yet comfortable. I passed another day in the quiet enjoyment of life at Quincy. Although drowsy from my fatigue of yesterday with broken sleep last 126night, I read two or three Odes of the second Book of Horace, a Chapter of Neale, and executed the rest of the comparison with Minot. I have gained from it but little.

My mind has been floating uncertainly upon a scheme for reviewing the third Volume of Hutchinson. I do not as yet imagine any thing definite. A sketch of the man is what I want to begin with. But for this I must look after materials.

In the Afternoon, I finished the first volume of Crevecoeur, and read over my Grandfather’s Correspondence with Tudor about James Otis which is among his best and most characteristic things.1 I then went down to the Water and took an agreeable bath. This is the third in succession. And I feel as if it had done me good.

My father spent the day at Cambridge on College duty. He did not get back until evening. Read the Observer.