Morning pleasant. I was engaged for some time in disposing of the various little matters that have accumulated upon my table during the past winter. Office, where I finished the Leases which I had engaged to draw out for a new Tenant at Quincy, and read a little of Mr. Jefferson’s second volume. Walk.

Afternoon. Began Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees. A curious production which manifests the curious mechanism of the human mind, working to paradox as well as truth. The argument is ingenious though every thread of the web is rotten. Ovid, Dido to Aeneas, not so much to my fancy. Ovid has a style which requires familiarity with it to be easy.

Evening. Theatre. A new opera, by Auber. Fra Diavolo.1 An Italian Bandit disguised as a nobleman pursuing an English Milord with his Wife and plenty of Money and Jewels, travelling for pleasure. He is finally caught by stratagem. Mr. Wood was the robber. Mrs. Wood, the Innkeeper’s daughter through whom the discovery takes place. The Music is lively, a little in the ballad way with occasional bursts of harmony. The Woods sing and perform almost equally well. His soft notes are perfectly enchanting, while her complete management of her voice and powerful compass give the requisite brilliancy of execution. We retired much gratified. It rained hard and we were caught. Luckily I could procure a Carriage. Home not very late.