Fine morning. I rode to town as usual and passed my morning partly at the House making a new arrangement of my Library, partly at trying to obtain some new Furniture for our return, and the rest at my Office reading Mr. W. F. Otis Oration, which has just come out. The spirit of its principles is rather wild for a very wild age. What he can think will be the use of his advice passes my utmost comprehension.1 I could not finish it today. Returned home to dine.

Afternoon, I was tempted by the heat to go and take a bath with I. Hull, which lasted longer and tired me more than usual so that I took a Nap after it. The consequence was that I did very little during the 90afternoon. Finished Racine’s Phedre the poetry of which strikes me much. I had formed much too low an idea of the character of the French drama, from reading only some of the most indifferent of their best authors, always excepting Voltaire who made some alterations and is hardly classed with the old School. Evening with the Family. I afterwards read Grimm and the Spectator.

Went to Boston as usual this morning, excepting that I was accompanied by I. Hull. The weather was pleasant but cloudy, which afterwards came in very refreshing showers. My morning was occupied much in my common way. Giving orders for Furniture, and afterwards in reading Mr. W. F. Otis’s Address which I have some idea of criticizing. I wrote a little in the way of commencement. Mr. Dunlap called upon me about the Office downstairs, and finally decided to take it at a Rent rather higher than Mr. Welsh had it for the last Quarter.1 The truth is, it is worth more. Miss Oliver called to pay her Rent for the last Quarter. She was detained in a shower and detained me. I returned however with Hull shortly after one, and after taking one or two heavy rains without inconvenience, we arrived. Found Dr. Waterhouse here spending the day. He looks to me older, more infirm and more dull than I have seen him. He had not so much sprightliness as common.2 I spent the afternoon doing little or nothing. This waste of time galls me. Evening at home, read Grimm and the Spectator.

Fine morning, with occasional clouds, which only served to keep off the great heat of the Sun. I attended divine Service all day, and heard 91Mr. Whitney of Hingham preach. His morning Sermon was upon Content with small gains, preferably to wealth unfairly acquired. It was very far above the general tone of his Sermons and really exceedingly sensible. His manner of delivery is very bad and his appearance far from favorable, but he is more of a Preacher than I took him to be. He dined with us, and did not support in the tenor of his conversation any opinion which his morning’s Sermon might create. The afternoon’s discourse was not so interesting. I finished Hurd’s Commentary upon the Art of Poetry and Francis’ Translation today.1 The first is good but I am afraid a little fanciful. The latter seems very spirited.

In the evening, my father and I went down to pay a visit to the Quincys. Found them at home and enjoyed the visit. There is something pleasant after all in going to see educated people. The style of conversation is better, and the sense that your mind is not wholly unemployed makes the time appear spent not altogether without profit. Returned to read Grimm and the Spectator.