Morning warm. I remained at home quietly to enjoy the breeze at the house instead of rambling about the City. Walked down to the old house where I selected more books to bring out here and looked over the garden. The season is a remarkable one for vegetation. Every thing assumes a green tinge which makes the scenery unusually rich. I returned home and sat down to write a letter to my father which I made a long one, and which took the remainder of the morning.1

In the afternoon, I began the letters of Pliny the younger which I propose to read as my usual relaxation in the classics this Summer.2 And I continued Scrope. Writers on political economy make their books very uninteresting because they stuff them full of theories of their own without much reference to the inductive process which is the only philosophy. Evening at home.