Write, and read ten pages of Curtius. Lord Byron and Shelley go out in the boat. I translate in the evening, and afterwards go up to Diodati. Shelley reads Tacitus.
— Mary Shelley writes in her journal for August 7 1816.
I have a pretty good idea whose woods these are, believe me.
And let me tell you something, my people say he’s a complete nobody.
This guy lives in the village. So what if he sees me stopping here?
I dare him to sue me! I dare him!
And by the way, this snow is pathetic.
These are by far, the least downy flakes ever!
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We have had an uncommon cold Season, scarcely more than three days through the whole Summer when a fire has not been agreeable. Our Indian corn will universally fail, our grass, not more than half a crop—our English Grain, promises better. We had Frosts in July. Can Astronomers tell us whether the spots upon the Sun so much the present subject of investigation, are the cause of this uncommon cold—?
— Abigail Adams writes to her son John Quincy Adams, August 7 1816.