A pleasant morning although it clouded in the course of the day. I returned to town this morning and was engaged a considerable part of my time collecting Dividends and making up Accounts. The remainder in conversation with Mr. Walsh and in reading the last number of the North American. There is a rather remarkable article in it upon Coleridge’s Poetry,1 but no criticism. Indeed the art of criticism both in England and in this Country is almost entirely neglected.

Home to dinner. Afternoon, pursued assiduously my German which I admire in this book. There is great distinctness of delineation in the pictures drawn and the moral is excellent. Evening at home alone. Pursued the reading of Ovid with which I am charmed. The Metamorphoses restore to me the good humour, his whinings had disturbed. Nothing material occurring.