My cold is changing places a little but not going very fast. I do not remember that for many years I have had any thing like it. Certainly not since my residence here. I read the Maid of Orleans which is nearly as easy to me as English and is a very delightful poem. There is something in Schiller’s style exceedingly charming. His pictures are simple yet lovely. There is a pathos in them which touches deeply. Goethe’s simplicity borders often upon the vapid, Schiller’s upon the strong.

Office. I did not feel able to cope with my work so I sat down and read part of Cicero’s first book de Oratore. It never appeared to me so delightful before. He is after all the first and the last writer upon his subject. Every sentence is a coin. Walk. The day was delightful but the streets are in very bad condition.

Home. Began the Ibis, a sort of curse upon one of his enemies, who was doing every thing to destroy him in his exile. The name is fictitious, a curious proceeding. Afternoon, finished Cuvier’s Theory of 95the Earth. An exceedingly ingenious thing and based upon tolerably sound reasoning. The subject is wonderful. But it hardly conflicts much with the tradition of antiquity, and shakes very much the foundations of the doubting school. Grimm, who continues my idling book, and is amusing. Evening Mr. Guizot and the Maid of Orleans.