Fine day. I read as usual Schiller’s Thirty Years War. Then to the Office. Much of my time taken up in running about looking after the Schooner Velocity for the purpose of sending notice out to Quincy. But she had not yet arrived. Drew up my regular Quarterly Account in anticipation of the close of the Month, which consumed all my leisure. Walk. Home where I read Chateaubriand. I am a little disappointed in his letters from Italy. Afternoon, Guizot whose views of English History are somewhat striking, and Grimm.

Mr. Brooks dined out at Mr. Everett’s. This gentleman is eagerly in quest of his darling purpose. He like all other political men is intensely selfish. But there are elements in his composition which make it somewhat doubtful how far he will go. He has at this moment an exceedingly hard game to play, and it remains to be seen whether he will play it very successfully.

I sat at home with my Wife and read to her many of Coleridge’s Juvenile Poems. Coleridge is not a favourite of mine. He is too abstruse, too much removed from the ordinary emotions and those which are natural. Wilhelm Meister.