My Wife’s cold remains much the same and mine does not wholly depart. I read a little of Schiller this morning, then to the Office where I was occupied in writing and accounts, had time for a short glance into the last number of the North American Review. An article upon the Bubbles by an old Man,1 by Mr. E. Everett, and a very singular Article upon Coleridge, which I was unable to finish this morning.2 Walk. Home. Wilhelm Meister.

Afternoon. Began the Memoirs or Autobiography of Marmontel,3 a work I found in the Athenaeum. There is something exceedingly pleasing in this style of writing. It leads one so much into the private thoughts and feelings which disclose man as he is. For after all, though a writer about himself always shows the picture in its best light, yet he tells much incidentally which deepens the shades and raises the colours. De Grimm as usual.

Evening at home alone, with my Wife. Mr. Frothingham and Miss Lydia Philips came in and we had an agreeable hour. Conversation desultory. He informed me that the Author of the Article upon Coleridge was Mr. Cheever a man who has made some noise at Salem lately in connexion with a personal affray growing out of slanderous statements made in a Newspaper. Wilhelm Meister.