Chilly with clouds. I continued reading Schiller with whose history I am much pleased. On the whole I think he is the best representative of German Literature. There is something of what the French call “inconsequent” in the writing of Goethe which takes off much of the pleasure of reading him.

Office and to the House where I was busy in assorting my Collection of numbers of Useful Knowledge which is spreading beyond all bounds. This is a useful collection, perhaps, but it is certainly a tolerably large one. Accounts. Home after a walk where I now read Wilhelm Meister instead of Latin.

Mr. W. C. Gorham dined here. He appears to me rather an uncommon young man. More mind than the herd of second rate puppies who now move round with such amazing self importance. Afternoon, Marmontel, Autobiography—A charming piece of composition in which I find myself at once in the Society, of whose members Grimm speaks only by their productions. Evening, Wilhelm Meister.