Morning cold and unpleasantly windy. I continued Schiller whose history is better than the most perfect Romance. Then to the Office where I remained quietly occupied in making up my Arrears of Diary and reading a few Articles in the North American Review. A very poor Account of the use of time. Took a long walk. Read a little of the biography of Lessing and found it exceedingly dull. I must pick up something else or my interest will not be sustained.

Afternoon, Thiers, the second volume of the French Revolution and Grimm. I also looked into the Quarterly Review. Struck with an observation of Coleridge that strengthens me in my idea of the merits of Goethe and Schiller against the opinion of the Reviewer. It appears to me that Goethe is exceedingly able to execute parts, but in drawing up a whole he loses himself in the mazes of his own making and then seeks to hide his incapacity by covering it with allusions to a high mystical meaning which neither he nor his disciples are willing clearly to develope. Schiller on the contrary is bold, energetical, vigorous. He puts forward his idea as strongly as he can make it, he deals with things palpable and within the comprehension of all, and his pictures are painted for the eye to see and not for the imagination to supply. The reader is not to do the work of the Author. Evening, I was so weary that I retired early. Horatio was quite sick all day and P.C.B. Jr. dined here.