Weather cold and clear. I went to the Office as usual. Engaged in Accounts, and took down with me Mr. Gallatin’s Essay on the Currency, which by reading over I wish to make myself master of. But it is a singular property of my mind that upon a second reading of any book I cannot fix my attention at all. And the effort is almost time thrown away. I do not know that I shall be able to make much use of the knowledge after I get it but at any rate if I cannot immediately get the benefit of it, the thing will keep stored up.

Walk and call at the Athenaeum, then home where I devoted my usual hour to Persius. I like him better now that I am less troubled about his meaning. There is good philosophy in what he writes. Afternoon, Adam Smith. I have some idea of going over him again, but my former difficulty occurs and I am afraid I am just familiar enough with the substance to lose my time. Evening quietly at home. Read to my Wife from the Memoires of Madame Junot, the Duchess d’Abrantes.1 Afterwards, began Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister Wanderjahre.2