The morning looked threatening and there was a drizzle from the South East but it cleared away towards sunset. I went up as usual to examine matters at the House and watch their progress, particularly upon the last bit of stone wall they have to do. The water is still in the ground within four feet of the top but it is rapidly settling off. This has embarrassed us much all the season.

At home where I read Homer finishing the third book. Also Schiller’s Song of the bell which I admire much. Eliot’s translation appears to me rather feeble in comparison with it.1 Schiller is remarkable by his power of throwing out in a few lines, a picture. I also read a little of Plutarch. Afternoon, a ride with my Wife towards the Blue hills, a very pretty road. Then Wieland and the Abderites. Evening, Mr. and Miss Beale were here. Finished Tocqueville.