More snow with a high wind and most unpleasant. I went to the Office where I now enjoy uninterrupted quite and read Sir James Mackintosh whose book from the spirit in which it is written is charming. I sit down to it as to an intellectual treat of the first class and have only to regret that he did not accomplish his purpose of writing out in extenso the whole of the British History. I most of all admire the heroic moral tone by which the historian judges of human action. Calm, decided, yet benevolent in general. I could not walk again today.
Afternoon—Reading Anquetil which is a totally different history and yet drawn up with no little of talent. I am also engaged in assorting Pamphlets for the Bookbinder. They do accummulate immensely fast upon me.
Evening, finished Caroline of Litchfield, a pretty little trifle with a good deal of human nature and some pardonable romance. I begin to look at these things more mildly than I used to. Afterwards Wieland, the extracts from whom I finished. My time is perhaps not passed to the best advantage, and yet it goes quietly, happily, and not altogether unprofitably, I hope.