The day was cloudy with occasional drizzle. I went to the Office as usual. Time wasted as it always is. My Office hours appear to bring little accession to my fortune or character. They pass in a kind of barrenness neither useful nor creditable. Occasional attention to accounts, with a visitor now and then for the payment of a bill or so and reading Newspapers take up nearly all my time. Shall this continue? I am afraid so, as I have never yet been able to remedy it.

Returned home and in the Afternoon, attempted another fire which today burnt beautifully, and put me quite in good humour with my new Coal. Read a large portion of the Letters to Quintus which please me a good deal. Also part of the life of Michael Angelo published by the Society to diffuse Useful Knowledge in England, which contains a sketch of the progress of Sculpture.1

Evening, reading loud to my Wife. After which the Abbé Condillac, and the Spectator. Our family goes on better.