Morning clear with a high wind from the South West. I went to the Office and passed my time after the usual matters, in reading Moore’s Life of Sheridan which I have never examined before.1 The thing amused me exceedingly. Sheridan’s is a fascinating character. The brilliancy of his Wit is charming while the generous nature of his feeling makes one sympathize in all his fortunes. Nevertheless Sheridan had very little in his personal character which entitled the man to respect or esteem. He had no fixed principles of conduct, no sterling qualities. His life was a course upon a boundless and agitated Sea without chart or compass to guide him. Took a walk.

Afternoon, reading the first book of Tusculan Questions, upon Death. It is curious as the Argument of a Heathen Philosopher upon the Immortality of the Soul unaided by Revelation or any thing but the light of his own Reason.

Evening, the Italian to my Wife after which I continued my sketch, the materials for which grow upon me. I think better of it as I advance. Not what it is, but what it is capable of being made. Read the Spectator.