Morning clear and cool. I went to the Office as usual. Rather surprised not to find any letters from home.1 This requires some explanation, and I can give none of an agreeable Character.2 Spent my time pretty much as I did yesterday. Wrote my Diary, read my usual quantity in the Life of Sheridan. A work that has interested me exceedingly. His wife was a fascinating being. She seems to have entered into his feelings and partaken his labours whatever they were. Yet who can feel a regret for her death. I thought it on the whole a mercy, for her husband was already going down, though not yet with any sensible motion. Had she lived, she would probably have had nothing but bitterness in store for her. The bitterness of misfortune brought on by the follies and vices of the man she had married. As it was, she saved all that and saw only the situation which he had reached by his abilities. But the reading made me dull and it was aided by an indigestion. I was imprudent in eating at Mrs. Welles’ last night which gave me a sick headache. The consequence was that I did not read Cicero in the Afternoon to much effect, nor do any thing in the evening, but take some Medicine and read the Spectator.