Cloudy and mild. I did little or nothing at the Office as I felt a little indisposition from head-ach. Engaged in writing and Accounts, after which I took a walk to get the air. My principal difficulty appears to me now to be want of some interesting occupation. I wish I had some inducement to the exercise of the powers I possess. But it is of no use to wish, and perhaps the best way is to let things take their course. My best plan is to keep on exercising myself to prepare for trial.

Returned home and read after dinner the latter part of the second book of Quinctilian. Whether Rhetoric is an Art. The question is tolerably absurd. It does not affect things the least in the world which-233ever way you settle it. While Eloquence is a means of power it will be sought, whether by acknowledged high road, or by cross paths is no kind of consequence. Of such a kind are half the arguments in the world. They turn upon words.

Evening quiet at home. I felt glad to get back again to my own fireside, the pleasure of which is more fully felt by now and then departing from it. Finished the Conversations of Northcote. His share of them I like. Hazlitt’s I do not. And he closes with an opinion about Cicero which is shallow enough. Afterwards, the Odyssey. Fuseli and the Guardians.