Morning passed at the office occupied in the same series of nothingness which distinguishes so much of my time. My spirits are a little affected by this state of things. I feel as if I was not doing any thing worthy of myself and as if I should not ever be more than one of the idle drones of Society. I know that this is wrong, that I ought to think how greatly favoured I am in life to be put above the necessity of 262labour. Perhaps this is one cause of my uneasiness. To be a mere liver of a life of luxury is not fully to my taste. To be a hanger on upon the popular favor is still less so. I cannot court any body. And my talents however much I may prize them, are not of that transcendent description which secure admiration in a moment.

Walk. Afternoon. Read Ricardo’s Pamphlet on the Bank of England which gave me some new ideas upon that subject. Terence, the Eunuch—A description of a rape which would be rather harsh for our ears. Evening quiet at home. The Absentee. I afterwards began Du Bos Reflections upon Poetry and Painting.1