A fine day. I went to the Office and was busy there in draughting my Quarterly Account for the close of the year, which was a business of no small difficulty from the number of secondary Accounts. The charges at Quincy, the travelling expenses to Washington and the 44sales of New England Insurance Stock making separate papers. Mr. Jones from Weston called in and made settlement in part which enables me very well to meet my engagements here at present.1

I called in at the picture gallery and found things by sunlight looking a great deal better. One or two of these pictures I should like, but I have already consumed all of my fund for things of this description so that I shall let them go, Walk. Ovid, Glaucus and Scylla. Evening at home. I finished reading Faust to my Wife and continued Don Carlos to myself, also d’Israeli, whose book is very amusing. This is a species of literary luxury which spoils a man for more continued studies. It collects the cream so handily for conversation. Yet the multitude of anecdotes makes remembering them difficult.