Morning fine. The Child seemed better and my spirits accordingly grew very much brighter. I went to the Office and was engaged there in reading the remainder of the Thellusson cause, which did not edify me proportionately. I do not see the merit of these intricacies of the English Law. Walk as usual. No letter from my father at which I am somewhat surprised. Perhaps he did not get my letter. Returned home and read Ovid in the second book of the Fasti.

Afternoon, looked over letters, the handwriting of which was so cramped that it hurt my eyes to read and I left off to run over the fair page of Beckford’s book of Travels—An old thing of 1780 just published.1 It has not lost much of it’s interest. The world has grown somewhat commonplace since, what with Steamboats, Railroads and Mr. McAdam. Evening d’Israeli. I am still dull. Read some Psalms.