Morning at the Office. Weather cold and chilly. After writing a portion of my Index, a labour in itself rather useless but which I intend shall supersede the body of my old Journals and Diaries which contain follies, I was then proud of, but which now would make me ashamed. I wish to keep a softened memory of them as I think there is nothing disgraceful in it. For I was in the fever of youth and health, and never committed any action which made me feel as if I was degrading myself. It was the mere impulse of life and high spirits which are gone now and will probably never return. I am sobered down.

I went to my brother George’s room and looked over his papers again to see if I could find a list of things at Quincy, which I did. This occupied the morning. In the afternoon I read Clarendon which again became interesting, in the account of Charles the 2nd’s escape from the Battle of Worcester. No letters from home. Evening, a pleasant walk.