Morning cloudy, but it cleared up and gave us one of the purest skies of our Winter Season—Objects at a distance being perfectly defined and the smoke rising to a great distance without mixing with the air. I was at the Office. My Wife much better, though weak in her nerves, from the effect of her remedies. Occupied in writing and reading Lingard. His Account of the Revolution still pleases me. Took a long walk. Met two Messrs. Dixwell and accompanied them.1

Afternoon at home. Could not write so I read Villemain. I am afraid the interruption has dished the remainder of my series. It is so much more easy to read, and comparatively so very indolent a business that I fall into it very naturally when I make no effort to the contrary.

Quiet evening at home. My Wife sat with me downstairs. Read Malvina and Lockhart’s Burns. Afterwards German. Finished the first extract from the Works of Wieland. I think it comes easier. Going on regularly with the World.