Fine day. I went to the Office. Time passed very uninterruptedly reading the Debates. Mr. Curtis called in to pay me his Account, and I went down to do two or three little matters of business. Walked with my Wife. The children seem better although they both appear troubled with coughs. Received a letter from my Mother.1 She seems much more cheerful this winter than I have known her for a long while to be.

Afternoon Lord Bacon, History of Life and Death. Virgil. I have 248reached the twelfth Book—And as a Poem have relished it more upon this than upon any preceding perusal. We went down to pay a visit to Mr. Brooks and Mrs. Everett in the evening. Mr. Shepherd was there. Mr. B. not, till 9. Conversation. Returned at ten.

Very mild with a Southerly wind and rain. I went to the Office and passed my time in reading and Accounts. Read the second part of Mr. Binney’s speech upon the Bank question, and it seems to me that I have not lately seen a finer specimen of statesmanlike skill and manner.1 To be sure, his subject was fruitful. Conversation with my new Tenant, Mr. Walsh. No walk, owing to the weather.

Afternoon. Read the Tract upon the conspiracy of 1825 in Russia, published by the Court constituted under the orders of the Government. It’s exposition of the connexion it had with Freemasonry is curious. Virgil.

Evening, I was invited to go and meet a party of young gentlemen at the house of my friend Blake. There is a sort of club consisting of W. E. Payne, H. B. Rogers, C. C. Tucker, Jon. Chapman, Henry G. Chapman, F. Shaw, Edward Blake and his two brothers who meet at each other’s houses. They play Whist and have a Supper. I do not exactly understand my position in this business. I was received and treated with very great civility by all the members. But I should not wish to belong permanently to any such association. The character of the conversation did not appear to me to be particularly exalted nor even profitable. I nevertheless enjoyed the evening and could not help feeling sensible of the very kind manner in which I was treated. I did not return home until nearly twelve o’clock, not wishing to break up a party at which I was only a guest.

The day was more like May than January. The baby makes us very uneasy. He has a cold which distresses us—The perils incident to children, and the misery of parents when they are ill.

I went to the Office—Reading and other incidental occupation. Then a walk. Home. Afternoon, reading but not to much purpose. Continued the 12th book of Virgil and came almost to the end. The vigor of the poet sustains him to the last. Read Patronage in the evening. Afterwards sat up in my room reading and writing an answer to my father’s last letter.1

The child was so restless and uneasy that I preferred sitting up to troubled sleep. As the amusement of occupation of any sort is better than the restless fancies of inaction, I endeavour to console myself with prayer and trust.