Coldest morning we have had. It moderated afterwards. I went to the office. Time taken up as usual. Read a Chapter or two of Lingard. Reign of Charles the second. Singular Revolution of sentiment and shows the danger of straining the human mind too high. No interruptions. Took a walk for which I felt the better. My Stomach seems to be becoming more quiet. It is but within a year or two that I have suffered from it.
Afternoon and evening engaged upon my article which I have again finished. And I read it over afterwards to myself. It has taken me a week to write it. And it struck me so deplorably poor, I was completely disheartened. I shall do no more. I have kept up my courage so far, against every species of disappointment, hoping always that at least there was some substance to redeem my style, if there was much dross. But it does seem as if there was not enough. And I must cease to write or attempt to acquire reputation beyond that of a moral and quiet member of the Community. This at least is within my power. Read to my wife from Lady Craven. Some observations are too sensible to have originated with her. She heard and copied them from others.