Morning pleasant. I went to town accompanied by Mr. Brooks who took me a long Journey round to deliver him in Chestnut Street. We 331did not reach it after all. In the course of it, I went into streets I had never seen before. Very good ones too.

Engaged at the Office in writing and reading. Nothing particular however. I sat down and tried to understand the science of bookkeeping according to the Italian method, but I made a very poor business of it. There is something puzzling in applying this to a small scale. Yet it is so necessary in a business community like this to be acquainted with it that on the first of July I intend to make an effort.

Home to dinner. Afternoon reading Mrs. Inchbald’s Memoir by Boaden.1 A poor thing. Ovid, Art of Love. Evening, Quarterly Review—June, a little.