This morning I went with my son Henry to the Wine cellar to compare my stock with my book. The result of the search was to discover a deficiency of all my Port, Sherry and Madeira, including nearly the whole of a quarter cask which I had not supposed touched, all but one bottle of French brandy, and a considerable share of Whiskey, just purchased. The Flemish and French wines had been spared, owing I suppose to their not being so agreeable. A visit to the pantry showed a corresponding share of destruction in Mrs Adams’s best glass, and thus it runs to the end of the chapter. This the boasted perfection of the English service. So far as I can see, the system is a nursery of dishonesty. This fellow has turned out a liar, a thief, a swindler and a forger, besides amusing himself with intercepting letters. I was so much engaged in this work that I accomplished only two or three notes and other formal business. Evening walk called to see Mr Harvery. Quiet evening at home.