The picking up of small work always appears to me on looking back, as a sheer waste of time, yet it is as much a part of my duties as any. It lasted until three o’clock, when I broke off. There is a steady presence of solitude in my mind, increased by the accident to Mr Seward, which weighs upon me more as the moment approaches for the reception of later news. Nothing came however today. Went out in company with Mr Moran to attend the private view of two Societies of Painters in Water colors. There is evidently a rivalry between these that improves both. There is great excellence in certain kinds. Landscapes by Binhelt Foster, Evans, Mole and Warren. Also scenes of life by Lucas and two or three more. But the tone is not high and lofty. It is the type of domestic England which stands out in all that is best. The quiet affections of ordinary persons in the middle and lower ranks. Here and there something farther is attempted, but seldom with success. Yet the demand for excellence once recognized is shown by the immediate purchase at high rates of every good specimen. On the whole if I price is to be given I should prefer oil paintings as more likely to endure. Home to dinner, and evening alone—except a short visit of Mr Alward.