30th.--Up at ten--cold in my head. Deep and still-thickening layers of snow cover everywhere all round. With this, and a cold in my head, I decide not to stir out for the day, although it is anxious time with me now. So I sit in Emma’s bedroom, and, from a cargo of books I sent her yesterday, I select the _Life of Washington_, and read all day. A Godlike man--a rare example of an unselfish man. If Cromwell was a great man, Washington was a God--spotless, passionless. The book is ill written; passing the pen over many superfluous passages might improve it. But the matter is eternal, unchangeable.--Yesterday I walked into town through Hampstead, and put an advertisement in _The Times_, and sought out Building Societies. Much fatigue--some snow--and a cold the result. Dearest Emma looking blooming again in a new cotton wrapper.... Wednesday [31st.]... To Pall Mall. Entered the Winter Exhibition. Saw my “Studies of Head” there, but not the other two, viz.: _Beauty_, and _The Brent_. I had no catalogue, and I asked no questions, but I feel pretty certain they were not there. Slap No. 1. Then I walked in fast snow to the British Institution, having received an intimation that it was varnishing-day, which means “Your picture is hung.” I looked everywhere but could not find it, and pretty sure feel I it is _not_ hung. Slap No. 2. No answer about the large picture from Marlborough House. Slap No. 3. Altogether I begin to feel as though the tide were against me. Told R. Dickinson I did not feel in spirits to come and work at the large picture; went home with a determination to work vigorously at the small one. Thursday worked at it about three hours; scraped out the table-cloth three times, and at last made it right with a dash. Got very pleased with it. Went to Hampstead for the answers to advertisement--found eleven. Curious examination. Found I was right in my conceptions regarding the sort of people who sent them, but that the difficulties are greater than I imagined. Walked that day (Friday) at least 20 miles. Went into a coffee-shop, and wrote five letters; then walked home. Yesterday I painted about three hours, but felt intensely languid and inert.... Thursday [1st February].--I did the cradle, and painted at the cloth, but it looked wrong. Dreadfully nervous. Anxiety about immediate money-wants, and the melancholy prospects of future ruin, I suppose cause it; but I do not _much_ worry about it neither, only when I wake up in the morning I feel it rather. Emma is very well, and the boy getting fat. Funds £3. 2s.--nearly all owing.... 7th.--To town; found my picture placed in the gallery--worked on it till five.... 8th.--To town.--Worked at the _Chaucer_, altering bits of the colour to make more harmonious, giving more colour here and there to the flesh; making the whole more solid and round. Till quarter to five.