Cloudy. Office where I spent time as usual. Received a letter from Mr. T. B. Johnson dated Baltimore. He sails, I imagine, in one of Mr. Shepherd’s ships. His tone is crusty and does not quite please me. My mother writes that he makes me a present of Leslie’s likenesses of herself and my father.1 I value the present but would almost prefer to refuse it. I will be under no obligations. I am to write to him at London.

Short walk, home—Livy. Nothing material. Afternoon, Sismondi, and Rose’s translation of Berni. There is something exceedingly eccentric in these Italians and yet when you get hold of them you do not like to leave off.

My spirits were very slightly down today—I do not know why. I am doing nothing useful. I must get back to my work, against which I show much dislike. Evening at home. Madame Junot, whose last volume is wearisome—Her griefs arising from her and her husband’s fault. I sat up very late, as Joseph Adams was returning from his sister’s at Medford.