A very cold week. Office as usual where I was occupied partly in the accounts which now keep me exceedingly engaged in the morning and partly in writing Diary, which has fallen into Arrears. Affairs seem now to go on with very little incident of any kind. Every body appears to be waiting for the commencement of the new Administration.

Received a short letter from my father written on New Year’s day, full of good wishes for me and my children but having no allusion whatsoever to the letter I had myself written.1 And yet it seems to me that it deserved a direct and extended consideration and reply.

Home. Livy. Nothing of consequence. Afternoon, Plutarch and Burnet. I like the style of the latter, incorrect and careless as it is. There is individuality about it. Read Forster in German who seems to be fond of dissertation.2

Evening to Mr. I. Sargent’s. Quite a display. The various members of his family and her’s. Cards and a Supper. We thus managed to kill the evening. Home early.