A fine mild day. I went to the Office and was occupied as usual. Wrote Diary. Received a letter from Mr. Johnson in Paris complaining of not receiving any remittances through the Barings. His date is as late as the 10th of December at which time my letters of the 10 and 13 September must have been sometime lieing at the bureau of the Welles. He has evidently forgotten the change of direction requested through his letter from the Hague to my mother. For the rest his letter is full of complaints about his health and intimates a speedy return home.1

Walk and home to read Livy. Afternoon, Buffon and Burnet. I have got very tired of the style of the latter because it is so feeble. He does not grasp his ideas in language. One is puzzled to find out his meaning and sometimes one gets tired of the trouble of the attempt. Read a little of Forster who is fatiguing from the immense length of his sentences. Here is a difficulty of a different kind, and increased by the doubt as to the precise force of words. Evening, we had the family here, and got along very well. Nothing however of any consequence.