Cloudy and mild. I went to the Office and was engaged in my usual occupations. These were however somewhat interrupted by Commissions, as also by my endeavours to get a Company to dine with me. One or two of my acquaintances have declined and the consequence is that I am very much at fault. It is a little singular that in a place like this I should have so few friends. I believe the only intelligible explanation is to be found in my own character. The morning passed away and I had not made sure of filling my table of five guests. E. Blake, E. Quincy, T. K. Davis and Dr. E. G. Davis came1—Young men whom I know and of whom I entertain a very good opinion. It was the first dinner of any pretension that I had given and it passed off extremely well. My things were all pretty good and appeared to be very well relished. And the company sat more than three hours conversing very pleasantly. Evening quiet at home. I read to my Wife more of Caroline of Litchfield, a very prettily told Story. Afterwards, I wasted an hour, and read the numbers of the World.