Cold morning. I went to the Office after writing for an hour. Time wasted in reading politics, writing Diary, Accounts and a little half hour of Mr. Jefferson’s Letters. Nothing new.

Walk. Afternoon, wrote as industriously as if I was doing any thing remarkable. I find matter enough, and congratulate myself at least in this that my facility in writing does not decay for want of use. Began Beechey’s Account of his Voyage through the Pacific to Behring’s Straits.1 Thus the day passed as days regularly pass with me.

Evening I accompanied my Wife to the house of the Misses Inches.2 A small party. Tea and Ices. I found a much greater number of acquaintances than I saw at Mrs. Everett’s and amused myself far more. Returned home rather late so that it was nearly twelve before I retired.