Cloudy with a little snow, and rain. I went to the Office and was occupied in writing and so forth—Accounts and Commissions. The time slides away very imperceptibly.

Walk and home where I read Livy, but my mind was somewhat taken up by my proposed dinner party—It being the largest I ever had. Wm. Dwight and his brother and J. Chapman, O. W. B. Peabody and R. Robbins, H. G. Gorham and T. K. Davis, Edmund Quincy—A very pretty dinner but too large for pleasure and a little formal. I enjoyed it less than any other I have given and shall hereafter proceed to change my company. T. K. Davis was exceedingly dull. Something has come across his spirit, I am sure.

The party left early and I spent the evening very quietly with my Wife in conversation. My namesake, Mr. C. F. Adams brought me a letter directed by mistake to him, from Mr. Shepherd, inclosing two more draughts from New Orleans.1