Weather excessively cold. I went to the Office. My Wife not quite so unwell as she has been though her spirits are exceedingly depressed. The family in utter confusion, and comfortless as possible. Engaged all the morning in writing and after all accomplished only a Letter to T. B. Adams Jr. covering my Account up to the 12th instant, and a short one to my Father.1 This was no great matter but it was better than nothing. And the air is so sharp that it freezes the powers and nips one almost into nothing. The duty was performed and that always gives gratification.

Dined again at Mr. Frothingham’s. His brother was there. Is the Cashier of a Bank here and a respectable though evidently not a bright man.2 Returned home to chill again over a poor fire and accomplished nothing but copying my Letters. This is a miserable waste of life, and comfortless as miserable but what is to be done?

Evening. Carried my Letters to the Post Office and received one from my Mother with a Commission in the Navy for J. H. Adams.3 We shall now see the result. Read Gibbon, the Iliad Book 9th and the Spectator.