My Wife has unfortunately caught this severe cold which is going about and under which I have myself been suffering. It has fallen so seriously upon her lungs that in the absence of Dr. Stevenson I sent for Dr. Bigelow today. This should have been done earlier had it not been for her aversion to seeing a new physician.

The day was gloomy with a drizzling rain. I went out early. At the Office, Mr. Hobart the Sexton of the Parish at Quincy called at the hour appointed and I went down with him to the vessel where I saw the remains of my late brother transferred to the vehicle which is to convey them to their final resting place.1 How monstrously that has increased its tenants within a few years. I felt relieved when the thing was done. Poor John still clung to home in his last moments, which he had at other times cast off—Happy had he never left it for the slippery steps of the Presidential palace. All this is now over, and peace to his ashes.

I was occupied the remainder of the morning in finishing the draught of my Quarterly Account and winding up balances, then writing a short letter with it.2 Short walk and felt dull. Afternoon Thirty years war, and a history of the Arts of Porcelain and glass making in Dr. Lardner’s Cyclopedia which is interesting.3 Evening at home, concluding to decline an Invitation to Mr. Francis Parkman’s. Wilhelm Meister.