Clear day. It would be ludicrous for me to describe how I spent my morning. Suffice it to say, that it was partly in talking with Mr. Walsh and partly in burning up old Account books which have been long laying about my rooms reminding me of the vanity of human expectations in the life and death of Bob New, barber.1

Mr. A. H. Everett called in to know when his room would be ready. I told him tomorrow, and he said he should then try to get in his things. He told me that Simpson was the person likely to succeed Mr. Henshaw in the Collectorship, inasmuch as the County Committee had voted to recommend him. So it is—Democratic enough. Mr. Henshaw understands a thing or two as well as his neighbours. Walk and home, Livy. Afternoon, Sismondi upon Alfieri, Ariosto and Fouqué.

Little John continued so unwell that my Wife concluded at last to send for Dr. Bigelow who announced that he was threatened with scarlet fever—A thing that frightens me always. I was depressed as 378I always am in such cases, and felt the presence of Gardiner Gorham as rather irksome. Swift, Conduct of the Allies.