Warm. To town. Afternoon at home. Evening at the Mansion.

Morning in the city again. Most of my time taken up with the Account of T. B. Adams which I at last brought into order. There is nothing now remaining but to pass it through the Probate Court, which I hope to do in a few days. The town quite alive with the accounts of the arrival of the British Queen, with news from England of a commercial character not very encouraging.1 There seems every indication of a crisis in money matters of a more serious and durable character than the last was. I know not the end.

Home. Read Tacitus, twenty sections of the sixth book, more obscure and doubtful text than the first three. Le Comte China and a little of Grimm. Took tea at the house below as my Wife had gone out to make a visit to Mrs. Seaver from which she returned at about eight.