The weather is absolutely perfect. Warm without being oppressive and clear. My morning spent in writing, after which I went out in the carriage on some commissions. After which I took a long stroll threading my way through various parts of the town which furnish me infinite curious and amusement. Mrs Adams and Edward Brooks took me to the studio of an artist, Mr Kellogg, who showed me a couple of his pictures, one of which he claims to be an original of Raphael and the other to be by Leinardo da Vinci. I am not well qualified to judge the question of genuineness, but I can see the force of good painting. The Raphael does give me an idea of the master. It is a duplicate of the belle Jardiniere of the Louvre in Paris. Mr Kellogg claims it as the original, and not without some show of reason. I spent a long time in looking at it as well as the other a less attractive subject, Herodias and the head of John the Baptist. We were here nearly two hours. In the evening my daughter Mary persuaded her Uncle Edwards and myself to go with her to Madame Tussand’s collection of wax words. The figures are remarkably well done in many cases. In others they are a little tawdry and in bad taste. There is a room of claptrap having representations of all noted criminals. An hour was enough, after which we set down Mr Brooks and then came home.222