My usual holiday was nothing of the kind today. Obliged to work hard on the arrears of this Diary, and the bringing up of details in small matters. The weather changed once more and though it froze hard in the night, carried off all the snow before night. Had a visit from Sir Farrell Baxton, the nephew of the person alluded to on Thursday, and much more liberally disposed. At half past four o’clock I went with Mr Moran, to see the remains of Cardinal Wiseman, lying in state at his house in York Place. My new Secretary Mr Alward rather brought me to the necessity of this by his friendly relations with the Catholic here. The Cardinal was not surrounded by much of the vanity and pomp of this world. His discourse which finally took the shape of carbuncles had attacked his temple and finally the eye, which of course disfigured the face, and I was glad to get away. There was a crowd of the lower class bringing about the door even after the hours of admission had passed. I think he is the first English cardinal who has lived and died here since Cardinal Pole. Walk around the Regent’s Park and quiet, solitary dinner at home, which I relished far better than most of those I get abroad. Mr Alward came and sat with me for an hour.