I went to Boston today. My first object was to get the Glass purchased the other day safely lodged at the house, which I did. But the anxiety and trouble attending the process was not trifling. I then went to the Office and was engaged in various little occupations of business for some time. Then called at Mr. Brooks’ where I had a pleasant chat for nearly an hour, then attended a wine sale and bought some wine for my father, and then went out of town.
At dinner, we tried my father’s Burgundy. It is as good as ever it was. Mr. Frothingham can only blame his ill fortune.
Afternoon, Read Horace and Mr. de Burtin, whose taste in Pictures is not of the most exalted kind. He deals in technicals rather than in the spirit of the Art. I was indolent as is too often the case nowadays. Evening quietly at home.