Fine day. I passed it in my usual occupation. I am making out a pretty complete set of the Letters of my Grandfather and Grandmother to each other. The former are amusing from the short, concise and yet humorous style in which they are written. The latter interest from their gravity.
My Grandmother was a thorough politician. She passed her life in the midst of one of those crises in Society, when the old work was pulled down and the new one put up. These papers are all that remain of a very extraordinary woman. There is a maternal pride peeping out constantly which has as much charm in it as any thing—A disposition to press forward her Son because she thought him really the first man in the Country, and for once she was not much in error. Her penetration was not that partial fondness which invests its object with merely imaginary qualities. It was the result of Judgment.
Read a little of St. John. Evening, no reading as my Mother was upstairs still troubled with the Erisypelas flying about her.1
That is, the “flames” of “St. Anthony’s fire.”