I did not occupy myself much today as my time was taken up in walking into the City on some little affair for my Father relative to an Auction of Mr. Ironside’s books, which took place in the evening, and where I attended to make some purchases for him and for myself. I
received a very pleasant letter from Abby today. Poor Ironside, among things which I say [saw?
brought up vivid recollections of ancient days and made me feel the reality
that he had ceased to exist.1
But one short year since and in this journal, in this very book, he plays a very different part. I bought some few things merely to remember him and was glad to find things generally sold well, on account of the distressed condition of his family.