The day was warm but damp. I went to the Office as usual and was occupied in reading Williston, and the Speech of Mr. Ames upon the resolutions of Mr. Clay on the British Treaty. It is certainly a more powerful piece of eloquence than any I have yet read. Mr. Ames was a very able man, and left behind him a very strong feeling of admiration of his character among a circle of admirers here.1 But he became rather incorrect in his views during the latter part of his Life, being in ill health, and depressed circumstances. His mind was totally sound.

I also tried to form a Letter on the affairs of the Agency, a considerable portion of which was accomplished to my satisfaction. This was Christmas day and I reflected upon the probable condition of our family on that day. How will they spend the day this year, when those in place must feel in fear of seeing too much those who are out.2 At any rate, the day brings no particular feeling with it to me now as I 115am here settled without any associations of family to remind me of it’s return.

I read Aeschines all the afternoon excepting a short space of time devoted to Mitford, who provokes me beyond tolerance. I think his Book ought to be thrown into the Fire. How much mischief History philosophically written, to use a fashionable word of the present day, by a prejudiced man, will occasion. I was pleased with my pursuits and my mind felt that kind of self satisfaction which is eminently soothing. I read to Abby, in continuation of Clarissa Harlowe, which becomes more and more interesting at every step. It is a very pathetic Novel indeed. And very moral for it contains much which would do well to be thoroughly understood by every young Lady. I sat an hour afterwards writing more and more on my Essay but getting more and more dissatisfied.