Christmas day. A day of some festivity in three fourths of the Christian world and even here celebrated by the members of the elder religious sects. But our old Puritans saw how it formerly was prostituted to the most sensual indulgences and from their religious horror ran to the other extreme. Not myself being much acquainted with 43Churches here I do not attend Divine Service but I regard the day and do not incline to use it in mere temporary Affairs.1

I went to my office merely for the purpose of writing my Diary which I did. Then a walk. It snowed all the morning but cleared away and was pleasant afterwards. Read Ovid, the dispute for the prize of the arms of Achilles. The speech of Ulysses is a masterly specimen both for arrangement and persuasiveness. Ovid certainly can write with abundant power. His resources were greater than those of Virgil. Afternoon, Letters of Mr. Gerry and Mr. Dana, neither explicit enough.

Miss Henrietta Gray passed the day here. Evening Mr. and Mrs. Frothingham. He is amusing from the vehemence of his opinions, but he is a little given to literary pedantry which makes him in regarding the shell frequently overlook the kernel. His criticisms are too enragée to be just. Only time for a few pages of d’Israeli.