Morning fine but the season continues cold. I went to the Office and was occupied much as usual in drawing up the Arrears of my Diary. Passed some time in an attempt to get a box at the Theatre but without success. Walk. Home to read Homer, which I was in a degree prevented from doing by interruptions. Afternoon at home, reading Burnet and Forster. I am rather slow in my progress, I know not exactly how. The days are longer and yet I do not effect so much. In the 205evening, called at Mr. Frothingham’s and went with him to the Odeon to hear a Concert of the Academy of Music. The house was thronged. From bottom to top nothing but one mass of living beings. The performance consisted of a translation of Schiller’s Song of the Bell set to music, the translation by S. A. Eliot now Mayor of the City. The choir appeared to be a large one, in all not less than two hundred and fifty I should think. I thought the leading singers all defective and the chorus rather noisy than musical. The music is of Romberg a German and did not strike me. The poem of Mr. Eliot also wants poetic vigor, though a very respectable attempt. Afterwards an Ode to Harmony which was sung inharmoniously then Mr. Isenbeck on the flute whom I heard last night. An overture and a Chorus from Rossini’s Moses in Egypt which was the best thing of the evening. Home, stopping a moment only at Mr. Frothingham’s on my return.