Clouds and snow. Division as usual.

I have very little to remark. My days pass monotonously enough. I am writing up my arrears of Diary, and arranging my accounts which I have nearly accomplished. There is a satisfaction in thinking that one owes nothing although tomorrow the thing may again occur.

Continue my review of Oedipus Coloneus. I wonder much at the writers who so often say of the Greeks that they knew nothing of the higher female affections. It appears to me that the character of Antigone is from first to last an impersonation of the very highest kind of female excellence and one which I do not know to be surpassed in any language.

Afternoon, a chaos of authorities against every thing advanced by the New York Review. The getting clear light out of it will be troublesome. In the evening at home. Walpole. Suffering from a cold.