Christmas and a beautiful day. I went to the Office. Occupied in writing, and read a portion of Lingard. In the account of the troubles, 428he writes with ease and fluency. And on the whole he does not attack the liberty of the subject. Yet where so much of public affairs was influenced by religious feeling, such an author is rather a dangerous guide. Took a walk with Mr. Peabody, and finding that I had some surplus time I went to the Athenaeum but found nothing.

Afternoon, made considerable progress in the book of M. Villemain. The summary of Cromwell’s character is most incorrectly drawn. He has just enough of the true qualities to puzzle himself and to be astonished by his far strained explanations. I do not know a historical character who has been less correctly drawn. It would be very well worth while to make an estimate of it. I will think of it perhaps if I ever feel encouraged to write again. But my hopes are low. I find my article written for the North American Review so long ago is put off for another three months and perhaps more.1 No success. Well, I will give up and take my ease.

Evening quiet. My Wife still in torture with her teeth. Read German.