I read this morning the little fragment upon Faust left by Lessing which is said by Madame de Stael to have furnished the idea to Goethe. His plan has it’s merits and beauties. It is not liable to the objection of Goethe’s, for it has a beautiful moral, but to bring this about an effort of imagination is necessary. An unreal Faust is exposed to the machinations of the Devil which is telling the story at the outset, and no interest can attach to the hero. Here Goethe’s plan is the best.

At the Office, then walk with my Wife to a China shop to make some purchases for her New Year’s presents. This prevented my usual exercise. Home. Mr. Brooks dined out. I had a quiet afternoon. Read over the Correspondence of Mr. Jay and Mr. King which contains little of much interest. I am almost discouraged by the mass and confusion of the MS. And I have not room enough for their arrangement.

In the evening I accompanied my Wife and Mr. Brooks on an evening visit to Mr. & Mrs. W. Pratt. These are persons who have lately purchased Mr. Cushing’s house in Summer Street and though retired in their habits, possess the surpassing merit of wealth. I found there the gentleman and his lady a niece of Col. Pickering whose picture upon the wall struck me much from her resemblance to it, three 42maiden daughters and William who is the only one I ever knew at all before.1 I got through pretty well. Disappointed in the appearance of the house which has cost so enormously. It’s simplicity amounts to baldness. Home.

Day very dark. I passed most of my time in lounging at an Auction room where there was a sale of pictures. Bought none. They were not very good, and the day was so unfavourable as to remove all temptation. What time remained was devoted to the pursuit of toys for the children as Christmas presents. Home. Read Ovid, and Mr. Gerry’s letters which contain more than any I have yet seen. There is however a want of minuteness about them all which I can not relish. It is a great defect in letter writing. Yet I perceive my grandfather cautioned not infrequently to avoid it in his letters. Such is the world.

Miss Henrietta Gray came to town for the purpose of attending the Theatre with my Wife and Mr. Brooks to see Matthews. I do not go in obedience to the custom. Neither do I desire to. I attach no importance to the customary conventions of society, yet I would not entirely violate them. Mourning I consider as entirely conventional. It must frequently act as a substitute for grief.1

Spent the evening desultorily. Read some of Madle de L’Espinasse’s Letters to taste them, a little of d’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature and Schiller’s Don Carlos.2

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.