I spent most of my morning at the Athenaeum reading in the English Periodicals and amusing myself as well as I could. The English as well as ourselves grow dismally heavy. There is nothing to do, and no genius to produce any thing. Literature is at a stand, yet the press groans under the efforts of the writers for bread. Walk. Benjamin Constant after dinner, then Cicero. Evening, Almeria. My days are monotonous enough.