Fine day. I went to the Office and from thence to Mr. Cogswell’s sale, but got no books. Did little or nothing as usual. Lounged at the Athenaeum. Came across a number of the Eclectic Review for December, reviewing my number upon Vaughan in the North American of last July. He does little more than quote with approbation.1 It is a little singular that this Eclectic has fallen upon both of my Articles—Although as they relate to English works of interest to the liberal portion of the English Community it is not perhaps so surprising. I feel flattered by this sort of distinction. It encourages me when I have my moments of depression. Yet after all, what is it? I am not sensible of gaining estimation by my labour. The world moves on here, and pays little attention to efforts which do not impel their immediate interests. A speech upon the present distress with sufficient confidence and not half the basis would make a man’s fortune.

Walk. Dined at P. C. Brooks Jrs., his father, Mr. Slocum and my wife. It was middling. I returned home and read an article in a French periodical upon the death of Princess Borghese—A disgusting exhibition of vanity in the last hour made with the belief in the author of the Account that there was something grand in it. Evening at home. Vivian. German.