Morning pleasant. I went to the Office and passed my time very easily. My office boy has deserted me and consequently half the time I make no fire. My Office is dirty and on the whole very disgusting. I wish I could make some arrangement by which to give it up, and make 291one at home, but this is not possible while I live in my present house.

Walk and Newspapers. Athenaeum. What an idle life! After dinner finished Benjamin Constant whose book has not held out equal to my expectation. His theory is a doubtful one, but I like his incidental criticism. Cicero, fourth Tusculan upon the Passions. He argues in favor of perfect apathy, and I do not know but he may be right.

Evening. Theatre with my Wife. The Hunchback. Sir Thomas Clifford by Mr. Kemble, Julia, Miss Kemble. This piece I saw performed about eighteen months since and then gave my opinion of it in this Diary. The inferior parts were then better cast than now but Miss Vincent though thought by some equal appeared to me inferior by far to Miss Kemble. The former wanted ease, she spoke too fast, and had not so much expression. Indeed, this is the great point of the latter. Her eyes give her great power. Mr. Barry though respectable did not equal Mr. C. Kean.1 Home. Half an hour to the Mille et une Nuits which are charming.