A fine day. I attended Divine Service at St George’s Chapel, Bloomsbury. Quite full. The sermon much as usual, though I believe the preacher has some reputation. At home I had a series of visits, which I felt rather tiresome as I was suffering more and more from a head ache. Sir William and Lady Ouseley, the two Misses Gelston, Mr H. T. Parker and Mr Mackintosh before dinner. Then I went out with Mrs Adams to call on a Mr and246 Mrs Bartlett who had brought a letter Mr Eliot of New Bedford. We did not succeed in finding them, from a mistake in the address. After my return I took a walk with my two younger children, in the Regent’s park which under the influence of the late rains has completely recovered in verdure. A young gentleman by the name of Richardson, a friend of my son Henry, dined with us, and Mr Morse, the consul came in with his daughter, and spent the evening. Mr Morse has not been successful in discovering the whereabouts of the vessel supposed to be loading for the insurgents. I have little doubt that there is one, but they are so desperate that they make more and more efforts to conceal their movements. The struggle in America in is approaching another of its critical moments. It is quite evident that the insurgents are beginning to feel the pressure of the cord that is tightening around them. It will be our fault if we let them escape again as they did before. But in war there is no knowing what may happen next. I must admit that I feel extreme anxiety as the hour approaches.