I was busily employed all my morning in writing letters to my two sons at home. So many thoughts occur to me whenever I sit down to address them that when I intend only a note I find that invariably I overrun the limits of my paper. And my whole time slips away in pursuing this object. The days are likewise growing so short as to materially curtail the hours allotted to ordinary business. My son Henry left us on a short excursion to Manchester, which he proposes to visit for objects of his own. I spent two hours in the open air, part of the time walking with my daughter Mary around the Regent’s park. In the evening Mrs Emmons and her son were here, on their return to the united States. Mr Morse came in for a short time, to talk of matters connected with the Gladiator. He says that another ship is fitting out to carry cargo which was left, from the Steamer. He augurs the same results from Captain Marchand’s sluggishness that I do. The navy has got to slough away the old generation of commanders before it will redeem its reputation. He succeeded however in getting the Captain off, and in giving him all the information necessary to pursue his object.