The season is cloudy and wet, but mild. The vegetation appears quite advanced. My day was employed in drawing Despatches in reply to those received by the last steamer. One of these is evidently prompted by Mr Weed’s report of the conversation held between us on the 17th of last month to which allusion is made in my Diary for that day. I scarcely think the making a record of such a matter very wise. I believe it was done in good will to me, but it renders necessary something of an explanation on my side. It is singular how indifferent I have become to my situation in political affairs. I should like to be of service to my country if I can, but I look forward with satisfaction the moment when they may not be longer wanted. The whole friction of public affairs is distasteful to me. I am grateful for the opportunities I have received of being of use. They have satisfied whatever of secondary objects I had in view. To follow the path further however can only be from a sense of duty and at the sacrifice of private inclination. Mr Seward’s record will remain, I hope to justify his choice. Not much visiting. We dined early in order to go to St James’s hall to hear Mr Dickens read passages from his own works. The place was crowded. He selected six chapters from his story of David Copperfield, and one from the Pickwick papers. His reading was very good. Better in the comic than the grave portions but effective in all. This is an easy way of earning money to him, and a pleasant mode of spending an hour for the multitude of this great place.