A summer’s morning. Very busy writing my private letters. Obliged to snatch a couple of hours to go to the city. My work was disposed of by five o clock. But the sense of relief which I used to have is not so sensibly felt now. The perpetual recurrence of labour makes it monotonous. I took a walk through the Park and up Primrose hill to observe the progress of the season. The vegetation is advancing, but it seems behind hand as compound with last year. Dined by invitation with Mr Cyrus W. Field at the Palace Hotel. He had a company of our sixty people, consisting mainly of people connected with the Atlantic Telegraph I knew perhaps twenty or thirty of them. Sat on the right of Mr Field and next to Mr Bright. The dinner was well enough, but after it was over Mr Field insisted upon speaking. So he called upon me, and Mr Bright. Mr Evarts and others, who had no alternative, but to talk nonsense about the telegraph. I think I shall insist upon declining every invitation to dinner whilst I remain in England that implies a necessity to speak in public. I have already done so in many cases. I walked home at eleven o’clock. The ladies at Mrs Hankey’s