Three hundred years ago this day, William Shakespeare was born. Great efforts have been made to celebrate the anniversary with splendor, but without much success. I was invited to act as Vice President at Stratford on Avon, and to attend the banquet at which Lord Carlisle is to preside. On the whole, I have concluded that my wisest course is to avoid prominence during the critical period of our affairs. Hence I declined. My day was passed very quietly in attending to my private accounts, and a little to numismatics. Then to a private view of the Exhibition of the old Society of painters in Water colours. There is great perfection here to a certain point, and in a limited range. But I see very little success in the higher department delineating action or passion. Beauty of scenery and of still life, in abundance. But no genius like that which has made Italy and oil painting so wonderfully associated. Evening, all of us to Lady Palmerston’s reception. Not very large, and of little interest. The German Ambassadors not present. Does this mean any thing? We have now an arrival from America announcing that the Persia reached New York on the 6th. Nothing however direct from Charles.