Henry came in from Walton to remain a couple of days and go back. My time was passed in writing a report of yesterday’s conversation with Lord Russell, and my other customary Despatches. My little interruption from visitors. Indeed the member of Americans coming now is small. A Mr Howard from California came, on his way back. He reminded me of a former visit but I had forgotten it. Very joyful over the news, which produces much effect here—the more that the knowing ones had staked their reputation as oracles on the prediction that Sherman would never get through. How strange is the English character, and how different in many respects from what I had thought it! A compound of obtuseness and ill temper. Was it always so? Or is this the degeneracy of the commercial age? A walk as far as Kensington Palace gardens and back—and a quiet evening at home. I am now gradually sliding back into the routine of winter life in London, which to me would be comfortable enough, if my family could go on as heretofore. But this is out of the question. I must make up my mind to a different state of things during the rest of my term, be it long or short.