The weather is now displaying a conflict of the seasons. Sun and clouds, snow and thaw, with bright clear nights. Busy in writing the customary drafts of Despatches. Interrupted by visits from Mr Cyrus Field, and Captain C. H. Marshall— Likewise a Mr Brown with letters from Mr Everett. Somehow or other my day was thus consumed— In my walk, I called to see Mr Bates. He looked much better, but nevertheless said that it was his bad day. In the evening, we went to a reception at Mrs Gladstone’s. Quite small, but composed of persons with most of when I was acquainted—so that I was enabled to present Charles to many people, and thus at once break the ice crust, which constitutes the great difficulty in society. Here I saw but did not make the acquaintance of Tennyson, the poet. He is rather a rough, repulsive looking person who seldom issues from his lair in the isle of Wight to confront the artificial society of the metropolis.