I have repeatedly
observed on the utter impossibility of keeping a diary without long chasms.
More than a month has gone by, and an eventful one, too, without my dotting a
single item! I must brush up and try to preserve the features of my few days
for remaining in this great country, which, while commanding my highest
admiration, I find, after five years of trial, I do not and cannot like.
I went last night to
Cambridge House. Lord Palmerston has emerged from the tortures of the gout, and
is in admirable looks and spirits. He looks upon the exraordinary report of the
bombardment for forty hours of and from Fort Sumter, without any one being
hurt, as an absurdity which further news will clear up. Nothing else engaged
the conversation of the whole company. Italy, Poland, Hungary, and Holstein all
yield in interest to the drama thought to be now formally inaugurated in
America. One gentleman confidently predicted that the Southerners would capture
Washington and give the Northerners the severest thrashing they have ever had.
Motley has worked himself into such a fever at the prospect that he says he can
neither read nor write, and must go home.
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