1861. April 28.—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 extraordinary 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.
