They day was darkish but it cleared up after the rainy. Went into the city as usual, and worshipped at St Andrew’s, Undershaft, or as it is sometimes called St Mary Axe. This has the aspect of an old edifice, though carefully repaired. It is in the simplest form of Gothic, with a nave and two side aisles, separated by thin clusters of pillars forming pointed arches. The roof is flat and ribbed with ornamental gilding. The eastern side has a window of stained glass, containing poor figures of five sovereigns of England from Elizabeth to Charles the second inclusive. The first instance of the sort I have met with. The effect is much improved by the monuments, a remark I cannot always make. The next curious is that of Star, a figure sitting with a book before him and a pen in his hand. It is the size of life, made of clay, once painted, but now of the natural color. The service as usual. The sermon touched on the delicate and disputed question in the church of the plenary inspiration of the Scriptures. The argument not forcible, and the conclusion that it is best left alone. Home where I employed myself in making up my correspondence. There have accumulated so many letters to prepare that I was obliged to abandon my project of returning to St Leonard’s this evening. In expectation o this I had failed to order dinner at home. So I went out to take a walk and search for some odd place. After a good deal of hesitation I hit upon the Cock Tavern in Fleet Street, said to be noted for tits beef steaks and porter. At the door stood the figure of a Cock gilt and well done. The room was long and narrow, partitioned off in boxes separated by curtains, as is usual with oyster houses at home. They were all filled with people apparently of the middle classes of young men. Silence is general. Nothing ordered but beef steaks or perhaps pork and beer. I trick the same but was unlucky in having as poor and hard beef as I have met with in England. In all respects the place seemed inferior. Nothing comparable to the Blue Posts. I rose and went home congratulating myself that these adventures were about to end. What a blessing is a comfortable home. Returned to m house to work. A visit from Mr Lampson who was driven off by the arrival of my bag from America, which however for once contained no Despatches.517