Weather variable, with two or three heavy showers, hail and one clap of thunder. Henry accompanied me to Church in the city. We went to St Mary Wentworth, which is not me of Sir Christopher’s plans. It was erected about a century and a half since by one of his scholars, Hawksmorr, and has been a subject of both praise and censure. It is called heavy and prison like, which in this situation it certainly does appear. But in an open green space and free from smoke and dirt I am apt to think that its fine proportions might redeem it. The interior is pretty and banish, if I may use the term to denote a very important attraction to social worship in a church. The scholar, however, neglected his master’s great rule of light, for his sides are dead walls, and the windows are segments of a circle worked in under the central dome. This is supported by three corinthian columns placed at the angles of a square—a heavy gallery being brought forward to the line between them on three sides. The effect is on the whole pleasant, though architecturally the clubbing together of three large columns to do the work proper for one does not seem defensible. Not so did Sir Christopher do in his pretty interior of St Stephens, Wallbrook. The attendance very fair, and the singing above the average. The sermon rather below it. The rest of the day spent in quiet. I paid a visit to Mr Bates, who is not so well again. The disease is not removed. In the evening, only a single visitor.