This morning I walked with my son Brooks to attend religious services at St Paul’s. The crowd was such as to make it difficult to get a place to witness the whole scene which was not in the body of the church, but in one of the extremes. A sermon was preached by a person I did not know on the value of the institution of the Sabbath, very much on the patten of that Sunday at Westminster. On our way home we wandered off into the bye streets, which gave me opportunities to see the Old Baily, and Newgate, and Furnival’s Inn,155 and Gray’s Inn, and the gardens, all of which have been made historical on both sides of the Atlantic. These things are curious, but there is little beyond the association to make them attractive. Age and coal smoke make the exterior of every thing repulsive. The enormous wealth of the city is the only thing that counteracts its obvious tendency to deteriorate in appearance. At home I was rather deranged by the confusion, but laboured to set matters into some order. This house will barely do for us. We went out to dine, by invitation from Mr and Mrs Sturgis. It had been agreed beforehand not to have a set company, but to go with Henry and Mary, and Miss Lyman ad Miss Motely all outside of Mr and Mrs Sturgis, and his son and his Wife. He is a pleasant, good natured man but little altered from the youth at Cambridge, forty years ago. He is a partner in the house of Barrings, and entertains Americans. He lives very expensively both in town and country, which probably absorbs all of his income, and leaves his children to learn habits of luxury and then to meet the struggle with adversity.