A cool, bright day. I took advantage of it to go with my son Brooks who was at home over Sunday, to the church of St Mary Avery in Southwark. I had been much struck with it in the glance I had been much struck with it in the glance I had of a part of the edifice some weeks ago. So I thought I should like to examine the rest. It turned out a disappointment. The body of the Church is wholly modern and more bald and poor than any of the class I have visited. The attendance was thin. A very large number of Charity children who sang the psalms and293 responses. This was prior to Henry 8th a priory, dating back so far at the 12th century; as old as Westminster Abbey. Nothing is left however but the choir and Lady Chapel, which are really interesting. The service was much the same as usual. We walked home over Southwark bridge, and though some of the Inn of Court. I had visits from Mr Senior, and Mr Bates. Quiet evening. I read aloud to the family, some of Aytoun’s fanciful ballads of the Scotch cavaliers. In the midst of it I received a rather enigmatical telegram from Mr Seward implying the occurrence of some disaster off Charleston of a serious character. This was made worse by the vagueness of the language and the earnestness to deny that the blockade was effected by it. We certainly are very very much wanting in some qualities of vigilance essential to success. The regular telegram from Reuter did not come before I went to bed.