Heavy rain in the night, but it cleared towards noon. I went to the city to Church, and stopped at St Bennett’s at the corner of Grace church and Fenchurch Streets. This I knew at once to be Sir Christopher Wren’s, by his favorite device of the round window above. It is the smallest and plainest of any I have seen. The roof is carved in his usual manner, the arches springing from what appears to be the engaged capital of a column, without any thing below it but the bare wall. I could not exactly see the merit of this. Well lighted at Wren’s churches always are. The wood plain and dark. Hardly room for a hundred people. I counted but five worshippers apart from the charity children. Much display of the crown and royal arms as usual. The head of the Church, represented by such men as George the fourth and second, and Charles the second. The services as usual. Sermon from the text The harvest is gathered, but applied by the preacher litterally to the crops of the season, and then the rest of the text metaphorically to the preparation of sinners for repentance. At home I had a visit from Mr Twisleton who is a pleasant, sensible man. Mr R. J. Walker and Mr Newman drive with us. The former a little prosy, and stayed rather late. The bag brought me a large number of Despatches.