Chilly, cloudy day. Made one of my expeditions to the city for the purpose of visiting one of the old churches. On this occasion I selected St Bartholomew the Great in Smithfield. This is quite old, having been made out of a part of a priory established in the twelfth century, and not falling into the sphere of the great fire. Its architecture outside is not much. Inside the old, circle and shut saxon columns give it at once a character; but it is narrow and bald. The roof is good. A small attendance, and a clergyman who preached a sermon apropos to Trinity Sunday which confessed the inexplicable mystery of that doctrine, but said it was no harder to believe than many other things in the New Testament. he advised abstention from all consideration of the subject. This would be very reasonable, if he did not about in the same breath read the Athanasian creed and require responses to its incomprehensible propositions. I came home as I went, by the Metropolitan Railway. Quiet day and evening. Walk. Mr Baldwin dined here.