Having decided to abandon our attendance at Mr Martineau’s chapel, I went out today to see how it would answer to go to the chapel in the Vere Street. There is no Unitarian church in the neighborhood, and I had heard something of Mr Maurice as being of the liberal school of churchmen, under whom we might possibly be content to sit. It is rather a larger interior and fully attended. The Sermon was fair. It was upon St John the Evangelist whose day it was in the calendar. The main argument was aimed at some late exposition of the character of John which represented him as shaping his action towards the Savior as to recommend himself at the expense of the other Apostles. Not knowing the reference I did not gather so much of the point. The preacher however was clear and vigorous beyond the average of his class. I know no whether it was Mr Maurice. I took a walk towards evening529 calling to see Mr Thompson Hankey, and afterwards to Mr Bates’s. Neither of them was at home. Few people are in London at this season who can get into the country. The account of Mr Bates was, that he was better yesterday. Quiet the rest of the day and evening— Reading Leigh Hunt’s sketch of the town, which disappoints me. It is mostly taken from Brayely and Malcolm with only slight improvement. The event of the week has been the sudden death of Mr Thackeray, the novelist, whose book Vanity Fair I have been lately reading aloud to the family. This is one more deducted from the already meagre list of literary celebrities in England. Bulwer and Dickens,with perhaps Tennyson as a poet and three or four historians complete the number. Lord Brougham is among the past.