Sunday, July 10th.—­My father wickedly dawdled about till we were nearly late for church, and had to scamper along the quays and up the steep street, to poor dear Dall’s infinite discomfiture, who grumbled and puffed, and shuffled and shambled along, while I plunged on, breathlessly ejaculating, “It is so hateful to be late for church!” The cathedral (which I believe it is not) was quite full, but we obtained seats in the organ gallery, where we could not hear very well, but had a very fine view of the coup d’oeil presented by the choir and church below us.  The numerous and many-colored congregation, the white surpliced choristers, the charity-school children in their uniforms surrounding the altar, all framed in by the dark old oak screens with their quaint readings, and partially vividly illuminated by occasional gleams of strong sunlight which poured suddenly through the colored windows, presented a beautiful picture.  The service was very well performed:  the organ is a remarkably good one, and one or two of the boys’ voices were exquisitely soft and clear.  It is a fine service, and yet I do not like it by way of religious worship.  It does not make me devout, in the proper form of the term; it appeals too much to my senses and my imagination; it is religion set to music and painting, and artistic religion does not suit me.  The incessant passing of people through the church, too, disturbs one, and gives an unpleasant air of irreverence to the whole....  I think I might like to go to a cathedral for afternoon service, much as I like to spend my Sunday leisure in reading Milton, though I should not be satisfied to make my whole devotional exercises consist in reading “Paradise Lost.”  A wretchedly weak, poor sermon; how strange that such a theme should inspire nothing better than such a discourse!  However, I suppose this sort of ministering is the inevitable result of a “ministry” embraced merely as a means of subsistence.  No one could paint pictures or compose music, only because they wanted bread, so I do not see why any one should preach sermons fit to be heard, only because they want bread.  If I was a despot, I would suppress hebdomadal writing of sermons, and people should be forbidden instead of bidden to talk nonsense upon sacred subjects.

Monday, 11th.—­At night the theater was very full, and the audience pleasant.  During supper my father, Charles Mason, and I had a long discussion about Kean.  I cannot help thinking my father wrong about him.  Kean is a man of decided genius, no matter how he neglects or abuses nature’s good gift.  He has it.  He has the first element of all greatness—­power.  No taste, perhaps, and no industry, perhaps; but let his deficiencies be what they may, his faults however obvious, his conceptions however erroneous, and his characters, each considered as a whole, however imperfect, he has the one atoning faculty