Morning cloudy and clamp. Arose and passed an hour in my study in writing. After which I went to Meeting at Mr. Frothingham’s and heard him deliver a Sermon not a single word of which remains in my memory. He is not a good Preacher for he has not the quality of taking hold of the Hearer’s attention. This is a tact only possessed by some men and it is the great secret of seizing one’s mind whether voluntarily or not. Some men do it almost instinctively, and without forcing nature, others by artificial means such as startling paradoxes or new doctrines but whether in one or the other, they all need it to keep up reputation. Mr. Frothingham is an exceedingly amiable man and he is also a man of talents but he has misconceived his line. He has not the art of fascinating public attention like some of his Brethren.1

After dinner as Abby still had too much Cold I went alone and heard another Sermon which interested me as little. I am sorry for this as I esteem Mr. F. and feel the exertion he makes to please, but it is impossible to correct the facts. The remainder of the afternoon and evening was passed at home, part of it passed in finishing the Life of Richardson by Scott. It is very light stuff. Scott is rather a pleasing but an exceeding shallow writer. His reflections all lie on the surface and have only their simplicity and their showy qualities to recommend them. After Abby had retired, I read La harpe’s remarks upon the Ancient Comedy in which I thought him much too severe upon Aristophanes, to whom he allows a very small share of merit. I am not a very competent Judge but from what I have read of the translation by Mitchell of his Plays I think they have merit to redeem the unquestionable objection which exists in their coarseness.2