Morning cloudy attended with a drizzling rain, making the day very unpleasant though quite warm. I attended divine service at Mr. 83Frothingham’s, both in the morning and the afternoon and heard him deliver Two Sermons, to neither of which I attended much. The one in the afternoon was upon Charity to the Poor, and in aid of the Contribution box served regularly on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and it was good as I thought for it’s intended purpose. I returned home and read for the Afternoon Jeremy Taylor’s Account of the Conception and Nativity of Jesus Christ.1 His style is extraordinary, sometimes brilliant, at all times 2 nervous, and strong, but not infrequently obscure. It is the old vigour of that class of Writers who though subsequently excelled by the smoothness and polish of later ages has in itself never been surpassed. Indeed our times are not like those, we force much and produce little. In the evening I read to Abby part of Clarissa Harlowe. The letters of Lovelace have much power in them and a great deal of wit, not formerly appreciated by me when I read them here and there out of connection. Mr. Everett called in to tell us he was going tomorrow morning to Washington—His departure being accelerated by the account of the Boat. He sat only a single minute, so that we resumed Clarissa and continued it until bedtime.