The morning was severely cold. I attended divine service at Mr. Frothingham’s Church in the morning, and heard Mr. Sewall preach rather a dull Sermon. He is not an agreeable man to my fancy. My wife went to Medford with her brother so that Miss Phillips and I kept house. Our dinner was quite comfortable, and in the afternoon as it was cold, I remained at home, and wrote a long letter which was due to my Father.1 Our Correspondence is now a tolerably agreeable one, being upon common subjects of interest and having no reference to objects of an unpleasant nature. I write, generally speaking of my literary occupations, and he replies in his most pleasant vein. After I had finished, I read aloud to Miss Phillips, a Sermon of Jeremy Taylor’s on Meditation. It was in his peculiar style, flowery and pedantic but containing much sterling sense. He advises in it practical Christianity, and is very severe upon the spiritual effervescencies which so frequently distinguish those who aim at extraordinary piety. The Sermon was good and served the purpose better than Mr. Sewall’s. Abby did not return until late in the Evening. I read a little of Sir Charles Grandison, but Edward Brooks came in to enquire about his Mother. Abby gives, I think a very unfavourable account.2 But I feel unwilling to alarm or distress her.