The morning began with a violent rain. So it has been for several successive Sundays. We (My father and I) went to Meeting in the morning in the Carriage, but in the afternoon it held up so that we walked. A certain Mr. Crafts preached but very flatly.1 His style was ambitious without any foundation to sustain a flight. If a clergyman would form for his beginning plain sense strongly worded how much more it would take, particularly if he assisted the delivery of it with a little knowledge of manner. It is one thing to write well, another to read well. Many a man might easily afford to lose a little of the former character if he could gain in the latter, for bad speaking takes off half the effect of a good style, and good will grace even a defective one.

The weather was very disagreeable, being an Easterly Storm and I felt it more from being under the influence of a violent cold. I sat with my Wife nearly all day as she was quite unwell. In the evening, some conversation, for the first time with my father—This being the only occasion upon which he has not slept from weariness. Our talk was literary and not political, turning upon the character of the French drama, and upon versification in general, then upon Moliere whose plays we reviewed. Altogether, the pleasantest time I have had.