Morning cloudy and chill. It hailed a little and then rained. Nobody went to Meeting but I during the day. Mr. Frothingham preached a Communion Sermon, and one other. Strange how I forget what it was about. The attendance was thin.

I read today Drake’s fifth volume upon the Essayists,1 and almost finished it. This is the most peculiar writer I ever read. His style is clear and easy, yet there is a something, an affectation of the suaviter loquens that is not pleasant. His criticism is not bad and yet it is superficial. His puffing is absurd. It is bookmaking if there ever was such a thing, and yet there is much curious information and amusing biography in it. On the whole I do not know whether to say that I am pleased or displeased. Tried to read Buffon but failed and determined to postpone him to a more connected moment. Evening at home. Greek Grammar finished, and the Spectator.