The day was Cloudy with an East Wind and heavy rain. I attended divine Service at Mr. Frothingham’s in the morning, and heard Mr. Stetson of Medford preach a Sermon which struck me like an old acquaintance. It was upon the indulgence of particular sins as affecting an otherwise good character. A habit not infrequent among men, and attempted to be reconciled.1 His manner is yet so bad that I cannot keep up my attention. I did not attend in the Afternoon.

Finished the first volume of Grimm, which has not on the whole come up to my expectation, though rather amusing than otherwise, particularly, the story of the Curè and of his two Tragedies, Baltasar and another.2 I passed the afternoon in again reading my father’s MS Reply to the Confederates, for the purpose of making the suggestions he wished from me. It is one of his ablest papers, and more conclusive than I could have supposed possible, for the case is in its nature thorny. I wrote a Letter to my father upon it, containing little more than what I suggested to him on the first perusal.3 The copying of which Letter was my Evening’s work. Two numbers of the Spectator.