The Snow was falling heavily and the day was on the whole so cheerless that I did not stir out of the House. My habit of going to Church is now so fixed as to make it appear very strange to me to stay away. I employed myself singularly as it turned out. For in looking over some of my old attempts I read the review of Williston’s book with which I was so much pleased as to be tempted to cut out a part for publication. I accordingly copied about as much as I thought would do for Mr. Willard’s new Review.1 This and copying part of my father’s letter which I did not finish yesterday took most of the day.

Read over twice a Sermon of Massillon’s upon the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Luke 15. 13. “The younger son gathered all together, and took his Journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living.” I thought it one of the best of his which I had read. He first examines the nature of the vices charged upon the Son, their degrading character both to mind and body and then explains the Charity and benevolence of the Deity in a case of Repentance from so hardened a state of guilt. This constituted about all my doings today and I was not a moment idle. Read the Guardian as usual.