Morning delightful. But the East Wind set in cold and harsh at Noon. I read part of the Account of Pompeii before attending divine service. Mr. Frothingham preached all day. Job. 5. 26. “Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a shock of corn cometh in his season.” A funeral Sermon upon Mr. Morril late a Deacon in the Church who died last week at an advanced age.1 It was on the whole happily done, for the subject was one of those whose services to the world are not of a noisy character, and who pass through life satisfied with the performance of the honest but limited duties of their sphere. A good man is as the world goes, as fair a spectacle as it can present, but there is no great room for the vehemence of rhetorical eulogy, nor 64for the exercise of any extensive philosophical reflection. Mr. Frothingham did every thing that was possible. He alluded to his long life and his death as a uniform Christian and to the performance of his duties social and moral. The afternoons was a discourse commemorative of the day, Easter. John 20. 20. “Then were the disciples glad, when they saw the Lord.”

I read a Sermon of Massillon’s from the same text as last Sunday’s, the subject was the proper disposition for a holy life, exemplified in the text through 1. the spirit of self devotion or sacrifice in the Saviour 2. in the spirit of fidelity of Mary. The first branch included a view of the Atonement which I do not meddle with as it is one of the knotty points of doctrinal theology. A short walk with my Wife who is suffering from a cold. Evening at home. Read Pompeii.

Heavy rain all day with the wind high from the Eastward. I went to the Office. Nothing very material in the way of business. I wrote, and read some portions of the North American Review for April. This periodical seems to be assuming a new species of character. It is the vehicle of brilliant, superficial Essays without much attempt at criticism. The writers for it seek to dazzle the public for the time without aiming to leave much which can be looked upon as sterling matter for reference.

My article has now been postponed a year, and I think I see in one of those of the present number, some thoughts springing from it’s perusal. I think I shall never write for that Review again so long as it continues under it’s present auspices. My mortification in connection with that publication has been greater than I think I deserve, and I have brought it upon myself by endeavouring to do something when it is the decision of a superior power that I must at least for the present remain entirely idle.

I went up in the rain to the South end to look at some furniture, but could find nothing to suit me. Afternoon, I intended to have attended a Meeting of the Directors of the Boylston Market, but it rained so hard, and having wet my feet before dinner, I concluded to 65remain at home. Read Botta, and Schiller. Evening quiet. Les Parvenus and Pompeii. My Wife still suffering much with her cold.