Fine day. Customary exercises. Evening at Mrs. T. B. Adams’.

I occupied one hour in going over the usual exercise with my daughter and read besides some of Tucker’s book which does not fix my attention. There appears to be very little method in his pursuit, and the difficulty of tracing any connexion between one portion and another of the work discourages one from the whole.

Attended divine service all day and heard Mr. Lunt preach from 1. Corinthians 10.31. “whether therefore ye eat or drink or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” and the same Epistle 12.6 I think. “There are diversities of operations, but it is the Same God which worketh all in all.” The latter sermon pleased me most as designing to prove that religion was the result of the developement of man’s nature in every portion of it, whether through the senses, or the reason or the imagination or the passions. Mr. Lunt writes with a great deal of beauty and sometimes his delivery seems to me like a strain of sweet but languid music, on the ear, hardly powerful enough to rouse the attention to great action and yet charming enough to regret its stop.

A sermon by Bishop Butler from the English Preacher, on the Love of God. Matthew 22. 37. “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, with all thy heart, with all thy soul and with all thy mind.” A discourse closely reasoned and characteristic of the Author.

The afternoon was quite perfect. The air clear and not too warm and the landscape refreshing. Read a little of Grimm who fills up my odd moments.

Evening to Mrs. T. B. Adams’ to see Mrs. John Angier who was there for the day, and seized the occasion for a short visit to Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Mr. Price Greenleaf was there, and my father came in shortly afterwards.

Fine day. At home. Ride. Evening, visit from E. Quincy and Mr. Parker.

This day was passed very quietly at home. Read the Correspondence of the Revolution, being that of Izard, Laurens and the commencement of Franklin’s. Also Texier, but my German does not flourish from the want of a text book. So I went over the Life of Alcibiades in Plutarch. How much in that biography as indeed in all those of that writer.

Read after dinner only ten sections of the twelfth book of the Annals of Tacitus, as I went to ride accompanied by my father round Milton Hill. The Country looks very beautifully. Evening at home. Edmund Quincy and his Wife’s brother, Mr. parker came in and passed an hour. The former appears much better.