A day of mild April showers. Clearing off at five oclock in the afternoon.
Simon, rang us up at seven but the morning was so dark, I indulged a shor time longer. My cold rather better, but my lungs very delicate. When I breathe, the bitter thoughts of wasting consumption presents itself before me. But in whatever shape death may come, let me submit with cheerfull dependence on the mercy of Him who “will not break the broken reed.” That my frame is delicate, and my breast very susceptible
to colds, and slight inflammations is a serious fact which I should consider daily weaning my thoughts if possible from this world, and preparing myself for another, that happy land when sickness and disease never come.
I read a dissertation on “Universalism,”
Looked over the life of “Brunyan”* did not know he had been so depressed in his youth.
*John Bunyan (28 November 1628 – 31 August 1688) was an English Christian writer and preacher, who is well known for his book The Pilgrim’s Progress.