“_Aug. 2, 1835, Sunday._—I have for this time work enough: two courses of lectures—one, for my Bible-class, to begin next Sunday; the other a course of temperance lectures for Reading and elsewhere. I don’t know how I shall succeed, but I am never self-distrustful and often feel sure I _shall_ do VERY well, and as often see that I may fall through entirely. Either course failing would mortify me. But here, as elsewhere, let me start with feeling, ‘I will _persevere_, and with every endeavor which interest and ingenuity can furnish.’ Such being one’s constant feeling and action, hardly anything is invincible. _Perseverance_ without corresponding exercise of ALL ONE’S MIND is but a dogged spinning out of tedious and useless effort. _Remember when most discouraged_ to _labor_ as though you were in the full blossom of _Hope_, and shortly you will be.” At this time he was singing in, and sometimes leading, the choir in his father’s church, as he writes: “_Nov. 14._—The medical authorities of the family, having ordered me up for inspection, have decided that I was not sea-worthy, but have, in view of past services, ordered me into dock to be a receiving-ship, and there to undergo thorough repairs. I am quietly riding in the dock without mast or rigging. They have sent aboard two sets of workmen this morning, under the care of Messrs. Calomel and Aloes; and these are to remove all my cargo, ballast, etc., after which I am to be new-rigged and furnished and sent out on a new cruise. This is well. I have sailed very dully for some time and came near to foundering once or twice. “Will you take my place to-day and sing bass? I know of no one possessing suitable gravity except yourself to confront the audience and do justice to music.... Yours truly, “‘_Old Constitution_.’” A line of tender sentiment runs through the journal, appearing whenever any reference is made to the one to whom he was engaged. Concerning so delicate a matter we only give extracts sufficient to show the radiant atmosphere in which, at least at times, he walked, and the deep and sincere affection which he cherished. They are to be read as the opening stanzas of that beautiful idyl that closed only with his life. “_Aug. 4, 1835._—It is a little curious, perhaps not, however, that I very much dislike to say anything in my journal of my thoughts and feeling for E., who is so much of my _existence_. Well, I suppose the more and the more delicately we love the less we care and wish to say about it. It becomes a matter of _heart_, not of _tongue_; it becomes a _feeling_, and feeling has no language except _action_. I have sent her a large letter, largely laden with affection....”