28 June 1790 – 4 July 1790

This day I enter into my eighty-eighth year. For above eighty-six years, I found none of the infirmities of old age; my eyes did not wax dim, neither was my natural strength abated. But last August I found almost a sudden change. My eyes were so dim that no glasses would help me. My strength likewise quite forsook me and probably will not return in this world. But I feel no pain from head, to foot; only it seems nature is exhausted and, humanly speaking, will sink more and more, till The weary springs of life stand still at last.

I went to Lincoln. After dinner we took a walk in and around the Minster which I really think is more elegant than that at York, in various parts of the structure as well as in its admirable situation. The new house was thoroughly filled in the evening, and with hearers uncommonly serious. There seems to be a remarkable difference between the people of Lincoln and those of York. They have not so much fire and vigor of spirit but far more mildness and gentleness, by means of which, if they had the same outward helps, they would probably excel their neighbors. Some miles short of Lincoln, our postboy stopped at an inn on the road to give his horses a little water. As soon as we went in, the innkeeper burst into tears, as did his wife, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly. "What!" he said, "are you come into my house! My father is John Lester, of Epworth." I found both he and his wife had been of our society till they left them. We spent some time in prayer together, and I trust not in vain.