We knew about Faraday's preaching, but not of his loss of faculty. I begin to think of such things as very near to me—I mean, decay of power and health. But I find age has its fresh elements of cheerfulness.
Bless you, dear Sara, for all the kindness of many years, and for the newest kindness that comes to me this morning. I am very well now, and able to enjoy my happiness. One has happiness sometimes without being able to enjoy it.
Journal, 1866.
Nov. 22.—Reading Renan's "Histoire des Langues Sémitiques"—Ticknor's "Spanish Literature."
Dec. 6.—We returned from Tunbridge Wells, where we have been for a week. I have been reading Cornewall Lewis's "Astronomy of the Ancients," Ockley's "History of the Saracens," "Astronomical Geography," and Spanish ballads on Bernardo del Carpio.
Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 7th Dec. 1866.
We have been to Tunbridge Wells for a week, hoping to get plenty of fresh air, and walking in that sandy, undulating country. But for three days it rained incessantly.
No; I don't feel as if my faculties were failing me. On the contrary, I enjoy all subjects—all study—more than I ever did in my life before. But that very fact makes me more in need of resignation to the certain approach of age and death. Science, history, poetry—I don't know which draws me most, and there is little time left me for any one of them. I learned Spanish last year but one, and see new vistas everywhere. That makes me think of time thrown away when I was young—time that I should be so glad of now. I could enjoy everything, from arithmetic to antiquarianism, if I had large spaces of life before me. But instead of that I have a very small space. Unfeigned, unselfish, cheerful resignation is difficult. But I strive to get it.
Journal, 1866.
Dec. 11.—Ill ever since I came home, so that the days seem to have made a muddy flood, sweeping away all labor and all growth.