ST. DAVID'S, March 26, 1877.
YOUR letter has come this afternoon, astonishing us with its date, and leading us to wonder where your whereabouts are now. Such an 4,-nis fatuus you have proved for the month past! With plans of goings and comings, with engagements and disengagements, you have slipped by us entirely, so that the kind of assurance I have had that you would come and pass two or three weeks with us before going eastward has come utterly to nought. You should have come; our chances of seeing one another are narrowing every year. But we will not dwell gloomily upon it. We may live three or four years longer,—people do; and I think I am more afraid of a longer than of a shorter term. [339] The "pain at heart," of which you speak at putting a wider space between us, is what I, too, have felt; and your thoughts, taken literally, are pleasant, while spiritualized, they are our only resource. Yes, the heavenly spaces unite us, while the earthly separate. Oh! could we know that we shall meet again when the earthly scene closes! But what we do not know, we hope for, and I think the supports of that hope increase with me. Development for every living creature, up to the highest it can reach, is the law of its nature; and why, according to that law, should not the poorest human creatures—the very troglodytes, the cave-dwellers—rise, till all that is infolded in their being should be brought forth? Where and how, is in the counsels and resources of infinite power and goodness. Where and how creatures should begin to exist would be as much mysterious to us as where and how they should go on.
To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.
ST. DAVID'S, April 22, 1877.
DEAR HOSPITALITY,—I minded much what you said about my coming down in May, but I have been so discouraged about myself for six weeks past, that I have not wanted to write to you;—besieged by rheumatism from top to toe; in my ankle, so that I could not walk, only limp about; in my left arm, so that I could not lift it to my head, and, of course, a pretty uncomfortable housekeeper all that time. Nevertheless, I expect May to bring me out again, and do think sometimes that I may take C. with me, and run down for two or three days. . . . I am reading the Martineau book, skippingly. . . . It seems that Miss M. was not an atheist, [340] after all. She believed in a First Cause, only denying that it is the God of theology,—which who does not deny?-denying, indeed, with Herbert Spencer, that it is knowable. But if they say that it is not knowable, how do they know but it is that which they deny?
Miss Martineau's passing out of this world in utter indifference as to what would become of her, seems to me altogether unnatural, on her ground or any other. Any good or glad hold on existence implies the desire for its continuance. She had no hope nor wish for it, as well as no belief in it.
As to belief in it, or hope of it, why should not the law of development lead to such a feeling? The plant, having within it the power to produce flower and fruit, does not naturally die till it comes to that maturity. The horse or ox attains to its full strength and speed before its life is ended. Why should it not be so with man? His powers are not half, rather say not one-hundredth part, developed, when he arrives at that point which is called death. Development is impossible to him, unless he continues to exist, and to go onward. And why should not the same argument apply to what may trouble some people to think of,—that is, to the three hundred and fifty millions of China, or even the troglodytes, the cave-dwellers? To our weakness and ignorance, it may seem easier to sweep the planet clean every two or three generations. But of the realms and resources of Infinite Power, what can we know or judge?
Until this spring, my father's health had been exceptionally good, notwithstanding his allusions to increasing infirmities. Indeed, apart from his [341] brain trouble, he had always been so well that any interruption to his physical vigor astonished and rather dismayed him. His sleep was habitually good, and his waking was like that of a child, frolicsome in the return to life. He was never merrier than early in the morning, and his toilet was a very active one. He took an air-bath for fifteen minutes, during which he briskly exercised himself,—and this custom he thought of great importance in hardening the body against cold. Then, after washing, dressing, and shaving, breakfast must come at once,—delay was not conducive to peace in the household; and immediately after breakfast he sat down to his desk for one, two, or three hours, as the case might be. He was singularly tolerant of little interruptions, although he did not like to have any one in his room while he was writing, and when his morning's task was done, especially if he were satisfied with it, he came out in excellent spirits, and ready for outdoor exercise. He walked a great deal in New York, but never without an errand. It was very seldom, either in town or country, that he walked for the walk's sake; but at St. David's he spent an hour or two every day at hard work either in the garden or at the wood-pile, and made a daily visit in all weathers to the village and the post-office.
After his early dinner he invariably took a nap; and after tea, went again to his desk for an hour, and then came to the parlor for the evening's [342] amusement, whether reading, or music, or talk, or a game of whist, of which he was very fond; and in all these occupations his animation was so unfailing, his interest so cordial, that family and guests gladly followed his leadership.
But in this spring of 1877 the rheumatic attack of which he speaks was the beginning of a state of languor which in July became low bilious fever. He was not very ill; kept his bed only one day, and by the autumn recovered sufficiently to walk out; but from that time he was an invalid, and he never again left his home.