I have not been suffering; merely feverish and weak and unable to use my mind for anything but a daily hour or two of the lightest reading.  The weather has not favoured my recovery, wet winds often blowing, and not much sun.  Lying in bed, I have watched the sky, studied the clouds, which—­so long as they are clouds indeed, and not a mere waste of grey vapour—­always have their beauty.  Inability to read has always been my horror; once, a trouble of the eyes all but drove me mad with fear of blindness; but I find that in my present circumstances, in my own still house, with no intrusion to be dreaded, with no task or care to worry me, I can fleet the time not unpleasantly even without help of books.  Reverie, unknown to me in the days of bondage, has brought me solace; I hope it has a little advanced me in wisdom.

For not, surely, by deliberate effort of thought does a man grow wise.  The truths of life are not discovered by us.  At moments unforeseen, some gracious influence descends upon the soul, touching it to an emotion which, we know not how, the mind transmutes into thought.  This can happen only in a calm of the senses, a surrender of the whole being to passionless contemplation.  I understand, now, the intellectual mood of the quietist.

Of course my good housekeeper has tended me perfectly, with the minimum of needless talk.  Wonderful woman!

If the evidence of a well-spent life is necessarily seen in “honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,” mine, it is clear, has fallen short of a moderate ideal.  Friends I have had, and have; but very few.  Honour and obedience—­why, by a stretch, Mrs. M—–­ may perchance represent these blessings.  As for love—?

Let me tell myself the truth.  Do I really believe that at any time of my life I have been the kind of man who merits affection?  I think not.  I have always been much too self-absorbed; too critical of all about me; too unreasonably proud.  Such men as I live and die alone, however much in appearance accompanied.  I do not repine at it; nay, lying day after day in solitude and silence, I have felt glad that it was so.  At least I give no one trouble, and that is much.  Most solemnly do I hope that in the latter days no long illness awaits me.  May I pass quickly from this life of quiet enjoyment to the final peace.  So shall no one think of me with pained sympathy or with weariness.  One—­two—­even three may possibly feel regret, come the end how it may, but I do not flatter myself that to them I am more than an object of kindly thought at long intervals.  It is enough; it signifies that I have not erred wholly.  And when I think that my daily life testifies to an act of kindness such as I could never have dreamt of meriting from the man who performed it, may I not be much more than content?

VI.