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 h