go to-morrow, and begin a new chapter in this most disastrous of
years. So many things seem to culminate toward the close of the
century--good fortune for some, evil fortune for others; hopes dashed
at the seeming moment of realization, as if all the forces in nature
were aiding to make an end of the century's efforts in any way that
would bring finality.

For my part I feel as if I had been forcibly brought to a standstill.
In a few days (the 19th) I shall have reached the milestone: I shall
be seventy. Sorosis would have made an occasion of it if I had been in
New York. As it is, I feel a little tinge of regret that my
annihilation last June was not more complete; that I did not leave,
along with my dear friend, Mrs. Demorest. Not that I am wholly
unhappy; I only feel somehow brought to an unfinished close; left in a
state of animated suspension. I seem to see everything from a
distance; separated by my inability to participate in the goings and
comings, the doings and pleasures of others. I feel the wall that
stands between those who still live and those who have passed from
this world; but alas, I still retain consciousness, and desire for
sympathy, and can see and hear and feel, though my feet are chained.
It is just three months since I arrived. A part of the time we had
beautiful weather, and I could walk on the road a little on sunshiny
days, leaning upon my two sticks. But during the past five weeks, my
out-door exercise has been nil: the roads were too wet and rough. It
has been almost constant fog, rain, wind; and the drip, drip, drip, of
a mist that was wetter than rain. This, I think, has added a little
rheumatism to give name to the pain and stiffness of joints and newly
forming muscles. The change we are about to make will be a new
departure for me--I shall have to try stairs... But I shall have the
dear companionship of Marjorie,[1] who has lived an ideal out-of-door