lovely morning. Emerson says, 'Our faith comes to us in moments, our vice is habitual.' I never till now could explain this to my satisfaction. It is that the atmosphere of our society, of our daily surroundings, is false; it attracts the demons, they encompass us continually, for we live in their home. The angels have to strive to come to us. But when by a holy inspiration, or an effort of man's nobler nature, he rises to a purer sphere, then the angels throng lovingly round him: he breathes the Divine life. But the moment this effort is relaxed, he, not living in a heavenly atmosphere, naturally and inevitably sinks again into hell, because his present home is there—for he cannot separate himself from the race. Not till the race is redeemed will our habitual state be heavenly, and the true spontaneous Divine life be possible. This is the philosophy of effort. The solidarity of our race asserts the impossibility of present permanent Divine life. Bless God for our deep momentary experiences—our prophetic assurances! This sweet morning refreshes me inexpressibly. The wind that lifts my hair seems filled with angel hands that soothe the soul to peace; that little warbling bird fills me with holy joy; a glory seems to rest everywhere, a tide from the Divine Nature.
During my residence at Blockley, the medical
head of the hospital, Dr. Benedict, was most kind,
and gave me every facility in his power. I had free
entry to all the women's wards, and was soon on
good terms with the nurses. But the young resident
physicians, unlike their chief, were not friendly.
When I walked into the wards they walked out.
They ceased to write the diagnosis and treatment of
patients on the card at the head of each bed, which
