but there is no reason why we should add to that burden of personality which the Bishop of Oxford, in one of his most striking sermons, has shown to be truly ‘an awful gift.’  And say, youthful recluse (I don’t mean you, middle-aged bachelor, I mean really young men of five or six and twenty), have you not sometimes, sitting by the fireside in the evening, looked at the opposite easy chair in the ruddy glow, and imagined that easy chair occupied by a gentle companion—­one who would bring out into double strength all that is good in you—­one who would sympathize with you and encourage you in all your work—­one who would think you much wiser, cleverer, handsomer, and better than any mortal has ever yet thought you—­the Angel in the House, in short, to use the strong expression of Mr. Coventry Patmore?  Probably you have imagined all that:  possibly you have in some degree realized it all.  If not, in all likelihood the fault lies chiefly with yourself.

It must be a dismal thing for a solitary man to be taken ill:  I mean so seriously ill as to be confined to bed, yet not so dangerously ill as to make some relation or friend come at all sacrifices to be with you.  The writer speaks merely from logical considerations:  happily he never experienced the case.  But one can see that in that lonely life, there can be none of those pleasant circumstances which make days in bed, when acute pain is over, or the dangerous turning-point of disease is happily past, as quietly enjoyable days as any man is ever likely to know.  No one should ever be seriously ill (if he can help it) unless he be one of a considerable household.  Even then, indeed, it will be advisable to be ill as seldom as may be.  But to a person who when well is very hard-worked, and a good deal worried, what restful days those are of which we are thinking!  You have such a feeling of peace and quietness.  There you lie, in lazy luxury, when you are suffering merely the weakness of a serious illness, but the pain and danger are past.  All your wants are so thoughtfully and kindly anticipated.  It is a very delightful sensation to lift your head from the pillow, and instantly to find yourself giddy and blind from loss of blood, and just drop your head down again.  It is not a question, even for the most uneasily exacting conscience, whether you are to work or not:  it is plain you cannot.  There is no difficulty on that score.  And then you are weakened to that degree that nothing worries you.  Things going wrong or remaining neglected about the garden or the stable, which would have annoyed you when well, cannot touch you here.  All you want is to lie still and rest.  Everything is still.  You faintly hear the door-bell ring; and though you live in a quiet country house where that phenomenon rarely occurs, you feel not the least curiosity to know who is there.  You can look for a long time quite contentedly at the glow of the fire on the curtains and on the ceiling.  You feel no anxiety about the coming in of the post; but when