The blood poured out upon the brain from an apoplectic stroke, must, and does, prove fatal, save when the _vis medicatrix_ is able to interpose in time, by encircling the fluid, enclosing it with a _sac_, and subsequently by absorption removing the extraneous pressure. All these are vital processes, over which the sufferer has no control--of which he is not even conscious. The approach of an abscess to the surface of the body, by a law similar to that which determines the approach of a plant to the surface of the earth--the reparation of a fractured bone, by the creation and disposition of elements not then existing in the body--and many similar cases, warranted him in assuming that all these processes were exactly analogous to what we call disease, being disturbances of the animal economy accompanied by pain; and that disease of every kind was only a curative effort, occasionally failing from sufficient energy--occasionally, from the presence of antagonistic agency,--and occasionally, from our ignorance of its tendency and object. I feel I have been a lame expositor of my friend’s theory. I have omitted many of his proofs--some of them the best and strongest. I have, besides, not adverted to objections which he foresaw and refuted. Indeed, I fell into the digression without even knowing it, and I leave it here in the same fashion. I fancy a kind of comfort in the notion that my malady is, at least, an attempt at restoration. The idea of decay--of declining slowly away, leaf by leaf, branch by branch--is very sad; and even this “conceit” is not without its consolation. And now to wander homewards. How houseless the man is who calls his inn his home! It was all very well for “Sir John” to say, “I like to take mine ease in mine inn;” and in his day the thing was practicable. The little parlour, with its wainscot of walnut-wood and its bright tiles, all shining in the tempered light through the diamond-paned window; the neatly spread table, where smoked the pasty of high-seasoned venison, beside the tall cup of sack or canary; and the buxom landlady herself, redolent of health, good spirits, and broad jest;--these were all accessories to that abandonment to repose and quiet so delightful to the weary-minded. But think of some “Cour de Russie,” some “Angelo d’ Oro,” or some “Schwarzen Adler,” all alive with dusty arrivals and frogged couriers--the very hall a fair, with fifty bells, all ringing; postboys blowing--whips cracking--champagne corks flying--and a Bable of every tongue in Europe, making a thorough-bass din that would sour a saint’s temper!... I’ll leave at once--I’ll find some quiet little gasthaus in the Tyrol for a few weeks, till the weather moderates, and it becomes cool enough to cross the Alps--and die! CHAPTER IX.