But, then, there are some of us who get our pills coated so badly that a child wouldn't touch them. For instance, good Deacon Jones, who slept all through Parson Primrose's sermon, and told Deacon Brown, who didn't sleep, that the Parson's doctrine was correct; Prof. Blather, who hitches himself to the tail of every high-flying kite, hoping thereby to be brought before the popular eyes; old Mrs. Peacock, who still persists in being young, making admirers, mincing through her spavined paces, leering with her faded eyes out of that painted face, when all Japonicadom knows there is not a genuine feather about her. And so one might go on for hours, for the number of these badly coated pills is legion. At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. * * * * * * * * * More stars for the Doctor who has been to see me. He is a jolly, sanguine dog, and assures me I shall be up in time for the opera--if not for the whole season, at least that I shall have two days off--one for Bellini's _Englishman_ and one for Hermanns' _Mephisto_. What a blessing these jolly doctors are. They give one an invoice of moral courage, wherewith to make a stout fight against disease. They light up your room as beautifully as the sun this morning kindled my frosty window-panes with burning gold. And my jolly doctor will not take it unkindly of me if I say that I have more confidence in his jolliness than in his cabalistic abbreviations. On the other hand, I can conceive that if I were compelled to receive the attentions of one of those solemn, owl-like doctors--those funereal-looking personages in deep black, whose noses and chins meet--who wear heavy canes, the knobs of which do heavy thinking for the wearers--whose only remark is an ominous shake of the head, and the preparation of a bill at the neighboring drug store--who have made the very sunlight look mercurial, and who cut off the supply of that delicious Muscat which Blanche sent in--I think, after one visit from such a walking Bolus, I should say, with Elijah of old: "It is enough; now let me die. You may call in your friend Sir." For I should know that as soon as he came into the house Death would sneak after him, and wait outside the door. At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. * * * * * * * * * Another night in the darkness, sailing along these shores of Febris, and this crystal Saturday morning, it seems all bright and clear ahead. I feel no more the breath of the burning gales, but in its place an ecstasy of pain. My hand wearies and the head tires with this trifling work which has run through three days of nullity. At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. January 31, 1868. _GETTING OUT OF BED._