5. The impracticability of procuring bleeders as soon as bleeding was prescribed. Life in this disease, as in the apoplexy, frequently turned upon that operation being performed within an _hour_. It was often delayed, from the want of a bleeder, one or two days. 6. The inability of physicians, from the number of their patients, and from frequent indisposition, to visit the sick, at such times as was necessary to watch the changes in their disease. 7. The great accumulation and concentration of the miasmata in sick rooms, from the continuance of the disease in the city, whereby the system was exposed to a constant stimulus, and the effect of the evacuations was thus defeated. 8. The want of skill or fidelity in nurses to administer the medicines properly; to persuade patients to drink frequently; also to supply them with food or cordial drinks when required in the night. 9. The great degrees of debility induced in the systems of many of the people who were affected by the disease, from fatigue in attending their relations or friends. 10. The universal depression of mind, amounting in some instances to despair, which affected many people. What medicine could act upon a patient who awoke in the night, and saw through the broken and faint light of a candle, no human creature, but a black nurse, perhaps asleep in a distant corner of the room; and who heard no noise, but that of a hearse conveying, perhaps, a neighbour or a friend to the grave? The state of mind under which many were affected by the disease, is so well described by the Rev. Dr. Smith, in the case of his wife, in a letter I received from him in my sick room, two days after her death, that I hope I shall be excused for inserting an extract from it. It forms a part of the history of the disease. The letter was written in answer to a short note of condolence which I sent to the doctor immediately after hearing of Mrs. Smith's death. After some pathetic expressions of grief, he adds, "The scene of her funeral, and some preceding circumstances, can never depart from my mind. On our return from a visit to our daughter, whom we had been striving to console on the death of Mrs. Keppele, who was long familiar and dear to both, my dear wife, passing the burying-ground gate, led me into the ground, viewed the graves of her two children, called the old grave-digger, marked a spot for herself as close as possible to them and the grave of Dr. Phineas Bond, whose memory she adored. Then, by the side of the spot she had chosen, we found room and chose _mine_, pledging ourselves to each other, and directing the grave-digger that this should be the order of our interment. We returned to our house. Night approached. I hoped my dear wife had gone to rest, as she had chosen, since her return from nursing her daughter, to sleep in a chamber by herself, through fear of infecting her grandchild and me. But it seems she closed not her eyes; sitting with them fixed through her chamber window on Mrs.