It was nine weeks before I left my room, and when I did, I
looked more fit to walk into the Potter's Field, (as they call
the English burying ground) than any where else.
Long after my general health was pretty well restored, I suffered
from the effect of the fever in my limbs, and lay in bed reading
several weeks after I had been pronounced convalescent. Several
American novels were brought me. Mr. Flint's Francis Berrian is
excellent; a little wild and romantic, but containing scenes of
first-rate interest and pathos. Hope Leslie, and Redwood, by
Miss Sedgewick, an American lady, have both great merit; and I
now first read the whole of Mr. Cooper's novels. By the time
these American studies were completed, I never closed my eyes
without seeing myriads of bloody scalps floating round me; long
slender figures of Red Indians crept through my dreams with
noiseless tread; panthers flared; forests blazed; and which
ever way I fled, a light foot, a keen eye, and a long rifle
were sure to be on my trail. An additional ounce of calomel
hardly sufficed to neutralize the effect of these raw-head
and bloody-bones adventures. I was advised to plunge
immediately into a course of fashionable novels. It was a
great relief to me; but as my head was by no means very clear,
I sometimes jumbled strangely together the civilized rogues
and assassins of Mr. Bulwer, and the wild men, women, and
children slayers of Mr. Cooper; and, truly, between them, I
passed my dreams in very bad company.
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