nding Mr. Carlyle's posthumous
outburst, the only blot on his character. His own confession, though
tendered with a blush, that there is such a thing as sick whist stands
on totally different grounds; it is not a relaxation of principle, but
an acknowledgment of a weakness common to human nature. One of the most
advanced thinkers and men of science of our time has frankly admitted
that his theological views are considerably modified by the state of
his health; and if one's ideas on futurity are thus affected, it is no
wonder that things of this world wear a different appearance when
viewed from a sick bed. It is not difficult to imagine that whist, for
example, played on the counterpane by three good Samaritans, to while
away the hours for an afflicted friend, differs from the game when
played on a club card-table. Common humanity prevents our saying what
we think of the play of an invalid who may be enjoying his last rubber;
and if the ace of trumps _is_ found under his pillow, we only smile and
hope it will not occur again.

On the other hand, literary taste would, one would think, be the last
thing to vary with our physical condition; yet those who have had long
illnesses know better, and will, I am sure, bear me out in the
assertion that there are such things as sick books. I do not, of
course, speak of devotional works. I am picturing the poor man when he
is getting well after a long bout of illness; his mind clear, but
inert; his limbs painless, but so languid that they hardly seem to
belong to him; and when he regards their attenuated proportions with
the same sort of feeble interest that is evoked by eggshell china--they
are not useful, still it would be a pity if they broke.

Then it is that one feels a loathing of the strong meats of literature,
and a liking for its milk diet. As to metaphysics, one has had enough
and to spare of _them_ when one was delirious; while the 'Fairy Tales
of Science' do not strike one just then as being quite so fairylike as
the poet represents them. As to science, indeed, there is but one thing
clear to us, namely, that the theory of evolution is a mistake; for
though one's getting better at all is undoubtedly a proof of the
survival of the fittest, we are well convinced that we have retrograded
from what we were. It would puzzle Darwin himself to fix our position
exactly, but though we lack the tenacity, and especially the colour, of
the sea-anemone, we seem to be there or therea