ut of the question. Long before he has got through that
account of the hero's great grandmother, from whom he inherited his
talents, which is, it seems, indispensable to such works, he yawns, and
devoutly wishing, notwithstanding its fatal consequences to the fourth
generation, that that old woman had never been born, falls into fitful
slumber.

Travels are in the same condemnation; he has not the patience to watch
the traveller taking leave of his family at Pimlico, or to follow his
cab as he drives through the streets to the railway station, or to
share the discomforts of his cabin--all necessary, no doubt, to his
eventual arrival in Abyssinia, but hardly necessary to be described.
Moreover, the convalescent has probably travelled a good deal on his
own account during the last few weeks, for the bed of fever carries one
hither and thither with the velocity, though not the ease, of the
enchanted carpet in the 'Arabian Nights.' The desire of the sick man is
to escape from himself and all recent experiences.

He thinks he will try a little History. Alison? No, certainly not
Alison. 'They will be proposing Lingard next,' he murmurs, and the
little irritation caused by the well-meant suggestion throws him back
for the next six hours. Presently he tries Macaulay, whom some
flatterer has fulsomely called 'as good as a novel,' but, though the
trial of Warren Hastings gives him a fillip, the rout of Sedgemoor does
away with the effect of it, and, happening upon the character of
Halifax, he suffers a severe relapse. As a bedfellow, Macaulay is too
declamatory, though, at the same time, strange to say, he does not
always succeed in keeping one awake. To the sick man Carlyle is
preferable; not his 'Frederick,' of course, and still less his 'Sartor
Resartus,' which has become a nightmare, without head or tail, but his
'French Revolution.' One lies and watches the amazing spectacle without
effort, as though it were represented on the stage. The sea of blood
rolls before our eyes, the roar of the mob sounds in our ears; we are
carried along with the unhappy Louis to the very frontier, and just on
the verge of escape are seized and brought back--King Coach--with him
to Paris, in a cold perspiration.

Some people, when in health and of a sane mind (Mr. Matthew Arnold one
_knows_ of, and there may be others), take great delight in 'Paradise
Regained;' all we venture to say is that in sickness it does not
suggest its title. It is sai