persevered with our cold
applications to the head, and our stimulating draughts to the feet. The
bowels were in a very tolerable condition, otherwise a very mild
cathartic might possibly have been administered. We had very strong
hopes,--at least I had,--that nature would be too strong for the
disease, and that the fever would, ere long, begin to abate.

In the afternoon the fever increased again, in some degree, and there
was a slight delirium during the succeeding night. She slept a little,
however, towards morning, after which she was evidently much better.
This third day was passed away very comfortably, and she slept well
during the succeeding night. The fourth morning she seemed to be quite
restored.

Now a case of fever treated with emetics, diaphoretics, etc., and
followed up with the usual paraphernalia of customary medical practice,
which should yield so promptly and so immediately, would be supposed to
be cured by the medicine; and the cure would very probably be regarded
as rather remarkable; and if there was any peculiarity in the treatment,
if the diaphoretic powders, for example, had any new or strange name,
the practice would, peradventure, be thought worth imitating in other
apparently similar cases of disease.

For myself, however, I simply regard it as one of Nature's own cures,
unobstructed and unembarrassed by medicine. As the child was young and
tenacious of life, she might very probably have recovered under the more
common routine of medical treatment. But would there have been any
advantage in such a recovery, over one which was equally rapid and
perfect without the aid of medicine? Would there, in the latter case,
have been no hazard to the constitution?

CHAPTER LXIX.

COLD-TAKING AND CONSUMPTION.

In Chapter XXIII., I have given a full account of my partial recovery
from consumption. I have even spoken of the postponement as if it were
complete and final. More than twenty years had now passed away, and I
had begun to indulge the hope that I should never have another relapse.

As one element of this hope, I had nearly broken up the habit--once very
strong--of taking cold, especially on my lungs. In truth, I believed all
danger from this source to be entirely removed, and my particular
susceptibility to any thing like acute pulmonary attacks forever at an
end. I was confident, moreover, that the art of avoiding cold was an art
which not only an individual, here and there, like m