t him that he must not reckon too confidently upon even a day's
respite from the intrusive family of aches and infirmities which, with
their proverbial fidelity to attachments once formed, had long been the
closest acquaintances that the poor old gentleman had in the world.
Nevertheless, he fancied the twinge a little less poignant than those of
yesterday; and, moreover, after stinging him pretty smartly, it passed
gradually off with a thrill, which, in its latter stages, grew to be
almost agreeable. Pain is but pleasure too strongly emphasized. With
cautious movements, and only a groan or two, the good Doctor transferred
himself from the bed to the floor, where he stood awhile, gazing from
one piece of quaint furniture to another, (such as stiff-backed
Mayflower chairs, an oaken chest-of-drawers carved cunningly with shapes
of animals and wreaths of foliage, a table with multitudinous legs, a
family-record in faded embroidery, a shelf of black-bound books, a dirty
heap of gallipots and phials in a dim corner,)--gazing at these things
and steadying himself by the bedpost, while his inert brain, still
partially benumbed with sleep, came slowly into accordance with the
realities about him. The object which most helped to bring Dr. Dolliver
completely to his waking perceptions was one that common observers might
suppose to have been snatched bodily out of his dreams. The same sunbeam
that had dazzled the Doctor between the bed-curtains gleamed on the
weather-beaten gilding which had once adorned this mysterious symbol,
and showed it to be an enormous serpent, twining round a wooden post,
and reaching quite from the floor of the chamber to its ceiling.

It was evidently a thing that could boast of considerable antiquity, the
dry-rot having eaten out its eyes and gnawed away the tip of its tail;
and it must have stood long exposed to the atmosphere, for a kind of
gray moss had partially overspread its tarnished gilt surface, and a
swallow, or other familiar little bird, in some by-gone summer, seemed
to have built its nest in the yawning and exaggerated mouth. It looked
like a kind of Manichean idol, which might have been elevated on a
pedestal for a century or so, enjoying the worship of its votaries in
the open air, until the impious sect perished from among men,--all save
old Dr. Dolliver, who had set up the monster in his bedchamber for the
convenience of private devotion. But we are unpardonable in suggesting
such a fant