establishment--that I was being
frozen, thawed, and suffocated; did wake, this day, with an enlarged
cheek--the influenza compelling me to keep my bed, bathe my chilblains,
and anoint my nose; I take slops internally, and wear a heart upon the
outside of my chest. The kind, considerate Captain called, smoking a
cigar, that made me cough, and think his visit a visitation."

[Illustration: COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.]

The first Sunday after Christmas is here:--Brown is in bed; the little
bell of St. Stiff's has stopped, and many another vibratory sound is
dying in the distance; flakes of snow are moodily descending--causing
the fire to spit angrily, and the face of heaven to look black--all
light appearing to come from the earth; sound is deadened, the carpet is
darker than usual, and the ceiling lighter; Mr. Brown's eyes are up
there, for he is lying, tracing amid the cracks and stains, vast palaces
like pictures by Martin, or aerial phantasmagorias by Turner. Brown is
lying, nursing his influenza according to the approved adage; though
some read the maxim thus, "Stuff a cold, and (have to) starve a fever."
Let us hope Brown has the right version. Captain de Camp has come to
read to the invalid, and drink his brandy and water--he has begun
"Blair's Sermons," or rather the life of Blair, prefixed to the volume,
in a full conviction of its religious tendency; whilst in the room above
is John, the footman, standing upon his bed, breathing on the single
pane of glass, inserted in the sloped roof, that he may melt the snow,
and see to read a mysterious document--a tumbled note,--not on the Bank
of England, but an epistolatory one, found in the trowsers pockets of
Mr. Latimer de Camp--the same cast off by that gentleman on
Christmas-day, when he stumbled over the strange dinner, in coming from
church, and so much deteriorated their appearance as to give them to
John;--who now, thinking he has found evidence,--thinks he always
thought he thought the De Camps scamps. John is perplexed at the purport
of the letter; and feeling a cold thrill run through him, he turns into
bed, there to reflect for ten minutes upon the downy pillow, pondering
with intensely closed eyes, considering before he puts himself in the
power of an enemy--for John had been a soldier once, and would have been
one now, had not his poor old mother starved and mangled together enough
to buy him off; he bore the stamp of military drill, took in "Tales of
the