drank them neat for six consecutive days, and they nearly killed me;
but after then I adopted the plan of taking a stiff glass of
brandy-and-water immediately on the top of them, and found much relief
thereby. I have been informed since, by various eminent medical
gentlemen, that the alcohol must have entirely counteracted the
effects of the chalybeate properties contained in the water. I am
glad I was lucky enough to hit upon the right thing.

But "drinking the waters" was only a small portion of the torture I
experienced during that memorable month--a month which was, without
exception, the most miserable I have ever spent. During the best part
of it I religiously followed the doctor's mandate and did nothing
whatever, except moon about the house and garden and go out for two
hours a day in a Bath chair. That did break the monotony to a certain
extent. There is more excitement about Bath-chairing--especially if
you are not used to the exhilarating exercise--than might appear to
the casual observer. A sense of danger, such as a mere outsider might
not understand, is ever present to the mind of the occupant. He feels
convinced every minute that the whole concern is going over, a
conviction which becomes especially lively whenever a ditch or a
stretch of newly macadamized road comes in sight. Every vehicle that
passes he expects is going to run into him; and he never finds himself
ascending or descending a hill without immediately beginning to
speculate upon his chances, supposing--as seems extremely
probable--that the weak-kneed controller of his destiny should let go.

But even this diversion failed to enliven after awhile, and the
_ennui_ became perfectly unbearable. I felt my mind giving way under
it. It is not a strong mind, and I thought it would be unwise to tax
it too far. So somewhere about the twentieth morning I got up early,