Several American novels were brought me.

Mr.Flint's Francis Berrian is excellent; a little wild and romantic, but containing scenes of first-rate interest and pathos.

Hope Leslie, and Redwood, by Miss Sedgewick, an American lady, have both great merit; and I now first read the whole of Mr.Cooper's novels.

By the time these American studies were completed, I never closed my eyes without seeing myriads of bloody scalps floating round me; long slender figures of Red Indians crept through my dreams with noiseless tread; panthers flared; forests blazed; and which ever way I fled, a light foot, a keen eye, and a long rifle were sure to be on my trail.

An additional ounce of calomel hardly sufficed to neutralize the effect of these raw-head and bloody-bones adventures.