THE END OF THE YEAR

December 30th, P.M.

I was in bed, and hardly recovered from the delirious fever which hadkept me for so long between life and death. My weakened brain was makingefforts to recover its activity; my thoughts, like rays of lightstruggling through the clouds, were still confused and imperfect; attimes I felt a return of the dizziness which made a chaos of all myideas, and I floated, so to speak, between alternate fits of mentalwandering and consciousness.

Sometimes everything seemed plain to me, like the prospect which, fromthe top of some high mountain, opens before us in clear weather. Wedistinguish water, woods, villages, cattle, even the cottage perched onthe edge of the ravine; then suddenly there comes a gust of wind ladenwith mist, and all is confused and indistinct.

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