"Villain!" said I, jumping on my hind legs, and dancing about to avoid his lashes, "what do you mean?"
"To whip you down stairs, you cur!" said he, flourishing his weapon again.
On which I assured him as earnestly as I could that "I was no cur whatever;" and indeed I was quite cured of the fancy.
My next conceit was (the morning being cold, and my fire having gone out), that I was an icicle; which fancy was dispelled by the doctor saluting me with a bucket of water, on pretence of melting me; and I was doubtless melted all the sooner for being drenched in water exactly at the freezing-point.
After this I experienced divers other transformations, being now a chicken, now a loaded cannon, now a clock, now a hamper of crockery-ware, and a thousand things besides; all which conceits the doctor cured without much difficulty, and with as little consideration for the roughness of his remedies. Being a chicken, he attempted to wring my neck, calling me a dunghill rooster, fit only for the pot; he discharged the cannon from my fancies by clapping a red-hot poker to my nose; and the crate of crockery he broke to pieces by casting it on the floor, to the infinite injury of my bones. The clock at first gave him some trouble, until, pronouncing it to have a screw out of order, he seized upon one of my front teeth with a pair of pincers, and by a single wrench dissipated the delusion for ever.
[CHAPTER VI.]
AN ACCOUNT OF THE WOES OF AN EMPEROR OF FRANCE, WHICH HAVE NEVER BEFORE APPEARED IN HISTORY.
In short (for I do not design particularizing my transformations further), there was no conceit entered my brain which Dr. Tibbikens did not cure by a conceit; until, one morning, by some mysterious revelation, the nature and means of which can only be guessed at, I found that I had been elected the Emperor of France, and announced my intention to set sail for my government immediately, in the first ship of the line which the American executive could put at my disposal.