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CHAPTER II
A Brother Patient. – How to make the least use of a Horse
It was not long before the Doctor received a visit from an old friend; one, who had, in younger days, been a student in the same school, and entered into practice about the same time. The servant introduced Doctor Bull, – yes, Doctor John Bull, or, more properly styled, John Bull, Esq. M.D. – but not F.R.S. No, Doctor Bull had been more ambitious of practising, than of obtaining an empty name. He was a steady, well-to-do little man, and never lost a patient from any want of good manners or attention. He had certainly given much thought to the subject of Hydrophobia, and was considered no mean authority in the treatment of cases pronounced very malignant; but he by no means confined his abilities to that one branch of human misfortune.
He advised well with the Surgeons, and, generally, approved their treatment; but suggested frequently that judicious change which the nature of the case required. This he did in so gentlemanly and considerate a manner, that he was sure to be consulted by the very next patient of the same Surgeon.
In this way, he made many friends, lost very few, and found himself in the most affluent circumstances from very extensive practice. But, somehow, he overworked himself, and got into a very irritable, and at the same time desponding, tone. Prosperity tries men very often more severely than adversity.
The Doctor, as long as he had his way to make in the world, was more attentive to others, and thought less about his own ails than he did about others. Now that he had accumulated money, he began to think of investments, and how he should place to the best account his accumulations.
He also thought a little more of style, equipage, choice society, and innumerable things, to which his life had been hitherto a stranger. He began to think and to care more about himself, than he did about any body else. He became of some consequence in his neighbourhood, and expected every one to bow to him, and to treat him as a monied man. In short, from a pure philanthropist, he became almost a misanthrope.
He began to torment himself about every thing and every body. Nothing pleased him, – his wife and children disturbed him, – he was downright cross to them. And the same man, who once never came into his house without a cheerful smile for every one in it, now took no notice of anyone, except it were to find fault, and to let out words which in his sober senses he would be shocked to hear any other person make use of.
"My dear, I am sure you are not well," said Mrs. Bull, to him one day, "I am sure you are not well."
"I could have told you that," was the reply.
"Do take a little change."
"Pish! change! what change? I am changing, and shall soon make some great change, if things go on as they do in this house."
"Is anything wrong, my dear?"
"Yes, everything is wrong, – nothing is right, – all things are out of order, – and everything wants a change."
"Well, my dear, I think, if we took a house for three months at Brighton, it would do us all good."
"What good, madam? And who is to pay for it? What will become of my patients? and how am I to support my family? Brighton indeed! No, no! If I cannot be better without going to Brighton, I had better decline at home! Who is to look after my patients?"
"Why, there is Doctor Goodfellow, who I am sure you admire. He will attend any of your patients for you. Do, my dear, have a little compassion upon yourself."
"And, I suppose, upon you too; upon Kitty as well; upon Mary, Patty, and little Johnny; servants and all, – Heigh!"
"If you please, my dear, even so, for you have not had much compassion upon any of us lately; and a change towards us all would be very agreeable."
A good wife has nothing to fear, and especially when she knows that she so loves her husband as to desire his health above all things else, whether of body, mind, or spirit. If a wife may not expostulate with her husband, who may? And notwithstanding all his perverseness, she had her own way with him, because she felt it was right.
To Brighton they all went; but the fancy had taken too strong hold upon Doctor Bull, to let him rest. He worried himself because he was away from London, – he worried himself about the state of his patients, – the price of stocks, – the state of his own pulse, tongue, eyes, and lungs, – till he could endure himself no longer.
"I must go and see my old friend Gambado; I know he is a clever man, and has paid great attention to the nervous system, I must go and see him. He ordered his chariot, and drove to Bread-street; sent in his card, and was very soon shaking hands with his quondam friend Doctor Gambado.
"Bull, I am glad to see you! You are not come to consult me professionally about yourself, I hope?"
"I am, though, and about nobody else."
"Then what's the matter with you?"
"Dispeptic."
"Is that all?" "No! Choleric?" "Is that all?" "No." "What is the matter? out with it."
"To tell you the truth, Geoffery, I hardly know how to describe myself to you. You never were afflicted in the same way."
"How do you know that?"
"I am sure of it. You never were tormented morning, noon, and night. You never hated your profession, as I do mine. You never felt that you killed a great many more than you cured! You never loathed the sight of your wife and children, your house, servants, food, bed, board and lodging. In short, I am a regular monster to myself, and shall soon be good for nothing! Did you ever feel so, my friend?"
"Yes, and ten thousand times worse than all you have described."
"My dear friend, it is impossible."
"You may think it so, – and I certainly thought, once, exactly as you do now, – I can therefore make allowances for you. I tell you, no one ever appears so bad to any man, as the afflicted man does to himself. He would soon be better if he could once see others worse than himself, or as bad as himself, and wish, heartily wish, to see them cured. I tell you, such was my case – even worse than yours, – and I can cure you."
"Will you, my dear friend? will you?"
"Yes, will I; and as we never take fees of the faculty, therefore, I will cure you for nothing. I do not say, with nothing. – No. Will you follow my advice?"
"Yes, assuredly. What is it?"
"Ride on horseback."
"I never did so since I was a boy."
"Nor did I, till I tried."
"But did that cure you?"
"Yes, it did; and will cure you also."
"How long did you ride before you felt better?"
"Not an hour."
"How long before you were well again?"
"Six days; six miles out, every day; six miles home; and in six days all those morbid secretions went away from my brain, and I became as I am, a cheerful and happy man."
"But how shall I manage? I must begin de novo. I must learn, and I must get a horse that will just move as I want him, slow and sure; either a walk, or a gentle canter; one that does not mind the whip; and I dare not ride one with a spur."
"My dear fellow, I have a friend who served me with a horse just as I wanted it; and I have no doubt he can serve you just as well. I will write him a note, and you shall take it to him yourself."
Accordingly, the Doctor wrote him one of his laconic Epistles.
"Dear Tatt. – Mount my brother Doctor; give him a stiff-one, and one that will require a little exercise of the deltoides of the right arm. He can pay. Suit him well.
Yours, faithfully, – Geoffery Gambado.""Mr. John Tattsall."
Now the celebrated Doctor Bull had as good a pair of carriage horses as any Squire Bull in England. Tatt. certainly mounted him on one "that he could not" make the least of. He was quiet enough, stiff enough, slow enough, steady enough; he did not mind the whip, for the Doctor might cut him over the head, neck, ears, and under the flank, and anywhere, and everywhere else; but the beast had no animation. The more he punished him, he only went the surest way to show to the world, How to make the least of a horse.
A few days after his horse exercise, he called on his friend Doctor Gambado, and said, "Doctor, I am certainly better; but I believe I should have been quite as well, if I had mounted a saddler's wooden horse, and tried to make him go, as I am in trying to make your friend Tattsall's horse go. I could not have believed it possible that any beast could bear without motion such a dose of whip-cord as I have administered to him."
"You asked for one that would bear the whip: did you not?"
"Yes, and one that was steady, did not shy, and would go very gently even a slow pace; but this horse has no pace at all."
"Well, my good old friend, I am glad you are better; that's a great point. I have no doubt, none in the world, that if you could mount Master Johnny's rocking-horse, and would do so, and have a good game of romps with your boy, it would do you as much good as showing to the world how to make the least of a horse, by kicking, flogging, checking his rein, and trying to persuade him to go on.
"But if you will only walk down with me to John Tattsall's stables, I have no doubt you will quickly learn a lesson of equestrian management that shall soon set you right with the public, and most especially with yourself. You have learnt nothing but how to make the least of a horse. Let my servant take your horse back; and if John Tattsall do not soon show you how to make the most of a horse, then do not pay him either for his horse or for his pains; but set all down to my account. Be seated, my dear fellow, whilst I send your horse back with a note. The Doctor wrote —
Dear John, – My brother Bull wants to learn how to make the most of a horse. We will be with you in the course of an hour.
Ever yours, – Geoffery Gambado.""Mr. John Tattsall."
The brothers M.D. sat down to an hour's chat upon politics, stocks, dividends, and philosophy; and at the end of one hour were seen wending their way arm-in-arm to the celebrated Livery Stables of John Tattsall, whither we will follow them, just to see if we can behold a contrast.
Far we need not go, to see
What makes a contrariety.
CHAPTER III
How to make the most of a horse
Arrived at the stables, it was not long before Doctor Gambado introduced his brother and friend Doctor Bull to the noted personage of his day, John Tattsall. Is the name of Tattsall, as it used to be called, corrupted, from a hundred years ago, now to that of Tattersall? We do not know the gentleman's dealer, auctioner, or horse agent of the latter name; but if he be the descendant of the great John Tattsall, we only hope he is as good a man as his ancestor. A better in his line could never be. It requires a knowledge of a man's craft, to say whether he is a good or bad workmen at it. We have very little knowledge of horse-dealers' craft, but their profits must be very great, – when the licence is set so high as five and twenty pounds, before they can practise the economy of horse-dealing. A hundred years ago, and the tax was not so high.
"This, John, is my friend, Doctor Bull, whom I recommended to your notice to find him a horse in every respect quiet, without vice, and gentle, – one who would bear the whip and not kick."
"Can the gentleman say I have not suited him?"
"I do not say I am not suited, but I had almost as soon be nonsuited in a case of law, as be suited with so inactive a beast to ride."
"Ah! sir, you speak like a tyro concerning the law. If you were once nonsuited, and had all the costs to pay in an action-at-law, believe me, sir, the being non suited in a horse which had no action, would be greatly preferable to all the success of a case-at-law, though you were told at the time that you got off cheap, after paying £150. Look, sir, at that cheque:
"Please to pay to Messrs. Runner and Co. the sum of three hundred pounds, on account of transfer of property, to the account of
Yours, faithfully,Curry and Powder."
How would you like that?"
"I should not like it at all; but there are many things in law and horse-dealing, which the least said about them the soonest ended."
"And also in other things as well. But bring out the gentleman's chestnut horse, Sam."
This was spoken to the groom, who knew his master's voice, and presently brought forth the very self-same horse, sent back to the stables one hour previously, as inactive: now behold him as lively as a lark.
What had been done to him, those acquainted with the art of renovation could alone tell; but here was a contrariety without going far to find it. The legs had been trimmed, the tail set up; and when the said John Tattsall mounted him, the man and horse seemed to become each other. John was a true specimen of an upright horse-dealer, a hundred years ago. Coat was buttoned up, hat almost as conspicuous as the Field Marshal's on the day of a grand review. Stick under his arm, easy seat in his saddle, long spurs, short breeches, brown periwig, and such a contour of character, that when he touched him with the spur, the fiery-eyed charger set off at a Hyde Park canter, to the delight of his learned spectators.
No one could be more pleased than Doctor Bull. "Aye! that is the way to make the most of a horse. Could I but make as much of him as that, he would be, of all creatures, the very one to set me up again? That will do, Mr. Tattsall, that will do. You have given me a good lesson how to make the most of a horse."
"Then, sir, you must let me make the most of him alone. One hundred guineas, is his price; and this is my advice to you, never take this horse out of his stable without giving him a good brush-up first. And never get on to his back, without a pair of spurs on your feet; and you will find him as pleasant a little park horse as any gentleman could ever wish to ride."
The money was paid, and John Tattsall made the most of him. But Doctor Bull made all that he expected out of him; namely, a restoration from a fit of Hypochondriacism into which he never after relapsed; but owed his cure to the honest advice of Geoffery Gambado, Esq. M.D. F.R.S.
"The simplest remedy, is mostly sure;
'Twill never kill; but almost always cure."
CHAPTER IV
Love and Wind
The Doctor sat in his easy chair reading, as was his custom, the Morning Star. That paper was then, what the Times is now. The Star had the ascendant, but the Times outshone the Star. There is a season for every thing under the sun; and two more variable things under the sun can scarcely be mentioned, than the two at the head of this chapter. No two, however, will, with all their variations of calm and storm, be more lasting than these will be found to be, to the end of time. The Times, and all connected therewith, will have an end. Love knows no end. The Times may change as often as the winds, but it will be an ill wind indeed that blows nobody any good.
But the Doctor was interrupted in his perusal of his paper by the entrance of his factotum of a servant man, Samuel Footman. Sam was steward and porter, and waiting man and butler, and a very worthy fellow too, for in every thing he was trustworthy, the best quality any man on earth, or woman either, can possess. Sam presented a card, saying the gentleman's carriage was at the door, and he wanted to know if you were at home. The Doctor looked at it. "Show Sir Nicholas Skinner up, Sam."
There entered into the Doctor's presence the most melancholy half-starved spectacle of humanity that he had ever seen; almost a walking skeleton, – tall, thin, gaunt, and cadaverous, – melancholy in the extreme, eyes sunken, lips drawn down so as almost to form a semi-circular mouth; long, lank, thin light hair; a rough frill of the most delicate white round his neck. His coat was buttoned round a waist as thin as any woman's could be, and his eyes were sharp, black, piercing, and poetical. "Pray, Sir Nicholas, be seated," said the good Doctor, "you seem fatigued."
"I am so indeed! I have travelled all night, with post horses, all the way from Salisbury, on purpose to consult you, Doctor; for I have heard that you are famous in the cure of all nervous debility, and I verily believe every nerve in my frame is shattered. How I have sustained the journey and its fatigue I can scarcely tell; but I suppose it was the hope of living for another, that gave me support."
Here the gentleman gave so long and so deep a drawn sigh, that it convinced the Doctor at once, that this was one of those cases of hopeless malady, disappointed love; which nothing but one thing could either kill or cure, namely matrimony. The Doctor very seldom ventured to recommend this universal specific for one thing or the other. It was not exactly in his line.
"Let me feel your pulse." This he did; he also sounded his lungs, looked into his eyes, and listened to the pulsation of his heart.
"Ah!" he said, "there is a little irregularity there. All is not exactly right in the region of the heart. It appears to me to be slightly disorganized."
"Not slightly, I assure you, Doctor; not slightly; I am afraid, severely!" And this was spoken so very solemnly, that the Doctor, though he felt disposed to smile, could not find it in his heart to treat the case slightingly.
"Have you had any advice at Salisbury? Have you been under any medical treatment?"
"O yes; yes, sir; Doctor Crosse has attended me for the last twelve months. He treats my case as one of decline, or consumption. I was once as robust as you are, Doctor; but I have wasted away to a shadow within the space of one year."
"Pray, sir, are you a married man?"
"No-o-o! No-o-o! Not exactly that, but I am an engaged man. They do tell me, I must be in better health before I marry; and that makes me very, very anxious to get better. They will scarcely allow the slightest breath of wind to blow upon me; no air, no exercise, no window down, no curtain undrawn, one even temperature, – and nothing must disturb me. Oh! Doctor, I fear I never shall marry. My intended is very careful over me. She has come up, all the way to town with me, as my nurse; and is now in my carriage at your door."
"Dear me, sir! why did you not tell me this before? It is actually necessary that I should see your good nurse, and have a few minutes' conversation with her. I am so glad you have brought her; it gives me the greatest hope that I may be able to effect a cure."
The Doctor rang the bell. "Samuel, request the lady in the carriage to step into the house. Show her into the drawing-room. With your permission, Sir Nicholas, I will speak to her myself concerning your treatment?"
The Doctor was expecting to see an elegant, lady-like woman, something slender, and answering to the attenuated gentility of the being in whom "hope deferred, evidently made the heart sick."
What was his astonishment when he beheld a blooming, buxom, short, fat, merry-looking lass! with a face that sorrow seemed never to have smitten. She wore a large hat and feathers; such a profusion of rich brown hair, sweeping down her back, as would have made the Lord Chancellor the finest wig in the land.
It is needless to relate the conversation. The Doctor soon found that she was desirous of becoming Lady Nicholas Skinner, and very soon settled the matter with great adroitness.
"He must ride on horseback! You must make him do so. There is nothing the matter with him, but over anxiety to be better; and it is all in your hands. You, and you only, have the power of making him better."
"But about the wind? – state of the weather? what is your advice? east, west, north, or south, – which is best?"
"No matter; the more wind the better gallop! Show him the way over Salisbury Plains; and make him follow you. Take no notice whatever of his feelings; but tell him, if he feels for you, he must keep pace with you. He will soon be better!"
"But, about horses? There are no good riding horses in Salisbury."
"We will arrange that for you. Sir Nicholas may leave that to me. Only assure him that he must persevere; – and let me know how he is, this day month."
At the end of the month, the Doctor received the following epistles in one cover; evidently meant to be a mutual acknowledgment.
Salisbury, August 1st, 1774.
"Dear Doctor Gambado, – Love and wind have triumphed. The horses suited admirably; though I fear the one Sir Nicholas rides is rather short-winded, as he comes to a stand still before we have had half a gallop. Still, I thank you, he is greatly improved. It was hard work, and seemed very cruel at first, but he himself will tell you the news.
"I remain, Dear Doctor Gambado,
Your's, gratefully,
Clarissa Doubleday."Salisbury, August 1st, 1774.
"Dear Doctor, – I enclose a cheque for £300 upon my banker in town; £200 for the horses, which are delightful creatures, and I thank you for obtaining them for us; and £100 for the last fee to Doctors! – by far the best; for I hope to be married in September. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.
"But in love, and wind, I remain, Dear Doctor,
Your's obliged, – Nicholas Skinner."
"Doctor Gambado,
Bread street, Cheapside, London."
Love blows a blast, to conquer every man,
Let him resist it, – long he never can;
'Twill conquer all, and in the end bring peace,
Hurrah for love! true love can never cease!
