"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 b.u.t.toned 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 n.o.body 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 b.u.t.toned 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 a.s.sure 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 s.p.a.ce 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 la.s.s! 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 a.s.sure 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 n.o.body 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!

CHAPTER V.

_How to ride a Horse on three Legs._