"Diet, sir; Diet, decidedly. Now you'll take this to John Bell's, in
Oxford Street, and they'll make up the prescription; then you'll go on
to Gilbey's--crooked-looking place, you know; just as if they'd built
the house somewhere else, and then when they wanted to put it in its
place found it too big, and had to squeeze it in. Well, there you'll
order a few dozens of their light dinner claret. No more '20 port or
fiery sherry. Taboo, sir, taboo. Light wine in moderation. Diet, sir,
diet. _Good_ morning."
I looked at the bristly-headed physician, who handed me a sheet of note
paper with a big capital B, two long blurs, a rough blotch, a few
spidery ink splays, and an ugly MD at the end of a few inky
hooks-and-eyes, which I received in return for the twenty-one shillings
I left upon the table; and then muttering the one word "diet," I stood
in the hall upon a horrible stony-looking piece of floorcloth that quite
struck cold up my legs. Here I was confronted by the footman who
ushered me into his master's presence--a blue-coated, crestless-buttoned
wretch with two round grey eyes that said "shillings" as plainly as any
mute thing could; but I was angry, and determined to come no more: so
giving the fellow only a sixpence, I hobbled away and stood in Saville
Row.
Diet, indeed; why no man could be more moderate. And what's half a
bottle of port for one's dinner? Why, my grandfather, sir, took his two
bottles regularly, and, beyond an occasional fit of the gout, was as
hale a man as ever lived. Why, he'd have lived till fourscore safe if
bad management and country doctors had not drawn the regal complaint
into his stomach, where it would stop. This was coming to a physician
for advice. And then what did he do when I told him of the agonies I
suffered?--smiled pleasantly, and said it was my liver; while when I
hinted at my corns, what did he do then but metaphorically tread upon
them, for he laughed.
Now, putting dyspepsia on one side, I appeal to my fellow-sufferers, and
ask them, Is there any torture to be compared with the infliction of
corns? Headache?--take a little medicine and lie down. Toothache?--
have it out. Earache?--try hot onion. Opodeldoc for rheumatism;
chlorodyne for tic; colchicum for gout. There's a remedy for nearly
every pain and ache; but what will you do for your corns? Ordinary
sufferings come only now and then, but corns shoot, stab, twitch, and
agonise continually. What is the remedy? Plasters are puffs; bandages
empty promises; the knife threatens tetanus; caustic only makes them
black and smarting; while chiropodists--. Mention them not in my
hearing, lest my vengeance fall upon your devoted head. Where can you
put your feet to be safe--at home or abroad? Why, your very boots are
sworn enemies, and the battle at putting on or pulling off makes the
thought of the operation produce beads of cold perspiration upon one's
ample brow. Who can be surprised at one's lying long in bed of a
morning when tortures await, and you know that just outside the door, by
the side of the large white jug whose water grows less and less steamy,
there stand two hollow leather cylinders loaded with fearful pains to be
discharged at your devoted feet.
There isn't a sensible shoemaker on the face of the earth. I've tried
them one after the other until I'm tired of them. One recommends calf,
another kid, another dog-skin, and another "pannus corium," and my feet
are worse than ever. I won't believe in them any more, though they do
show me lasts made to my feet, and insult me with hideous nubbly, bunkly
abortions carved in wood, which they say represent my feet--my feet,
those suffering locomotives. I'll take to sandals, or else follow the
advice of the Countess de Noailles, and go barefoot like the old hen in
the nursery rhyme.
I could suffer the bodily pain if it were not for the mental
accompaniment, and the total want of pity and compassion shown by
people. Only the other day, going down one of those quiet cab-stand
streets, one of the idle wretches that I intended to engage shouted out
to his companions,--
"I say, old 'uns, here's Peter Pindar a-coming."
"Who?" shouted another.
"Cove as turned pilgrim, and went with peas in his shoes," cried Number
One; while, writhing with agony, and gnashing my teeth, I shook my stick
at the rascal.
"You scoundrel," I cried, "it's my corn,--it's not peas."
"Then get it ground, sir," groaned the fellow; when I was so vexed that
I took the omnibus instead, or rather the omnibus took me, and as soon
as I had entered, I was shot into the lap of a stout elderly lady who
looked daggers at me, and revenged herself by putting her fat umbrella
ferrule on my corn at every opportunity. I believe it was Mrs Saunders
herself, the friend of Mrs Bardell, of Goswell Street. And oh! what I
suffered in that vehicle! Would that I could have performed the
operation recommended by the conductor--a man with a gash across his
face when he laughed--to put my toes in my pocket, or go and dispose of
my troubles at Mark Lane.
It was of no use to try: every one who came in or went out of that 'bus,
either trod upon or poked my worst corn with stick or umbrella, and then
in the height of my anguish, when my countenance was distorted with
pain, a stout, wheezing old lady opposite must "Drat my imperance," and
want to know whether I meant to insult her.
I hobbled out of the place of torture as quickly as I could, and stepped
into one of those mud trimmings the scavengers delight in leaving by our
pavements, covering the glossy leather with the foul refuse, so that,
naturally particular about my boots, I was reduced to the extremity of
having a polish laid on by one of those young scarlet rascals, who kneel
at the corners of the streets.
"Black yer boots, sir," cried first one and then another, but I could
not trust to the first I met with, for he looked too eager, the next too
slow, while the third seemed a doubtful character, so I waited till I
reached a fourth.
"Do you see that slight eminence, you dog?"
"Wot that knobble, sir," said the boy.
"That eminence, boy," I said, fiercely. "That covers a corn."
"All right, sir," said the boy, "I won't hurt it. I'll go a tip-toe
over him, you see if I don't. I often cleans boots for gents as has
corns, and I'm used to 'em, and--"
"Yah-h-h-h," I shrieked, for it was impossible to help it, and at the
same moment brought down my umbrella fiercely on the little scoundrel's
head. Fancy my feelings all you who suffer, for it must have been done
purposely; just as the young ruffian was grinding away with an
abomination of a hard brush--a very hard brush, so hard that there was
more wood than bristles--he looked up at me and grinned while I was
perspiring with fear and pain, and then with one furious stroke he
caught the edge of his brush right upon the apex of Mount Agony, causing
me to shriek, seize my half-cleaned boot with both hands, and dance
round upon one leg regardless of appearances, and to the extreme delight
of the collecting crowd.
"Don't you do that agen, now come," whimpered the boy, guarding his head
with both arms, and smearing his black countenance where a few tears
trickled down.
"You dog!" I shouted; "I'll--I'll--I'll--"
"Oh, ah! I dessay you will," whined the boy; "I never said nothin' to
you. Why don't you pull off your boots then, and not go a-knockin' me
about?"
Of course I hurried away with my boots half-cleaned, and so I have to
hurry through life--a miserable man, suffering unheard-of torment, but
with no one to pity me. Time back, people would ask what ailed me, but
now they "pooh, pooh" my troubles, since it is only my corns. I would
not care if people would tread upon me anywhere else, but they won't,
and I feel now reduced to my last hope.
Did not somebody once say, "Great oaks from little acorns grow--great
aches from little toe-corns grow"? How true--how telling! But there, I
give up, with the determination to bear my pains as I can, for I feel
assured that no one will sympathise with me who does not suffer from
corns.