“My friends,” said my father, looking up from his book, and addressing
himself to his two visitors, “I know of one thing, milder than calamity,
that would do you both a great deal of good.”
“What is that?” asked Sir Sedley.
“A saffron bag, worn at the pit of the stomach!”
“Austin, my dear!” said my mother reprovingly.
My father did not heed the interruption, but continued gravely,—“Nothing
is better for the spirits! Roland is in no want of saffron, because he
is a warrior; and the desire of fighting, and the hope of victory,
infuse such a heat into the spirits as is profitable for long life, and
keeps up the system.”
“Tut!” said Trevanion.
“But gentlemen in your predicament must have recourse to artificial
means. Nitre in broth, for instance—about three grains to ten—(cattle
fed upon nitre grow fat); or earthy odours—such as exist in cucumbers
and cabbage. A certain great lord had a clod of fresh earth, laid in a
napkin, put under his nose every morning after sleep. Light anointing of
the head with oil, mixed with roses and salt, is not bad; but, upon the
whole, I prescribe the saffron bag at the”—
“Sisty, my dear, will you look for my scissors?” said my mother.
“What nonsense are you talking! Question, question!” cried Mr Trevanion.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed my father, opening his eyes; “I am giving you the
advice of Lord Bacon.—You want conviction—conviction comes from
passion—passion from the spirits—spirits from a saffron bag. You,
Beaudesert, on the other hand, want to keep youth. He keeps youth
longest who lives longest. Nothing more conduces to longevity than a
saffron bag, provided always it is worn at the”—
“Sisty, my thimble!” said my mother.
“You laugh at us justly,” said Beaudesert, smiling; “and the same
remedy, I dare say, would cure us both!”
“Yes,” said my father, “there is no doubt of that. In the pit of the
stomach is that great central web of nerves called the ganglions; thence
they affect the head and the heart. Mr Squills proved that to us,
Sisty.”
“Yes,” said I; “but I never heard Mr Squills talk of a saffron bag.”
“Oh, foolish boy! it is not the saffron bag—it is the belief in the
saffron bag. Apply BELIEF to the centre of the nerves, and all will go
well,” said my father.