_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."
[Illustration]
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 L300 upon my banker in town;
L200 for the horses, which are delightful creatures, and I thank you
for obtaining them for us; and L100 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!