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member, I presume, the passage in Celsus, which says, if the patient on the third day have an interval, suspend the medicaments at night; let fumigation be used to corroborate the brain: I hope you have on no account promoted sternutation by Hellebore.
GENTLEMAN.—Sir, you are mistaken; I–
Doctor.—Mistaken; am I not a Physician now, and will an Apothecary dispute my opinions! You, and such as you, may have filled up a prescription or two of Baillie's which chanced to succeed, and with that very same prescription, injudiciously applied, you kill multitudes. Pharmacopola componat, Medicus solus praescribat, says Celsus. I understand both the profession and the trade, as well as any Baronet of 'em all. Mistake! I mistake! Fumigate him, I say, this very evening.
VETUs.—Hold, Sir! What, Sir, my friend an Apothecary A base compounder of drugs? He who
like myself professes the noblest science in the universe, Politics? Do you imagine that I would submit my writings to the judgment of an Apothecary?–By the Immortals he has had a hand in every letter of Vetus: he has written the finest tirades, and pointed the strongest facts; he has pounded the Post, curried the Courier, licked Liverpool, and bothered Bathurst. THE Editor.—Doctor, you are in a small mis
take here ; this Gentleman is Mr.
, an author —an occasional author. He wrote “Reasons for quitting the Cabinet.”—“The Account of the Mahratta War,” and several other admirable works which have been attributed to noble pens. He has got a place in the Excise by his writings, which is more than all your Addisons, Johnsons, and Steeles ever got.
VETUs (in a paroxysm)—Answer my question, caitiff Lord, or else you die. I shall make these mountains echo with thy obloquy.
Doctor.—Mountains! what is he at now 2
OLD Woman.—Alack, Sir, my poor master fancies himself in the mountains: he calls this garret, a cottage; the lead spout, a purling rill; and the cats that squall in the gutters, bleating lambs; and what's worst of all, poor Gentleman, he calls me Filly, and Cloe, and such heathenish names.
Vetus (the paroxysm continuing)—Wickedness totters on its narrow base–Magnanimity towers. The great Behauder walks abroad in full majesty; his feet are on the earth, his head in the clouds. Burgos is not taken. Ciudad Rodrigo is surrounded. Salamanca is erased from the historic page: the army is disgraced : nations are overthrown: the world is no more; and I am sick, very sick
Doctor.—That's a good symptom; a very good symptom. To be sick to death, say the modern Physicians, is an excellent symptom; when a patient is sensible of his pain, he's half cured: pray, Sir, of what are you sick?
VETUs.—Of every thing, of every thing; abroad and at home; in Spain, and in Russia; of Lord Wellington, Lord Cathcart, and Kutusoff; I'm sick of Burgos, and of Salamanca, and of Dorogobugsh. The great Drama— Old Woman.—The dram, Sir ; the gin is all gone; but I'll fetch more presently. VETUs.—O shameful want! scandalous omission : No reinforcements to the army, no reforms for the people, no places for his Lordship; no change, zounds, no change at all! OLD Woman,—Pray, Sir, be not angry, and I'll fetch change. Doctor.—Peace, good Woman; his fit increases. Pray, Mr. Editor, hold him. The Editor.—Plague on’t; I'm damnably afraid they are in the right of it, and he is mad in earnest. If he should be really mad, who the devil will buy the “Letters?”—(Here the Editor scratched his head.)
Doctor.—Sir, I shall order you a cold bath to-morrow: Mr. Editor, you are a sensible man ; send for Doctor Simmons's people forthwith. The symptoms of his madness seem to grow desperate— (at this moment I thought it right to get as near the door as possible.)—We must eradicate these indigested ideas out of the pericranium, and reduce the patient to a competent knowledge of himself and others. VETU.S.–Caitiffs, standoff unhand me, miscreants Is the man, whose whole endeavours are to bring the country to reason, mad? Is the man, who would make war on conceptions of sublimity, mad? Is the man, who deposes Lords, and calls Marquesses to the helm of State, mad? No, the town is mad ; the Parliament's mad; the nation's mad; all Europe's mad; but the reign of the incapables is at a close— the sun of impracticability rises. “Lord Liverpool, I have done—The British army starves;–is unpaid, —and defeated. The people starve, are disappointed,