“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 odors,—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.