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."
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.