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real anxiety about his old instructor, and immediately left the Opera House, and returned home to offer his services. No representations of Jobb's (whom he met on the stairs) could prevent his going into Grunter's room to inquire of himself how he felt. He found him in bed, a white cotton nightcap drawn over his eyes, and all of his face that could be seen, of a green pallor, to which the black streak, the result of the attack made upon him in Fitzcribb's book-closet by Hume and Smollet, and which crossed his face diagonally, added new horrors. Well might he look pale, for Jobb (a Sangrado in his way) had already cupped and bled him, and covered his leg with leeches. He had given him a strong emetic and an opiate, besides applying a blister to the “ wound.”
Mr. Lindsay was inexpressibly shocked at the sudden and awful change two or three hours had made in his old friend.
“ Can I not see the wound ?” he asked.
“Impossible,” replied Jobb. “To prevent inflammation, I have surrounded it with a
blister; it's a very peculiar case, very, indeed," and he shook his head. “Has my patient had any thing on his mind of late ?-any strong mental excitement or intense study?”
“He has seemed very much occupied," said Mr. Lindsay. “I have suspected he is engaged on a work of some research, for he has fitted up a study.”
“Fitted up a study! he is not in straightened circumstances, then? Excuse my asking these questions; but, in our profession, in order to cure the body, we must sometimes probe the mind. He has not been distressed about pecuniary matters of late ?”
“Oh, by no means ! he is very well off; and if he were not, I am his friend; and whatever he needs, he knows that I am glad to supply."
“1...I...sir ! it was most lucky I was at hand, it was indeed ; if I had not been, you would not have seen him there now, with that pulse and that colour. Sir, I am a man of few words; but, yet I must say, I am a philanthropist; nay, I am proud to say it, an uni
“The Philosophy of History and the History of Philosophy,” groaned Grunter, suddenly sitting up in his bed (a little lightheaded, not from his disease, but from his remedies) —“the noblest subject that can engage the attention of the Christian, the statesman, and the scholar-a subject demanding unflinching investigation and unwearied research-a subject the most important that .... that....”
Here his memory failed him, and he recommenced, “To the Queen, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Lord High Chancellor of England, this work ".
Here Jobb shook his head, and, taking up a phial and a spoon, administered an additional opiate to the excited patient; he then gently whispered to Mr. Lindsay that the room must be darkened, and Mr. Grunter kept perfectly still—“I will send my assistant to sit up with him,” he said, “and I will be here to relieve him early in the morning. Fear nothing, dear sir, he is sure to do well-I thoroughly understand his case - I think I can answer for a perfect cure ; but it may be a protracted one: indeed, to be candid, I think it will. Good night, my dear sir; I should recommend a night's rest to yourself. Indeed, as a medical man, I must insist on sending you a composing draught by my assistant. Allow me to feel your pulse — ha, rapid ! very rapid ! I will see you myself tomorrow morning. Good night, sir !-depend on me!”
So saying, Mr. Jobb accompanied Mr. Lindsay out of the room. Grunter was muttering to himself the words “ Philosophy," “History," “ The Queen,” “ The Archbishop of Canterbury,” and “The Lord High Chancellor of England.” Scarcely was Jobb gone, when the kind Mr. Lindsay stole back in the dark, to watch by the bedside of his old usher, until the arrival of Mr. Jobb's assistant, which did not take place for two hours; he then, insisting on being called if the patient became at all worse, retired to bed, having dutifully swallowed the draught sent by Mr. Jobb, and administered by Mr. Smith.