doctor's sanctum; the silent visitors waiting,
as I was, for the arbiter of health. Here, the
paralytic octogenarian; here, the widow in
mourning, with her rickety child; here, the
wounded officer from India; here, the withered
nabob, who had lost his liver, and was come
hither on speculation to ask Sir Hygey if he
had seen it by chance come that way; here, the
old lady from the country afflicted with
nothing save a plethora of money, and anxious
to ask the ductor if it were likely that
anything would ever be the matter with her;
there, the anxious father with his consumptive
daughter—the gentleman of small means
who had been painfully hoarding up his
guineas that his child might have the benefit
of the great London medical man's advice;
there, the young exquisite who had been living
too fast; the old exquisite anxious to die as
slowly as possible; the over-taxed student,
who had gained his double first and lost his
health; the popular actor beginning to be
nervous about his voice, and feeling a
warning stiffness and weakness in his limbs. Here
they all were, mournfully silent—wrapped up
in their own ailments, or at best speaking in
stealthy whispers. Every now and then
you heard a silver bell tinkle, and saw the
grave raven-hued servant flit in and out;
and then the crimson door opened noiselessly;
and, when your turn came (if you had been a
duke you could not have gone out of it), you
were ushered into the presence of Sir Hygey
Febrifuge.

Who, as I have already said, was always
in a hurry. He never sat down, but flitted
about, now looking at his watch; consulting
his visiting book; feeling your pulse; asking
you short, nervous questions; convicting you
out of your own mouth, if you attempted to
deceive him; telling you in half a dozen
words much more about yourself than you
could have told him in a week, and a great
deal that you didn't know at all; darting
out into the hall to look (gratuitously) at a
poor woman's leg, or a baby past hope;
popping his head into the dining-room to see
how many persons yet remained to see him,
and then scribbling a prescription;
precipitately giving you a rule of life and conduct
for your future guidance; pocketing his fee,
and nodding you out, all with perfect
calmness and efficiency, yet all, so it seemed,
simultaneously. Visitor after visitor would
be summoned, and the same process repeated.
Then, when his visiting time arrived, the
Prince of the Faculty would enter his
carriage, and drive from square to square, from
street to street, hearing the long tales;
judiciously cutting them short; giving a
modicum of advice, a crumb of comfort, a healing
touch of life and strength, and pocketing the
guineas unceasingly. When to this you add
attendance in the crowded wards of an
hospital; operations; lectures in the hospital
theatre to admiring crowds of students; and
the occasional publication of an erudite
work upon operative surgery or physiology,
you will wonder with me where and
whenever Sir Hygey Febrifuge found time
to snatch a mouthful of food, to
swallow a glass of wine, much less to give
grand dinners, and frequent the fashionable
soirees, and be the domesticated husband
and father that he was, and is to this
day.

How many thousand faces must have passed
before the doctor's eyes; how many pitiable
tales of woe must have been poured into his
ears; what awful secrets must find a repository
beneath that black satin waistcoat! We
may lie to the lawyer, we may lie to the
confessor, but to the doctor we cannot lie. The
murder must out. The prodigal pressed for
an account of his debts will keep one back;
the penitent will hide some sin from his
ghostly director; but from the doctor we can
hide nothing, or we die. He is our greatest
master here on earth. The successful tyrant
crouches before him like a hound; the
scornful beauty bows the knee; the stern
worldly man clings desperately to him as the
anchor that will hold him from drifting into
the dark sea that hath no limits. The
doctor knows not rank. The mutilated beggar
in St. Celsus's accident ward may be a more
interesting case to him than the sick duchess.
He despises beauty—there may be a cancer
in its bloom. He laughs at wealth; it may
be rendered intolerable by disease. He
values not youth; it may be ripe for the
tomb, as hay for the sickle. He makes light
of power; it cannot cure an ache, nor avert
a twinge of gout. He only knows, acknowledges,
values, respects two things—Life and
Death.

In my experience of the Faculty, I can
reckon no less than three knights besides Sir
Hygey Febrifuge; I have had the honour of
the medical attendance of Sir Squattling
Squeb, the great Court Physician. Not of
this present court, be it understood, but
of the bygone regime of Queen Charlotte.
Sir Squattling is dead now, I think; and for
the last twenty years of his life the majority
of the public believed him to be already
deceased, although he was quietly making
some hundreds of guineas yearly by his
profession. Sir Squatting did not live in Celsus
Row: but in Galen Square, where he had
powdered footmen, in coloured liveries—quite
Court footmen. He had a sister, Miss Squeb,
age uncertain; plainness certain, who always
carried a wire-work basket full of keys, which,
when displeased, she rattled wrathfully.
She frequently gave me cake, which I
liked, and tracts, which, at that unthinking age,
I am afraid I did not sufficiently appreciate.
He was a very white-headed, red-faced, feeble,
trembling old man, and, I think, wore
powder and silk stockings. People said that he
had never been clever, and that he had
originally been Court apothecary, and had
been promoted for drawing a youthful