He had his remedy about him. The pills and the draught were in his
pocket--yes, in his patriotic poke; but he refused to take the lid from
the box--resolutely determined that the cork should not be drawn from the
all-healing phial--until he was regularly called in; and, as the gypsies
say, his hand crossed with a bit of money. Well, he now swears with such
vigour to the excellence of his physic--he so talks for hours and hours
upon the virtues of his drugs, that at length a special messenger is sent
to him, and directions given that the Miraculous Doctor should be received
at the state entrance of the patient's castle, with every mark of
consideration. The Doctor is ensured his fee, and he sets to work.
Thousands and thousands of hearts are beating whilst his eye scrutinizes
John Bull's tongue--suspense weighs upon the bosom of millions as the
Doctor feels his pulse. Well, these little ceremonies settled, the Doctor
will, of course, pull out his phial, display his boluses, and take his
leave with a promise of speedy health.
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