I quitted my sister to see my father, whom I found in his easy-chair. I
was much shocked at his appearance. He was thin and haggard, his eye was
wild, and he remained with his mouth constantly open. A sick-nurse, who
had been hired by my sister, was standing by him.
"Pish, pish, pish, pish!" cried my father; "what can you, a stupid old
woman, know about my inside? I tell you the gas is generating fast, and
even now I can hardly keep on my chair. I'm lifting--lifting now; and if
you don't tie me down with cords, I shall go up like a balloon."
"Indeed, sir," replied the woman, "it's only the wind in your stomach.
You'll break it off directly."
"It's inflammable gas, you old Hecate!--I know it is. Tell me, will you
get a cord, or will you not? Hah! who's that--Peter? Why you've dropped
from the clouds, just in time to see me mount up to them."
"I hope you feel yourself better, sir," said I.
"I feel myself a great deal lighter every minute. Get a cord, Peter, and
tie me to the leg of the table."
I tried to persuade him that he was under a mistake; but it was useless.
He became excessively violent, and said I wished him in heaven. As I had
heard that it was better to humour people afflicted with
hypochondriacism, which was evidently the disease under which my father
laboured, I tried that method. "It appears to me, sir," said I, "that if
we could remove the gas every ten minutes, it would be a good plan."
"Yes--but how?" replied he, shaking his head mournfully.
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