I Had To
Take Refuge In A Shop; To Resort To Brandy, Physic, And A Doctor; And,
At The Close
Of a day's confinement to my room, to sneak back to
London, as miserable as any poor dog, who, having
Run about all day
with a tin kettle at his tail, is, at last, released, to go limping and
exhausted home.
"I struggled with this, too, and for some time would not 'give in.' But
my face, now, would not answer to my will. It would look pale and
miserable. My friends began to commiserate me. This was dreadful. So I
at last yielded to the combined movement, of my own convictions of
necessity, the wishes of my friends, the orders of my physician, and,
most effective of all, the kind commands of one whom I deem it an
honour, as it is a necessity, to obey in most things - I went away from
business. I went away without hope. I did not expect cure. I believed
functional derangement had become, at last, organic disease - and that
my days were numbered. I tried the water cure, homoeopathy, allopathy -
everything. Some day, I must recount my consultations, on the same
Sunday, with Sir James Clarke, Her Majesty's physician, and Dr. Quin,
homoeopathist, jester, and, as some said, quack."
At the end of five years of my suffering, I went to America. The trip
did me good. It did not cure me. I wrote a book - a very little one.
Half-a-crown was its price.
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