LITMIR.BIZ

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in one evening, and asked whether we had such a thing as was called “A poor man’s plaster. By the powers, it will be a poor man’s plaster when it belongs to me; but they tell me that it is a sure and sartain cure for the thumbago, as they call it, which I’ve at the small of my back, and which is a hinder to my mounting up the ladder; so as it’s Saturday night, and I’ve just got the money, I’ll buy the plaster first, and then try what a little whisky inside will do; the devil’s in it if it won’t be driven out of me between the two.”

      We had not that plaster in the shop, but we had blister plaster, and Timothy, handing one to me, I proffered it to him. “And what may you be after asking for this same?” inquired he.

      The blister plasters were sold at a shilling each, when spread on paper, so I asked him eighteen-pence, that we might pocket the extra sixpence.

      “By the powers, one would think that you had made a mistake, and handed me the rich man’s plaster instead of the poor one’s. It’s less whisky I’ll have to drink, anyhow; but here’s the money, and the top of the morning to ye, seeing as how it’s jist getting late.”

      Timothy and I laughed as we divided the sixpence. It appeared that after taking his allowance of whisky, the poor fellow fixed the plaster on his back when he went to bed, and the next morning found himself in a condition not to be envied. It was a week before we saw him again, and much to the horror of Timothy and myself, he walked into the shop when Mr Brookes was employed behind the counter. Timothy perceived him before he saw us, and pulling me behind the large mortar, we contrived to make our escape into the back parlour, the door of which we held ajar to hear what would take place.

      “Murder and turf!” cried the man; “but that was the devil’s own plaster that you gave me here for my back, and it left me as raw as a turnip, taking every bit of my skin off me entirely, forebye my lying in bed for a whole week, and losing my day’s work.”

      “I ready do not recollect supplying you with a plaster, my good man,” replied Mr Brookes.

      “Then, by the piper that played before Moses, if you don’t recollect it, I’ve an idea that I shall never forget it. Sure enough, it cured me, but wasn’t I quite kilt before I was cured?”

      “It must have been some other shop,” observed Mr Brookes. “You have made a mistake.”

      “Devil a bit of mistake, except in selling me the plaster. Didn’t I get it of a lad in this same shop?”

      “Nobody sells things out of this shop without my knowledge.”

      The Irishman was puzzled—he looked round the shop. “Well, then, if this a’n’t the shop, it was own sister to it.”

      “Timothy,” called Mr Brookes.

      “And sure enough there was a Timothy in the other shop, for I heard the boy call the other by the name; however, it’s no matter if it took off the skin, it also took away the thumbago, so the morning to you, Mr Pottykary.”

      When the Irishman departed, we made our appearance. “Japhet, did you sell a plaster to an Irishman?”

      “Yes—don’t you recollect, last Saturday? and I gave you the shilling.”

      “Very true; but what did he ask for?”

      “He asked for a plaster, but he was very tipsy. I showed him a blister, and he took it;” and then I looked at Timothy and laughed.

      “You must not play such tricks,” said Mr Brookes. “I see what you have been about—it was a joke to you, but not to him.”

      Mr Brookes, who imagined we had sold it to the Irishman out of fun, then gave us a very severe lecture, and threatened to acquaint Mr Cophagus if ever we played such tricks again. Thus the affair blew over, and it made me very careful; and, as every day I knew more about medicines, I was soon able to mix them, so as to be of service to those who applied, and before eighteen months had expired, I was trusted with the mixing up of all the prescriptions. At the end of that period Mr Brookes left us, and I took the whole of his department upon myself, giving great satisfaction to Mr Cophagus.

      And now that I have announced my promotion, it will perhaps be as well that I give the reader some idea of my personal appearance, upon which I have hitherto been silent. I was thin, between fifteen and sixteen years old, very tall for my age, and of my figure I had no reason to be ashamed; a large beaming eye, with a slightly aquiline nose, a high forehead, fair in complexion, but with very dark hair. I was always what may be termed a remarkably clean-looking boy, from the peculiarity of my skin and complexion; my teeth were small, but were transparent, and I had a very deep dimple in my chin. Like all embryo apothecaries, I carried in my appearance, if not the look of wisdom, most certainly that of self-sufficiency, which does equally well with the world in general. My forehead was smooth, and very white, and my dark locks were combed back systematically, and with a regularity that said, as plainly as hair could do, “The owner of this does everything by prescription, measurement, and rule.” With my long fingers I folded up the little packets, with an air as thoughtful and imposing as that of a minister who has just presented a protocol as interminable as unintelligible; and the look of solemn sagacity with which I poured out the contents of one vial into the other, would have well become the king’s physician, when he watched the “lord’s anointed” in articulo mortis.

      As I followed up my saturnine avocation, I generally had an open book on the counter beside me; not a marble-covered dirty volume, from the Minerva press, or a half-bound, half-guinea’s worth of fashionable trash, but a good, honest, heavy-looking, wisdom-implying book, horribly stuffed with epithet of drug; a book in which Latin words were redundant, and here and there were to be observed the crabbed characters of Greek. Altogether, with my book and my look, I cut such a truly medical appearance, that even the most guarded would not have hesitated to allow me the sole conduct of a whitlow, from inflammation to suppuration, and from suppuration to cure, or have refused to have confided to me the entire suppression of a gumboil. Such were my personal qualifications at the time that I was raised to the important office of dispenser of, I may say, life and death.

      It will not surprise the reader when I tell him that I was much noticed by those who came to consult, or talk with, Mr Cophagus. “A very fine looking lad that, Mr Cophagus,” an acquaintance would say. “Where did you get him—who is his father?”

      “Father!” Mr Cophagus would reply, when they had gained the back parlour, but I could overhear him, “father, um—can’t tell—love—concealment—child born—Foundling Hospital—put out—and so on.”

      This was constantly occurring, and the constant occurrence made me often reflect upon my condition, which otherwise I might, from the happy and even tenor of my life, have forgotten. When I retired to my bed I would revolve in my mind all that I had gained from the governors of the hospital relative to myself.—The paper found in the basket had been given to me. I was born in wedlock—at least, so said that paper. The sum left with me also proved that my parents could not, at my birth, have been paupers. The very peculiar circumstances attending my case, only made me more anxious to know my parentage. I was now old enough to be aware of the value of birth, and I was also just entering the age of romance, and many were the strange and absurd reveries in which I indulged. At one time I would cherish the idea that I was of a noble, if not princely birth, and frame reasons for concealment. At others—but it is useless to repeat the absurdities and castle buildings which were generated in my brain from mystery. My airy fabrics would at last disappear, and leave me in all the misery of doubt and abandoned hope. Mr Cophagus, when the question was sometimes put to him, would say, “Good boy—very good boy—don’t want a father.” But he was wrong, I did want a father, and every day the want became more pressing, and I found myself continually repeating the question, “Who is my father?”

      Part 1—Chapter IV

      Very much puzzled with a new Patient, nevertheless take my Degree at fifteen as an M.D.; and what is still more acceptable, I pocket the fees.

      The departure of Mr Brookes, of course, rendered me more able to follow up with Timothy my little professional attempts to procure pocket-money; but independent of these

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