"I must go and see my old friend Gambado; I know he is a clever man, and has paid great attention to the nervous system, I must go and see him. He ordered his chariot, and drove to Bread-street; sent in his card, and was very soon shaking hands with his quondam friend Doctor Gambado. "Bull, I am glad to see you! You are not come to consult me professionally about yourself, I hope?" "I am, though, and about nobody else." "Then what's the matter with you?" "Dispeptic." "Is that all?" "No! Choleric?" "Is that all?" "No." "What is the matter? out with it." "To tell you the truth, Geoffery, I hardly know how to describe myself to you. You never were afflicted in the same way." "How do you know that?" "I am sure of it. You never were tormented morning, noon, and night. You never hated your profession, as I do mine. You never felt that you killed a great many more than you cured! You never loathed the sight of your wife and children, your house, servants, food, bed, board and lodging. In short, I am a regular monster to myself, and shall soon be good for nothing! Did you ever feel so, my friend?" "Yes, and ten thousand times worse than all you have described." "My dear friend, it is impossible." "You may think it so,--and I certainly thought, once, exactly as you do now,--I can therefore make allowances for you. I tell you, no one ever appears so bad to any man, as the afflicted man does to himself. He would soon be better if he could once see others worse than himself, or as bad as himself, and wish, heartily wish, to see them cured. I tell you, such was my case--even worse than yours,--and I can cure you." "Will you, my dear friend? will you?" "Yes, will I; and as we never take fees of the faculty, therefore, I will cure you for nothing. I do not say, with nothing.--No. Will you follow my advice?" "Yes, assuredly. What is it?" "Ride on horseback." "I never did so since I was a boy." "Nor did I, till I tried." "But did that cure you?" "Yes, it did; and will cure you also." "How long did you ride before you felt better?" "Not an hour." "How long before you were well again?" "Six days; six miles out, every day; six miles home; and in six days all those morbid secretions went away from my brain, and I became as I am, a cheerful and happy man." "But how shall I manage? I must begin _de novo_. I must learn, and I must get a horse that will just move as I want him, slow and sure; either a walk, or a gentle canter; one that does not mind the whip; and I dare not ride one with a spur." "My dear fellow, I have a friend who served me with a horse just as I wanted it; and I have no doubt he can serve you just as well. I will write him a note, and you shall take it to him yourself." Accordingly, the Doctor wrote him one of his laconic Epistles.