What had been done to him, those acquainted with the art of renovation could alone tell; but here was a contrariety without going far to find it. The legs had been trimmed, the tail set up; and when the said John Tattsall mounted him, the man and horse seemed to become each other. John was a true specimen of an upright horse-dealer, a hundred years ago. Coat was buttoned up, hat almost as conspicuous as the Field Marshal's on the day of a grand review. Stick under his arm, easy seat in his saddle, long spurs, short breeches, brown periwig, and such a contour of character, that when he touched him with the spur, the fiery-eyed charger set off at a Hyde Park canter, to the delight of his learned spectators. No one could be more pleased than Doctor Bull. "Aye! that is the way to make the most of a horse. Could I but make as much of him as that, he would be, of all creatures, the very one to set me up again? That will do, Mr. Tattsall, that will do. You have given me a good lesson how to make the most of a horse." "Then, sir, you must let me make the most of him alone. One hundred guineas, is his price; and this is my advice to you, never take this horse out of his stable without giving him a good brush-up first. And never get on to his back, without a pair of spurs on your feet; and you will find him as pleasant a little park horse as any gentleman could ever wish to ride." The money was paid, and _John Tattsall made the most of him_. But Doctor Bull made all that he expected out of him; namely, a restoration from a fit of Hypochondriacism into which he never after relapsed; but owed his cure to the honest advice of Geoffery Gambado, Esq. M.D. F.R.S. "The simplest remedy, is mostly sure; 'Twill never kill; but almost always cure." CHAPTER IV. _Love and Wind._ The Doctor sat in his easy chair reading, as was his custom, the Morning Star. That paper was then, what the Times is now. The Star had the ascendant, but the Times outshone the Star. There is a season for every thing under the sun; and two more variable things under the sun can scarcely be mentioned, than the two at the head of this chapter. No two, however, will, with all their variations of calm and storm, be more lasting than these will be found to be, to the end of time. The Times, and all connected therewith, will have an end. Love knows no end. The Times may change as often as the winds, but it will be an ill wind indeed that blows nobody any good. But the Doctor was interrupted in his perusal of his paper by the entrance of his factotum of a servant man, Samuel Footman. Sam was steward and porter, and waiting man and butler, and a very worthy fellow too, for in every thing he was trustworthy, the best quality any man on earth, or woman either, can possess. Sam presented a card, saying the gentleman's carriage was at the door, and he wanted to know if you were at home. The Doctor looked at it. "Show Sir Nicholas Skinner up, Sam."