The Poet at the Breakfast-TableHolmes, Oliver Wendell
General
The Poet at the Breakfast-Table
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
American fiction -- 19th century; Conversation -- Fiction; Poetry
There were Ophthalmoscopes and Rhinoscopes and Otoscopes and
Laryngoscopes and Stethoscopes; and Thermometers and Spirometers and
Dynamometers and Sphygmometers and Pleximeters; and Probes and Probangs
and all sorts of frightful inquisitive exploring contrivances;
and scales to weigh you in, and tests and balances and pumps and
electro-magnets and magneto-electric machines; in short, apparatus for
doing everything but turn you inside out.
Dr. Benjamin set me down before his one window and began looking at me
with such a superhuman air of sagacity, that I felt like one of those
open-breasted clocks which make no secret of their inside arrangements,
and almost thought he could see through me as one sees through a shrimp
or a jelly-fish. First he looked at the place inculpated, which had a
sort of greenish-brown color, with his naked eyes, with much corrugation
of forehead and fearful concentration of attention; then through
a pocket-glass which he carried. Then he drew back a space, for a
perspective view. Then he made me put out my tongue and laid a slip of
blue paper on it, which turned red and scared me a little. Next he took
my wrist; but instead of counting my pulse in the old-fashioned way,
he fastened a machine to it that marked all the beats on a sheet of
paper,--for all the world like a scale of the heights of mountains, say
from Mount Tom up to Chimborazo and then down again, and up again, and
so on. In the mean time he asked me all sorts of questions about myself
and all my relatives, whether we had been subject to this and that
malady, until I felt as if we must some of us have had more or less of
them, and could not feel quite sure whether Elephantiasis and Beriberi
and Progressive Locomotor Ataxy did not run in the family.
After all this overhauling of myself and my history, he paused and
looked puzzled. Something was suggested about what he called an
“exploratory puncture.” This I at once declined, with thanks. Suddenly a
thought struck him. He looked still more closely at the discoloration I
have spoken of.
--Looks like--I declare it reminds me of--very rare! very curious! It
would be strange if my first case--of this kind--should be one of our
boarders!
What kind of a case do you call it?--I said, with a sort of feeling that
he could inflict a severe or a light malady on me, as if he were a judge
passing sentence.
--The color reminds me,--said Dr. B. Franklin,--of what I have seen in a
case of Addison's Disease, Morbus Addisonii.
--But my habits are quite regular,--I said; for I remembered that the
distinguished essayist was too fond of his brandy and water, and
I confess that the thought was not pleasant to me of following Dr.
Johnson's advice, with the slight variation of giving my days and my
nights to trying on the favorite maladies of Addison.
--Temperance people are subject to it!--exclaimed Dr. Benjamin, almost
exultingly, I thought.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account