'I tell you what, Thir,' said Puddock, finding his patient nothing
better, and not relishing the notion of presenting his man in that seedy
condition upon the field: 'I've got a remedy, a very thimple one; it
used to do wondereth for my poor Uncle Neagle, who loved rum shrub,
though it gave him the headache _always_, and sometimes the gout.'
And Puddock had up Mrs. Hogg, his landlady, and ordered a pair of little
muslin bags about the size of a pistol-cartridge each, which she
promised to prepare in five minutes, and he himself tumbled over the
leaves of his private manuscript quarto, a desultory and miscellaneous
album, stuffed with sonnets on Celia's eye--a lock of hair, or a pansy
here or there pressed between the pages--birthday verses addressed to
Sacharissa, receipts for 'puptons,' 'farces,' &c.; and several for
toilet luxuries, 'Angelica water,' 'The Queen of Hungary's' ditto,
'surfeit waters,' and finally, that he was in search of, to wit, 'My
great Aunt Bell's recipe for purging the head' (good against melancholy
or the headache). You are not to suppose that the volume was slovenly or
in anywise unworthy of a gentleman and officer of those days.
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