Walsingham, of course, only as a matter to be smiled at by a pair of
philosophers like them. But Dr. Walsingham, who was an absent man, and
floated upon the ocean of his learning serenely and lazily, drawn finely
and whimsically, now hither, now thither, by the finest hair of
association, glided complacently off into the dim region of visionary
prognostics and warnings, and reminded him how Joseph dreamed, and
Pharaoh, and Benvenuto, Cellini's father, and St. Dominick's mother, and
Edward II. of England, and dodged back and forward among patriarchs and
pagans, and modern Christians, men and women not at all suspecting that
he was making poor Sturk, who had looked for a cheerful, sceptical sort
of essay, confoundedly dismal and uncomfortable.
And, indeed, confoundedly distressed he must have been, for he took his
brother-chip, Tom Toole, whom he loved not, to counsel upon his case--of
course, strictly as a question of dandelion, or gentian, or camomile
flowers; and Tom, who, as we all know, loved him reciprocally,
frightened him as well as he could, offered to take charge of his case,
and said, looking hard at him out of the corner of his cunning, resolute
little eye, as they sauntered in the park--
'But I need not tell _you_, my good Sir, that physic is of
small avail, if there is any sort of--a--a--vexation, or--or--in
short--a--a--_vexation,_ you know, on your mind.
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