He never ceases to
hope that something may turn up--that something tangible may issue
from the circumambient world of conjecture. But nothing will ever turn
up for our poor old Colonel till his poor old toes turn up to the
daisies. This change only, which we harshly call "Death," will steal
over his prospects; this new slide only will be slipped into the magic
lantern of his existence, accompanied by funeral drums and slow
marching.
Soon we shall hardly be able to decipher his name and age on the
crumbling gravestone among the weeds of our horrible station
cemetery--but what matters it?
"For his bones are dust,
And his sword is rust,
And his soul is with the saints, we trust."
ALI BABA, K.C.B.
No. XVI
THE CIVIL SURGEON
"Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it."
[November 22, 1879.]
Perhaps you would hardly guess from his appearance and ways that he
was a surgeon and a medicine-man. He certainly does not smell of
lavender or peppermint, or display fine and curious linen, or tread
softly like a cat.
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