"Qui veut delasser hors de propos, lasse."--PASCAL.

Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and

in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seemed

to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used

his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at

that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr.

Casaubon's questions about himself, he replied that the source of the

illness was the common error of intellectual men--a too eager and

monotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate

work, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr. Brooke, who sat by on one

occasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwallader

did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of

thing.

"In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second

childhood," said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness. "These

things," he added, looking at Lydgate, "would be to me such relaxation

as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction."

"I confess," said Lydgate, smiling, "amusement is rather an

unsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to

keep up their spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit

to be mildly bored rather than to go on working."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Brooke. "Get Dorothea to play backgammon with you

in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now--I don't know a finer game than

shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To be

sure, your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend,

you know. Why, you might take to some light study: conchology, now: I

always think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you

light things, Smollett--'Roderick Random,' 'Humphrey Clinker:' they

are a little broad, but she may read anything now she's married, you

know. I remember they made me laugh uncommonly--there's a droll bit

about a postilion's breeches. We have no such humor now. I have gone

through all these things, but they might be rather new to you."

"As new as eating thistles," would have been an answer to represent Mr.

Casaubon's feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respect to

his wife's uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentioned

had "served as a resource to a certain order of minds."

"You see," said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they were outside

the door, "Casaubon has been a little narrow: it leaves him rather at a

loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe is

something very deep indeed--in the line of research, you know. I would

never give way to that; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is

tied a little tight. If they would make him a bishop, now!--he did a

very good pamphlet for Peel. He would have more movement then, more

show; he might get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs.

Casaubon. She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her,

her husband wants liveliness, diversion: put her on amusing tactics."




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