In my day I was a doctor fearless of any
other contagion; typhus, scarletina, diphtheria, yellow fever, none
of them had terrors for me. And yet I was afraid to attend a case of
smallpox. From the same cause, in my public speeches I made light of it,
talking of it with contempt as a sickness of small account, much as a
housemaid talks in the servants' hall of the ghost which is supposed to
haunt the back stairs.
And now, coming as it were from that merry and populous chamber of
life and health, once again I met the Spectre I derided, a red-headed,
red-visaged Thing that chose me out to stop and grin at. Somehow I was
not minded to return and announce the fact.
"Why," they would say, "_you_ were the one who did not believe in
ghosts. It was _you_ who preached of vile superstitions, and yet merely
at the sight of a shadow you rush in with trembling hands and bristling
hair to bid us lay it with bell, book, and candle. Where is your faith,
O prophet?"
It was nonsense; the heat and all my incessant political work had tried
me and I was mistaken. That tramp was a drunken, or perhaps a crazy
creature, afflicted with some skin disease such as are common among his
class. Why did I allow the incident to trouble me?
I went home and washed out my mouth, and sprinkled my clothes with a
strong solution of permanganate of potash, for, although my own folly
was evident, it is always as well to be careful, especially in hot
weather.
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