His fate, whatever it was, haunts me.
`273'
This is an age of prescriptions. Morning after morning, from the back-
page of your newspaper, quick and uncostly cures for every human ill
thrust themselves wildly on you. The age of miracles is not past. But
I would raise no false hopes of myself. I am no thaumaturgist. Do
you awake with a sinking sensation in the stomach? Have you lost the
power of assimilating food? Are you oppressed with an indescribable
lassitude? Can you no longer follow the simplest train of thought? Are
you troubled throughout the night with a hacking cough? Are you--in
fine, are you but a tissue of all the most painful symptoms of all the
most malignant maladies ancient and modern? If so, skip this essay,
and try Somebody's Elixir. The cure that I offer is but a cure for
overwrought nerves--a substitute for the ordinary `rest-cure.' Nor is
it absurdly cheap. Nor is it instant. It will take a week or so of
your time. But then, the `rest-cure' takes at least a month. The scale
of payment for board and lodging may be, per diem, hardly lower than
in the `rest-cure'; but you will save all but a pound or so of the
very heavy fees that you would have to pay to your doctor and your
nurse (or nurses). And certainly, my cure is the more pleasant of the
two.
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