208 Winter 



Alas ! Alas ! What have I done, 

 I've gone and killed the farmer's son. 

 Round the kitchen, round the hall, 

 Is there a doctor to be found at all ? 



Now enters the comic man of the company, the 

 traditionary quack of the middle ages, the typical 

 charlatan, such as Le Sage and Moliere drew, the sort 

 of person who, in the time of Edward 1 1. wrapped the 

 Prince of Wales in red cloths to cure him of small-pox, 

 and who prescribed powdered beetles and crickets as 

 a remedy for the stone. A wisp of straw has been 

 thrust between his jacket and his back to represent 

 a hump, his well-combed beard fastened with twine, 

 once adorned a white horse's tail, he carries his 

 father's long crook and advances with a hirple, glancing 

 to right and left like a magpie searching for carrion. 

 Thus he speaks : 



DR. BROWN : Here comes in old Doctor Brown 

 The best old doctor in the town. 

 ST. GEORGE : How do you know you are the best old doctor in 



the town ? 



DR. BROWN : By my travels, Sir. 

 ST. GEORGE : How far have you travelled ? 

 DR. BROWN : From Russia to Prussia, from France into Spain, 



And back to old England again. 

 ST. GEORGE : What can you cure ? 



I will not set down his list of diseases. It was pro- 

 bably framed in days when plain speech was common 

 alike in hall and cottage, but to-day it makes the very 

 servant girls hide their faces, seeing which, St. George, 

 with more chivalry than he is aware, hastily interrupts 

 with the question : 



