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Updated: May 16, 2025
As to my husband's doubts and difficulties, the dear good man would not so much as hear them mentioned. "No objections," he cried, gayly; "set to work, Mr. Kerby, and make your fortune. I always said your wife was worth her weight in gold and here she is now, all ready to get into the bookseller's scales and prove it. Set to work! set to work!"
Kerby, I have ascertained, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the brachial plexus in people who die of hydrophobia but stop! I had better show you how it is the preparation is upstairs under my wash-hand stand." He left his seat as he spoke. In another minute he would have sent the servant to fetch the "preparation," and I should have lost the story.
Titian, Vandyke, Valasquez any of the three would have paid him to sit to them! "Accept my humblest excuses, sir," said the old man, speaking English with a singularly pure accent for a foreigner. "That absurd book plunged me so deep down in the quagmires of sophistry and error, Mr. Kerby, that I really could not get to the surface at once when you came into the room.
Perhaps you think the work looks rather long in its manuscript state? It will occupy twelve volumes, sir, and it is not half long enough, even then, for the subject. I take two more but you are standing all this time, Mr. Kerby; and I am talking instead of sitting for my portrait. Pray take any books you want, anywhere off the floor, and make a seat of any height you please.
He has plenty of literary friends in London, and he will be just the man to help you. By-the-by," added the doctor, addressing me, "you think of everything, Mrs. Kerby; pray have you thought of a name yet for the new book?" At that question it was my turn to be "taken aback." The idea of naming the book had never once entered my head.
Kerby, the artist, and is desirous of having his portrait done, to be engraved from, and placed at the beginning of the voluminous work on 'The Vital Principle; or, Invisible Essence of Life, which the Professor is now preparing for the press and posterity.
I was putting up my letters in high spirits, and was just leaving the picture-dealer's shop to look out for comfortable lodgings, when I was met at the door by the landlord of one of the largest hotels in Liverpool an old acquaintance whom I had known as manager of a tavern in London in my student days. "Mr. Kerby!" he exclaimed, in great astonishment.
The Professor had done his breakfast, and was anxious to begin the sitting; so I took out my chalks and paper, and set to work at once I seated on one pile of books and he on another. "Fine anatomical preparations in my room, are there not, Mr. Kerby?" said the old gentleman. "Did you notice a very interesting and perfect arrangement of the intestinal ganglia?
Garthwaite, who smiled with an air of comic resignation, and said, "Very well, then, we have nothing for it but to wait till to-morrow. What do you say to a morning's fishing, Mr. Kerby, now that my bull's bad temper has given us a holiday?" I replied, with perfect truth, that I knew nothing about fishing. But Mr.
"Mamma, as we call her," said one of the ladies, "is dressing expressly for her picture, Mr. Kerby. I hope you are not above painting silk, lace, and jewelry. The dear old lady, who is perfection in everything else, is perfection also in dress, and is bent on being painted in all her splendor."
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