Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The
habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he
was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams
and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt
to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that
the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years
he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and
pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up
in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made
a little face of disappointment.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”