THE FORTUNATE BATH.
Heaven has to all allotted soon or late
Some lucky revolution of their fate;
Whose motions if we watch and guide with skill
(For human good depends on human will)
Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent.
And from the first impression takes its bent.
Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize,
And spreads her locks before her as she files.
--Dryden.
Meanwhile, what had our young adventurer been doing in all these months
between September and June?
Traverse, with his two hundred dollars, had set out for New Orleans
about the first of October.
But by the time he had paid his traveling expenses and fitted himself
out with a respectable suit of professional black and a few necessary
books, his little capital had diminished three-quarters.
So that when he found himself settled in his new office, in a highly
respectable quarter of the city, he had but fifty dollars and a few
dimes left.
A portion of this sum was expended in a cheap sofa-bedstead, a closed
washstand and a spirit lamp coffee boiler, for Traverse determined to
lodge in his office and board himself--"which will have this additional
advantage," said the cheerful fellow to himself--"for besides saving me
from debt, it will keep me always on hand for calls."
The fever, though it was October, had scarcely abated; indeed, on the
contrary, it seemed to have revived and increased in virulency in
consequence of the premature return of many people who had fled on its
first appearance, and who in coming back too soon to the infected
atmosphere, were less able to withstand contagion than those who
remained.
That Traverse escaped the plague was owing not so much to his favorite
"theory" as to his vigorous constitution, pure blood and regular habits
of temperance, cleanliness and cheerful activity of mind and body.
Just then the demand was greater than the supply of medical service.
Traverse found plenty to do, and his pleasant, young face and hopeful
and confident manners won him great favor in sick rooms, where, whether
it were to be ascribed to his "theory," his "practice" or to the happy,
inspiring influence of his personal presence, or to all these together,
with the blessing of the Lord upon them, it is certain that he was very
successful in raising the sick. It is true that he did not earn five
dollars in as many days, for his practice, like that of almost every
very young professional man, was among the indigent.
But what of that? What if he were not running up heavy accounts against
wealthy patrons? He was "giving to the poor," not money, for he himself
was as poor as any of them; but his time, labor and professional skill;
he was "giving to the poor;" he was "lending to the Lord," and he
"liked the security." And the most successful speculator that ever made
a fortune on 'change never, never invested time, labor or money to a
surer advantage.
And this I would say for the encouragement of all young persons in
similar circumstances--do not be impatient if the "returns" are a
little while delayed, for they are so sure and so rich that they are
quite worth waiting for, nor will the waiting be long. Give your
services cheerfully, also, for "the Lord loveth a cheerful giver."
Traverse managed to keep out of debt; he regularly paid his office rent
and his laundress' bill; he daily purchased his mutton shop or pound of
beefsteak and broiled it himself; he made his coffee, swept and dusted
his office, put up his sofa-bed, blacked his boots; and oh! miracle of
independence, he mended his own gloves and sewed on his own shirt
buttons, for you may depend that the widow's son knew how to do all
these things; nor was there a bit of hardship in his having so to wait
upon himself, though if his mother and Clara, in their well-provided
and comfortable home at Willow Heights, had only known how destitute
the young man was of female aid and comfort, how they would have cried!
"No one but himself to mend his poor dear gloves! Oh--oh-boo-hoo-oo!"
Traverse never alluded to his straitened circumstances, but boasted of
the comfort of his quarters and the extent of his practice, and
declared that his income already exceeded his outlay, which was
perfectly true, since he was resolved to live within it, whatever it
might be.
As the fever began to subside Traverse's practice declined, and about
the middle of November his "occupation was gone."
We said that his office was in the most respectable locality in the
city; it was, in fact, on the ground floor of a first-class hotel.
It happened that one night, near the close of winter, Traverse lay
awake on his sofa-bedstead, turning over in his mind how he should
contrive to make both ends meet at the conclusion of the present term
and feeling as near despondency as it was possible for his buoyant and
God-trusting soul to be, when there came a loud ringing at his office
bell.
This reminded him of the stirring days and nights of the preceding
autumn. He started up at once to answer the summons.
"Who's there?"
"Is Doctor Rocke in?"
"Yes, what's wanted?"
"A gentleman, sir, in the house here, sir, taken very bad, wants the
doctor directly, room number 555."
"Very well, I will be with the gentleman immediately," answered
Traverse, plunging his head into a basin of cold water and drying it
hastily.
In five minutes Traverse was in the office of the hotel, inquiring for
a waiter to show him up into 555.
One was ordered to attend him, who led the way up several flights of
stairs and around divers galleries, until he opened a door and ushered
the doctor immediately into the sick room.
There was a little, old, dried-up Frenchman in a blue night-cap,
extended on a bed in the middle of the room and covered with a white
counterpane that clung close to his rigid form as to a corpse.
And there was a little, old, dried-up Frenchwoman in a brown merino
gown and a high-crowned muslin cap who hopped and chattered about the
bed like a frightened magpie.
"Ou! Monsieur le Docteur!" she screamed, jumping at Traverse in a way
to make him start back; "Ou, Monsieur le Docteur, I am very happy you
to see! Voila mon frere! Behold my brother! He is ill! He is verra ill!
He is dead! He is verra dead!"
"I hope not," said Traverse, approaching the bed.
"Voila, behold! Mon dieu, he is verra still! He is verra cold! He is
verra dead! What can you, mon frere, my brother to save?"
"Be composed, madam, if you please, and allow me to examine my
patient," said Traverse.
"Ma foi! I know not what you speak 'compose.' What can you my brother
to save?"
"Much, I hope, madam, but you must leave me to examine my patient and
not interrupt me," said Traverse, passing his hand over the naked chest
of the sick man.
"Mon Dieu! I know not 'exam' and 'interrupt'! and I know not what can
you mon frere to save!"
"If you don't hush parley-vooing, the doctor can do nothink, mum," said
the waiter, in a respectful tone.
Traverse found his patient in a bad condition--in a stupor, if not in a
state of positive insensibility. The surface of his body was cold as
ice, and apparently without the least vitality. If he was not, as his
sister had expressed it, "very dead," he was certainly "next to it."
By close questioning, and by putting his questions in various forms,
the doctor learned from the chattering little magpie of a Frenchwoman
that the patient had been ill for nine days; that he had been under the
care of Monsieur le Doctor Cartiere; that there had been a consultation
of physicians; that they had prescribed for him and given him over:
that le Docteur Cartiere still attended him, but was at this instant in
attendance as accoucheur to a lady in extreme danger, whom he could not
leave; but Doctor Cartiere had directed them, in his unavoidable
absence, to call in the skilful, the talented, the soon to be
illustrious young Docteur Rocque, who was also near at hand.
The heart of Traverse thrilled with joy. The Lord had remembered him!
His best skill spent upon the poor and needy who could make him no
return, but whose lives he had succeeded in saving, had reached the
ears of the celebrated Dr. C., who had with the unobtrusive magnanimity
of real genius quietly recommended him to his own patrons.
Oh! well, he would do his very best, not only to advance his own
professional interests, and to please his mother and Clara, but also to
do honor to the magnanimous Doctor C.'s recommendation!
Here, too, was an opportunity of putting in practise his favorite
theory; but first of all it was necessary to be informed of the
preceding mode of treatment and its results.
So he further questioned the little, restless magpie, and by
ingeniously framed inquiries succeeded in gaining from her the
necessary knowledge of his patient's antecedents. He examined all the
medicines that had been used, and informed himself of their effects
upon the disease. But the most serious difficulty of all seemed to be
the impossibility of raising vital action upon the cold, dead skin.
The chattering little woman informed him that the patient had been
covered with blisters that would not "pull," that would not
"delineate," that would not, what call you it--"draw!"
Traverse could easily believe this, for not only the skin, but the very
flesh of the old doctor seemed bloodless and lifeless.
Now for his theory! What would kill a healthy man with a perfect
circulation might save the life of this dying one, whose whole surface,
inch deep, seemed already dead.
"Put him in a bath of mustard water, as hot as you can bear your own
hand in and continue to raise the temperature slowly, watching the
effect, for about five minutes. I will go down and prepare a cordial
draught to be taken the moment he gets back to bed," said Doctor Rocke,
who immediately left the room.
His directions were all but too well obeyed. The bathing tub was
quickly brought into the chamber and filled with water as hot as the
nurse could bear her hand in, then the invalid was hastily invested in
a slight bathing gown and lifted by two servants and laid in the hot
bath.
"Now, bring quickly, water boiling," said the little, old woman,
imperatively. And when a large copper kettleful was forthcoming, she
took it and began to pour a stream of hissing, bubbling water in at the
foot of the bath.
The skin of the torpid patient had been reddening for a few seconds, so
as to prove that its sensibility was returning, and now when the stream
from the kettle began to mix with the already very hot bath, and to
raise its temperature almost to boiling, suddenly there was heard a cry
from the bath, and the patient, with the agility of youth and health,
skipped out of the tub and into his bed, kicking vigorously and
exclaiming:
"Brigands! Assassins! You have scalded my legs to death!"
"Glory be to the Lord, he's saved!" cried one of the waiters, a devout
Irishman.
"Ciel! he speaks! he moves! he lives! mon frere!" cried the little
Frenchwoman, going to him.
"Ah, murderers! bandits! you've scalded me to death! I'll have you all
before the commissaire!"
"He scolds! he threatens! he swears! he gets well! mon frere!" cried
the old woman, busying herself to change his clothes and put on his
flannel nightgown. They then tucked him up warmly in bed and put
bottles of hot water all around, to keep up this newly stimulated
circulation.
At that moment Dr. Rocke came in, put his hand into the bath-tub and
could scarcely repress a cry of pain and of horror--the water scalded
his fingers! What must it have done to the sick man?
"Good heavens, madam! I did not tell you to parboil your patient!"
exclaimed Traverse, speaking to the old woman. Traverse was shocked to
find how perilously his orders had been exceeded.
"Eh bien, Monsieur! he lives! he does well! voila mon frere!" exclaimed
the little old woman.
It was true: the accidental "boiling bath," as it might almost be
called, had effected what perhaps no other means in the world could--a
restored circulation.
The disease was broken up, and the convalescence of the patient was
rapid. And as Traverse kept his own secret concerning the accidental
high temperature of that bath, which every one considered a fearful and
successful experiment, the fame of Dr. Rocke spread over the whole city
and country.
He would soon have made a fortune in New Orleans, had not the hand of
destiny beckoned him elsewhere. It happened thus:
The old Frenchman whose life Traverse had, partly by accident and
partly by design, succeeded in saving, comprehended perfectly well how
narrow his escape from death had been, and attributed his restoration
solely to the genius, skill and boldness of his young physician, and
was grateful accordingly with all a Frenchman's noisy demonstration.
He called Traverse his friend, his deliverer, his son.
One day, as soon as he found himself strong enough to think of pursuing
his journey, he called his "son" into the room and explained to him
that he, Doctor Pierre St. Jean, was the proprietor of a private insane
asylum, very exclusive, very quiet, very aristocratic, indeed,
receiving none but patients of the highest rank; that this retreat was
situated on the wooded banks of a charming lake in one of the most
healthy and beautiful neighborhoods of East Feliciana; that he had
originally come down to the city to engage the services of some young
physician of talent as his assistant, and finally, that he would be
delighted, enraptured if "his deliverer, his friend, his son," would
accept the post.
Now Traverse particularly wished to study the various phases of mental
derangement, a department of his professional education that had
hitherto been opened to him only through books.
He explained this to his old friend, the French physician, who
immediately went off into ecstatic exclamations of joy as, "Good!
Great! Grand!" and "I shall now repay my good child! my dear son! for
his so excellent skill!"
The terms of the engagement were soon arranged, and Traverse prepared
to accompany his new friend to his "beautiful retreat," the private
madhouse. But Traverse wrote to his mother and to Clara in Virginia,
and also to Herbert Greyson in Mexico, to apprise them of his good
fortune.