THE DOCTOR.
DEAR reader, before bidding adieu to San Francisco, let your one-legged
friend introduce you to a noble citizen of that cosmopolitan city, whom,
for the sake of a name, shall be styled Dr. Charles Rowell of Kearny
street.
Let us call this chapter an imaginary sketch of what might be, what has
been, and what will be. Let us suppose your friend John Smith on a
crutch to be only mortal: let us suppose him, after all, an ordinary
object for—
“The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,”
as well as subject to—
“The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to:”
let us suppose him a human being who eats, drinks—yes, _drinks_!—sleeps,
and indulges in other like amusements, and let us suppose him
susceptible of suffering, when the means of these enjoyments are, by any
chance, temporarily withheld. Let us even suppose that he may be
“broke,” sick, and “in a strange land,” all at once. Let us suppose that
the “Panama Fever,” which is “no respecter of persons” may lay hold of
him on any proper occasion, and let us suppose that poverty which is
another “no-respecter-of-persons,” may happen to pay him a friendly
visit about the same time. Let us suppose both visitors going hand in
hand and calling on John Smith at the same time at his lodging-house in
San Francisco.
In asking the reader to assume all this, I do not positively assert that
such things did actually happen to John Smith himself, in this
connection, but I can testify to the substantial truth of what I am
about to relate, and it is no harm to make use of Mr. Smith as an actor.
I have heard a good deal said about angels: but as no one now living can
prove to the satisfaction of the public that he ever saw one, the
personal appearance and general traits of their characters can be but
matters of conjecture.
We are inclined, however, when speaking or thinking of an angel, to
fancy it a lovely creature—whether male or female, I cannot say—of fair
complexion, blue eyes and light curling hair, and clothed in a long
white robe, with the hue of the “driven snow”—the handsome toes just
peeping out from beneath the lower folds. In addition to this, we fancy
a pair of gentle wings protruding from the shoulder blades. These,
however useful, when the angel happens to be in a hurry, are rather
calculated to detract from the handsome outline of a fine figure, in
case the fashionable clothing of the present day should be used, instead
of the robe. I believe that every reader will readily comprehend me,
without my going to the trouble to say that the wings alluded to, if
covered with a neat dress coat, (or other fashionable garment,) would
give the wearer a lamentable appearance of being hump-backed.
Such, however, are not my ideas of an angel. As we cannot know,
positively, what shape we are to assume after leaving the scenes of our
present existence, I have selected my _beau ideal_ of an angel from
among the sons of men. The angel I shall describe has a handsome, manly,
noble, genial, smiling face; the calm gray eyes twinkle with merriment
and good nature; a heavy black beard flows from the lower half of the
countenance; the brow is one of the intelligent order, the hair is dark;
the figure is full and strong, and dressed—not in a flowing white
robe—but in black pantaloons, vest and frock-coat, actually made by a
corporeal tailor. For the latter article of clothing, while the owner
lounges easily in his neat office, during hours of leisure, might be
substituted a dressing-gown. At such times, too, place a common,
brierwood pipe in the hand, and the figure of my angel is complete.
Such was Doctor Rowell, whose image, but poorly portrayed here, may well
supersede the bright one of the winged angel in the fancy of John Smith.
John Smith being in San Francisco; without employment; attacked with a
return of Panama Fever contracted on the Isthmus; suffering a natural
depression of spirits; withal, in “reduced circumstances;” and being of
too delicate a nature to apply to friends,—although he had some there
who would have rushed to his assistance with a relish—came to the
melancholy conclusion that the best thing he could do, sad as it was,
was to enter the City Hospital for—say—an indefinite period.
With this view, he, languid, pale and emaciated, walked into the office
of a physician—walked into the same office on a crutch—to ask for
information as to the measures to be resorted to in order to gain
admittance to the City Hospital.
This physician chanced to be the man whom we style Dr. Charlie Rowell.
This was the angel, who, unlike the popular angel with robe and wings,
wore a common black suit, a smile, a merry twinkle of the eye, and
carried a pipe in his hand, at which he took occasional deliberate
whiffs.
“Sit down,” he said to the one-legged young man.
The latter seated himself on a sofa.
“You are the Doctor?”
“That’s what they call me,” answered the physician, cheerfully. Then he
took a calm whiff of that pipe, and deliberately sat down in a
rocking-chair.
Smith would have remarked that the weather was fine, but he remembered
that the weather is always pleasant in San Francisco. So, he switched
off on an other subject—_the_ subject—and said:
“Doctor, I have simply come in to ask for a little information. I am a
stranger here, and I suppose you can tell me what I desire to know.”
“What is that?”
“I wish information as to the means of gaining admittance to the City
Hospital.”
“Why do you want to go to the hospital?”
“Because, I am quite unwell, have no immediate business prospects, and
am nearly broke.”
“What seems to be the matter with you?”
“Something like ague.”
“Have you come through Panama lately?”
“Yes, I only landed here a week or two ago. I have not felt quite well
since my arrival, and since I fell out of a boat in the harbor the other
day and got wet, I have felt worse.”
After some discussing of symptoms, the Doctor said:
“You have what is called Panama Fever. But that’s nothing. Where did you
lose your leg?”
“In the army.”
“Well, it is not necessary for you to go to the hospital. It would be a
hard place for you to go to, any how, and I cannot allow it. Do not be
discouraged. It is nothing here for new-comers to find themselves
pecuniarily reduced. Such things happen every day. A great many persons
are arriving here now, and many of them come with but little spare
means. As numbers do not get into business so soon as they hope, the
result is very natural. Now, as for yourself, if you suppose that I, who
can easily cure you in a short time, would sit here with my arms folded,
smoking my pipe, and see you go into the hospital for want of treatment,
and that, too, after you have lost a limb in the service of your
country, I must say that it speaks poorly for your discernment of human
character. I should——”
“But I am almost without means, and——”
“Well, suppose you are? _I_ am not. You shall not go into the hospital;
you shall accept medicine from me; you shall also allow me to see that
you want for nothing in the way of living till you are well and succeed
in getting into business.”
“But, Doctor, it would not be right for me to——”
“Excuse me one moment,” interrupted the Doctor, rising and going into
another room.
When, after a brief absence, he returned, it was with several small
packages of medicines in his hand with “directions” pasted on them.
“Take these with you to your lodging-house, and come in and see me
to-morrow.”
“But how can I, consistently——”
“Come, now, after I have prepared the medicines for your particular
case, you would not surely refuse them, and thus render them useless.”
“Very well, Doctor, I will take them; but remember that I do not accept
them gratuitously. That, however, does not lessen your kindness in
offering them. I will accept treatment at present, but it must be with
the understanding that I am to pay you as soon as I——”
“Have more money than I have,” interrupted the Doctor.
On arriving at his lodging-house, and entering his room, the owner of
the packages began to examine them. One was a small vial with a
brandy-colored liquid in it, and a label on instructing the patient to
indulge in a certain number of drops at certain intervals. Another was a
small, round paper box, which rattled in such a way as to entirely
preclude the idea of its containing any thing else than pills. A label
on this box suggested to the afflicted the expedience of enveloping one
of them in his stomach each evening about bed-time.
A third box, however, was a puzzle. It was like the second in size, was
heavier, did not rattle, and bore the following astounding directions:
“USE ACCORDING TO JUDGMENT.”
What could this mean? How should the patient know what rules to observe
in the use of this box of “medicine,” limited as was his knowledge of
the art of Esculapius? Still, it would do no harm to open the box and
see what manner of medicine it contained.
This proceeding being carried out, developed the fact that it contained
several hard, shiny, yellowish, metallic, button-shaped “pills,” wrapped
in paper, each containing the following strange inscription:
“ACIREMA FO SETATS DETINU. LOD EVIF.”