_THE TESTIMONY OF THE PUBLIC._
“The simple energy of Truth needs no ambiguous
interpreters.”—_Euripides._
In answer to the frequent questions as to what special good
Bone-setters have done in their special calling I have thought it best
to let the relieved patients of others speak before my own. First,
because they are well-known. Their cases are indisputable, and they
show that Bone-setters understand their art. I have culled these
cases from various sources, all of which I have acknowledged as far
as possible. I have already quoted Mr. Charles Waterton’s opinion of
Bone-setters from his “_Wanderings of a Naturalist_.” I will now direct
attention to the cure he vouches for by the Yorkshire Bone-setters:—
Before I close these memoranda, I have to describe another mishap of
a very dark complexion. Let me crave the reader’s leave to pen down a
few remarks on Bone-setting, practised by men called Bone-setters, who
on account of the extraordinary advance in the art of surgery, are not
now I fear, held in sufficient estimation amongst the higher orders of
society.
Towards the close of the year 1850, I had reared a ladder, full seven
yards long, against a standard pear tree, and I mounted nearly to
the top of this ladder with a pruning knife in hand, in order that I
might correct an overgrown luxuriance in the tree. Suddenly the ladder
swerved in a lateral direction, I adhered to it manfully, myself
and the ladder coming simultaneously to the ground with astounding
velocity. In our fall I had just time to move my head in a direction
that it did not come in contact with the ground; still as it afterwards
turned out, there was a partial concussion of the brain; and added to
this, my whole side, from foot to shoulder, felt as though it had been
pounded in a mill. In the course of the afternoon I took blood from
my arm to the amount of thirty ounces, and followed the affair up the
next day with a strong aperient. I believe that, with these necessary
precautions, all would have gone right again (saving the arm) had not
a second misadventure followed shortly on the heels of the first; and
it was of so alarming a nature as to induce me to take thirty ounces
more of blood by the lancet. In order to accommodate the position of
my disabled arm. I had put on a Scotch plaid in lieu of my coat, and
in it I came to my dinner. One day the plaid having gone wrong on
the shoulder, I arose from the chair to rectify it, and the servant
supposing that I was about to retire, unluckily withdrew the chair,
unaware of this act on his part, I came backwards to the ground with an
awful shock, and this, no doubt, caused concussion of the brain to a
considerable amount.
Symptoms of slowly approaching dissolution now became visible. Having
settled all affairs with my solicitor betwixt myself and the world, and
with my Father Confessor, betwixt myself and my Maker, nothing remained
but receive the final catastrophe with Christian resignation. But
though I lay insensible, with hiccups and _sub sultus ten dimon_, for
fifteen long hours, I at last opened my eyes, and gradually arose from
my expected ruin.
I must now say a word or two of the externals damaged by the fall of
the ladder. Notwithstanding the best surgical skill, my arm showed the
appearance of stiff and withered deformity at the end of three months
from the accident. And now my general state of health was not as it
ought to be; for incessant pain prevented sleep, whilst food itself did
little good. But my slumbers were strangely affected. I was eternally
fighting wild beasts, with a club in one hand, the other being bound up
at my breast. Nine bull-dogs attacked me one night, on the high road,
some of them having the head of a crocodile.
I had now serious thoughts of having the arm amputated. This operation
was fully resolved upon, when, luckily, the advice of my trusty
game-keeper, John Ogden, rendered it unnecessary. One morning,
“master,” said he to me, “I’m sure you’re going to the grave. You’ll
die to a certainty. Let me go for our old Bone-setter. He cured me,
long ago, and perhaps he can cure you. It was on the 25th of March,
then—alias Lady Day, which every Catholic in the universe knows is
solemn festival in the honor of the Blessed Virgin—that I had an
interview with Mr. Joseph Crowther, the well known Bone-setter, whose
family has exercised the art from father to son time out of mind.” On
viewing my poor remnant of an arm—“Your wrist,” said he, “is sorely
injured, a callus having formed betwixt the hand and the arm. The
elbow is out of joint and the shoulder somewhat driven forward. This
last affair will prevent your raising your arm to your head.” Melancholy
look out! “But can you cure me, doctor?” said I. “Yes,” replied he
firmly; “only let me have my own way.” “Then take the arm, and with
it elbow, wrist and shoulder. I here deliver them up to you; do what
you please with them. Pain is no consideration in this case, I dare
say I shall have enough of it.” “You will,” said he, emphatically.
This resolute bone-setter, whom I always compared to Chiron the
Centaur for his science and his strength, began his operations like a
man of business. In fourteen days, by means of potent embrocations,
stretching, pulling, twisting, and jerking, he forced the shoulder and
wrist to obey him and to perform their healthy movements. The elbow
was a complicated affair. It required greater exertions and greater
attention—in fact, it was a job for Hercules himself. Having done
the needful to it (secundum artem) for one-and-twenty days, he seemed
satisfied with the progress which he had made; and he said quite
coolly, “I’ll finish you off this afternoon.” At four o’clock _post
meridian_, his bandages, his plasters and his wadding having been
placed on the table in regular order, he doffed his coat, tucked his
shirt-sleeves above his elbows, and said that a glass of ale would do
him good. “Then I’ll have a glass of soda water with you,” said I, “and
we’ll drink each other’s health and success to the undertaking.”
The remaining act was one of unmitigated severity, but it was
absolutely necessary. My sister Eliza, foreseeing what was to take
place, felt her spirits sinking and retired to her room. Her maid, Lucy
Barnes, bold as a little lioness, said she would see it out; whilst
Mr. Harrison, a fine young gentleman, who was on a visit to me (and
alas! is since dead in California), was ready in case of need. The bone
setter performed his part with resolution scarcely to be contemplated,
but which was really required under existing circumstances.
Laying hold of the crippled arm just above the elbow with one hand,
and below with the other, he smashed to atoms by main force the callus
which had formed in the dislocated joint, the elbow itself cracking,
as if the interior parts of it had consisted of tobacco pipe shanks.
Having predetermined in my mind not to open my mouth, or to make any
stir during the operation, I remained passive and silent, whilst this
fierce elbow contest was raging. All being now effected as far as force
and skill were concerned, the remainder became a mere work of time.
So putting a five pound note by way of extra fee into this sturdy
operator’s hand, the binding up of the now rectified elbow-joint was
effected by him with a nicety and a knowledge truly astonishing.
Health soon resumed her ancient right; sleep went hand-in-hand with a
quiet mind; life was once more worth enjoying; and here I am just now
sound as an acorn.
Dr. Wharton Hood disparages the lucid statement and style of Mr.
Waterton, but does not gainsay his testimony or facts.
The testimony of Mr. George Moore, the eminent philanthropist to the
skill of a “bone setter,” is duly recorded by Dr. Smiles, in the life
of the Cumberland Worthy and London Merchant.[2] Mr. Moore was very
fond of hunting, both as a recreation and as a means of health. “I
hunt,” he says, “not only for pleasure, but for my health. The
exercise does me great good. I really do not see any harm in a gallop
with the hounds; if I did I would not go out again.” He hesitates
and deliberates on the subject again and again. “I make my health my
excuse. The fresh crisp air does me good. I am always at home when on
horseback.”
“In March, 1867,” says Dr. Smiles (pp. 292), “he met with an accident
which put a stop to his hunting.” The meet was at Torpendow. From
thence they went to the top of Binsey, a heathery fell, to the south of
Whitehall. There they found a fox, and viewed him away. Always anxious
to keep up with the hounds, Mr. Moore rode fast down the hill. But his
bay mare got her foot in a rabbit hole, and the rider got a regular
cropper. He found that his shoulder was stiff. Nevertheless, he mounted
again and galloped away. The hounds were in full cry. He kept up pretty
well, though his shoulder was severely hurt.
Next day he entertained a dozen friends, amongst whom was the
master of the hunt and Frank Buckland. Nothing was talked about but
fox-hunting. “I think,” says Mr. Moore, “I must make yesterday my last
day’s hunting.” Shortly after he consulted a celebrated surgeon, at
Carlisle, about his shoulder. The joint was found “all right,” though
the muscles were pronounced strained and hurt. Nothing could be done
for the pain but to grin and hide it.
He went to the Castle Compensation Meeting, at Carlisle, in which he
took an active part. Then he went to sit on the bench at Wigton, for
he was a Justice of the Peace for Cumberland. After that he had twenty
friends and relatives to tea and supper. “I hope,” he says, “that I
shall never forget my poor relations and friends.”
Notwithstanding the intense pain in his shoulder, Mr. Moore continued
to hunt. The year after his shoulder had been dislocated, he invited
the Cumberland Hunt to meet at Whitehall. About sixty horsemen were
present. They breakfasted in the old hall and then proceeded to mount.
Mr. Moore was in low spirits because of the pain in his shoulder,
and at first he did not intend to join his friends. But Geering, his
coachman, urged him to go, and Sir Wilfred Lawson joined him in his
persuasions. At length Mr. Moore’s favorite horse, Zouave was brought
out, and with his arm in a sling and a cigar in his mouth he consented
to mount. Mrs. Moore and Lady Lawson ascended the tower and saw the
brilliant red coats ride away through the park.
The array of horsemen passed on to Watch-hill and found a fox. He was
viewed away, and went across Whitehall-park, close under the wall of
the west-front garden, followed by the hounds and riders. It was a
sight not often to be seen. The day was splendid, although it was in
November. The sun was shining and the red coats, jumping hedges and
fences amidst green fields, brightened up the picture. The fox went
up the hill, out of sight of the gazers from the tower, and was lost
in Parkhouse covers. Again the hunt proceeded to Watch Hill and found
another fox. Away it went almost in the same direction, passing through
Whitehall Park with the hounds and hunters at its heels. There was a
slight check at Park-wood. Then it took straight away for Binsey, went
up the side of the hill, and passed on to Snittlegarth, and was lost at
Bewaldeth.
It grew dark. No more could be done that night. No fox had been killed,
though the hunters had got a splendid run. Mr. Moore returned home with
his arm in his sling, though nothing the worse for his day’s exercise.
“It was,” he says, “a very enjoyable day. I do like a day’s hunting. I
always feel more light and buoyant after it.” It was his last hunt.
The various surgeons to whom Mr. Moore applied did not give him any
relief from the pain he suffered in consequence of this accident. He
bore it throughout the year, 1868, during the time he was Prime-Warden
of the Fishmongers’ Company.
Dr. Smiles says (pp. 318, 319)—“He had consulted the most eminent
surgeons. They could find no cure for the pain in his shoulder. Some
called it rheumatism, others neuralgia, some recommended a six months’
sea voyage, others strapped up his shoulder with plasters and told
him to keep his arm in a sling. At length the pain became unbearable.
Sometimes the shoulder grew very black. The dislocation forward, which
it seems to have been, interrupted the circulation of the blood. Still
he continued to work on as before.”
On the 7th December, 1868, he writes with difficulty in his diary—“I
was struck down with neuralgia at the Middlesex Hospital, when on a
committee for selecting a clergyman. I had my shoulder cut open to
insert morphia. I am _very_ bad!”
He was taken home in a cab by the late Mr. De Morgan (surgeon). When
he entered the house he clung by a pillar as if he were drunk. He could
scarcely get up to his bedroom, and there he dozed and rambled; but
the pain was somewhat relieved. He called in one of the most eminent
surgeons in London, but, as Mr. Moore writes—“he did not understand my
shoulder.” Another surgeon was called in—and still another, but the
result was the same. It was with great difficulty he could attend the
consecration of his church in Somers’ Town, with his arm in a sling.
“The shoulder,” he says, “is not so black as formerly, but the pain is
more acute.” Then the first physician in London was called in.—“It is
a most painful affection of the shoulder-joint.” The patient already
knew that. But the physicians as well as the surgeons could do nothing
for him.
He went about, though looking very ill, to the Field Lane Refuge—to
the Industrial Dwellings—to Christ’s Hospital—to the Court of the
Fishmongers. He even travelled down to York to stay a few days with
the Archbishop. On his return he attended a meeting of Christ’s
Hospital, “about a reform in the mode of education in the school.” A
few days later he says, “The neuralgia came on fearfully all day, and
at night I was in torture. Mrs. Moore rushed off in the brougham to
fetch Dr.——, that he might see my arm at the blackest. Still nothing
could be done. Then Mr.—— came and plastered and bandaged up my arm.”
The patient could not write; it was with difficulty that he could
sign a cheque. His wife then became his amanuensis. At a banquet at
the Fishmongers’, he was seized with one of his furious paroxysms of
neuralgia. A surgeon was sent for, who came and gave him chloroform.
At length he could bear his pain no longer. He had been advised to
go to a well-known bone-setter. No! He would not do that. He had put
himself in the hands of the first surgeons of the day. Why should he go
to an irregular practitioner? At length, however, he was persuaded by
his friends. As the surgeons had done their best, why should he not try
the bone-setter? He called upon Mr. Hutton, at his house. He looked at
the shoulder. Well, he would try and put it in. This was new comfort.
Mr. Hutton recommended his patient to buy some neat’s-foot oil and rub
it in as hot as he could bear it. “Where can we buy the stuff?” asked
Mrs. Moore. “You can take a soda-water bottle and get it at a tripe
shop in Tottenham Court Road.” “We have not got a soda-water bottle
with us.” “You can get one at the corner at the public-house!—you
might get it at a druggist’s,” he continued, “but he will charge you
three times as dear.” The neat’s-foot oil was at last got; the shoulder
was duly rubbed with it; and the bone-setter arrived at Kensington
Palace Gardens to do his best or his worst. He made Mr. Moore sign a
paper before he proceeded with his operation, in which he agreed to
be satisfied whether failure or success was the result. Hutton took
the arm in his hand, gave it two or three turns, and then gave it a
tremendous twist round in the socket. The shoulder-joint was got in!
George Moore threw his arm out with strength straight, before him, and
said, “I could fight,” whereas, a moment before he could not raise it
two inches. It had been out for nearly two years.
Mr. Moore was taken to task by his professional friends for going
to a quack about his shoulder. “Well,” said he, “quack or no quack,
he cured me, and that was all I wanted. Whereas, I was blind, now I
see.” After presenting a bust of Lord Brougham and a silver claret
jug to the Fishmongers’, in memory of his prime wardenship, he set
out for Whitehall on the following day and invited Mr. Hutton (the
bone-setter) to join him in Cumberland, as a token of his thanks to him
for having relieved his sufferings. The shoulder continued to improve.
When his benefactor Hutton, the bone-setter, arrived at Whitehall, he
gave him a hearty welcome, and sent him away rejoicing. Mr. Moore was
no more troubled with his shoulder.
Hutton died soon afterwards, and Mr. Moore remarks in his diary that he
was as much struck by his unworldliness as by his skill, for he refused
to take any fee additional to the £5 that was at first asked. It was
with great pressure that Mr. Moore prevailed upon him to take £5 more.
During his repeated accessions of pain he entered, or made Mrs. Moore
enter, many memoranda in his diary, of which we subjoin a few:—
“We must wait until the day dawns, and the shadows flee away, to know
how wise and suitable every dealing of God is with us.”
“I am ashamed to think that I sometimes doubt whether God hears my
prayers—they are so poor, so weak, so spiritless. I thank God my faith
is as simple as a child’s.”
“I have sorrows to go through, but they will only prove joy afterwards.
Whom our Master loveth He chasteneth. No Cross no Crown. As I suffer so
I shall enjoy. Prayer is the mightiest influence men can use. Like the
dew in summer, it makes no noise. It is unseen, but produces immense
results.”
“Exercise is the secret of a healthy body, and active working for
God is the secret of a healthy soul. He that watereth other shall be
watered himself.”
[Illustration: Plate III.—DISLOCATIONS.
9. Dislocation of radius backwards. 10. Dislocation of ulna backwards.
11. Dislocation of jaw. 12. Dislocation of hip outwards.
13. Dislocation of hip inwards.]