Dr. Robertson, of Charleston, S. C., who attended the writer in 1852, with
the yellow fever, was as competent, benevolent, and faithful a physician
as I ever had the pleasure of meeting. His services were in great demand
during the raging of the "yellow Jack," and on one occasion he was absent
from his house and office two whole days and a night. His family became
alarmed, and a faithful old negro was sent in search of his master. It was
no uncommon occurrence to see a black man traversing the streets, ringing
a bell, and crying a "lost child;" but to see a slave searching for his
lost master, was almost a phenomenon.
[Illustration: "LOST MARSER! LOST MARSER!"]
It was quite dark, and the old negro was shuffling along King Street,
crying, "Masser Rob'son lost, Masser Rob'son lost," when suddenly he was
brought to a halt, and silenced by some one saying,--
"What's that you are crying, Neb?" His name was Nebuchadnezzar.
"O, de Lord! if Masser Dr. Rob'son hain't been an' loss hisself!"
"You old fool, Neb, I am your master--Dr. Robertson. Don't you know me
now?" exclaimed a familiar voice.
Sure enough, it was the doctor, returning from his numerous visits, tired
and dust-covered.
The whole thing solemnly impressed the old darky, who, a day or two later,
was met by a ranting Methodist, vulgarly termed a "_carpet-bagger_," who,
in a solemn voice, said,--
"My colored friend, have you yet found the Lord Jesus?"
"O, golly, masser!" exclaimed the old negro in astonishment; "hab de Lord
done gone an' loss hisself?"
(I have seen the last part of this anecdote floating about the newspapers;
but did ever any one see the former connection, or even the latter before
1852?)
The writer was but a poor medical student, and an invalid, seeking here a
more salubrious climate, away from the frosts and snows of his northern
home, and though twenty years have since flown, I have not forgotten, and
never shall, the kindness and attention received at the hands of the
benevolent Dr. Robertson. While many who went out with me that fall fell
victims to the fearful endemic before Jack Frost put a stop to its
ravages, I escaped the grim monster Death; and to the superior knowledge
and efficient treatment of Dr. R., with the excellent care of the
benevolent landlady, Mrs. Butterfield, I owe my life.
Morning and evening the doctor's patter-patter was heard on the
stairs,--three flights to climb. The whole case was gone over, and then,
if the good old doctor had a moment to spare, he would retail some little
anecdote "with which to leave me in good spirits."