On examination, I found a strong tendency to the head. The eye was

heavy, the head hot and painful, and the tongue thickly coated. The

digestive system was disordered, and the skin was collapsed, inactive,

and cold. The extremities, especially the feet, were particularly cold

and pale.

The days of hydropathy had now arrived; but I was not a full convert, as

I have already told you, to the exclusive use of cold water in disease.

However, a case was before me which obviously demanded it. So I

proceeded to make frequent applications of Nature's drug to the top of

her head, and to the temples, while I ordered warm and stimulating

applications to the feet and ankles.

This treatment had the effect to render her condition somewhat more

comfortable during the day, but at evening the fever returned, and

during the night was violent. The tendency to the head was so great as

to cause delirium. The anxiety of the family became very great. In the

morning, however, she was rather better, so that hope again revived.

During the day the fever increased again, and towards evening and during

the whole night was accompanied by restlessness and delirium. But we

only persevered with the more earnestness in the use of what we believed

to be the most rational treatment. She had, however, a very sick night.

The next morning she was again better, though, as might have been

expected, somewhat more feeble than she was twenty-four hours before.

Most parents, I know, and not a few wise medical men among us, would

have resorted to powders and pills; but we only persevered with our cold

applications to the head, and our stimulating draughts to the feet. The

bowels were in a very tolerable condition, otherwise a very mild

cathartic might possibly have been administered. We had very strong

hopes,--at least I had,--that nature would be too strong for the

disease, and that the fever would, ere long, begin to abate.

In the afternoon the fever increased again, in some degree, and there

was a slight delirium during the succeeding night. She slept a little,

however, towards morning, after which she was evidently much better.

This third day was passed away very comfortably, and she slept well

during the succeeding night. The fourth morning she seemed to be quite

restored.

Now a case of fever treated with emetics, diaphoretics, etc., and

followed up with the usual paraphernalia of customary medical practice,

which should yield so promptly and so immediately, would be supposed to

be cured by the medicine; and the cure would very probably be regarded

as rather remarkable; and if there was any peculiarity in the treatment,

if the diaphoretic powders, for example, had any new or strange name,

the practice would, peradventure, be thought worth imitating in other

apparently similar cases of disease.

For myself, however, I simply regard it as one of Nature's own cures,

unobstructed and unembarrassed by medicine. As the child was young and

tenacious of life, she might very probably have recovered under the more

common routine of medical treatment. But would there have been any

advantage in such a recovery, over one which was equally rapid and

perfect without the aid of medicine? Would there, in the latter case,

have been no hazard to the constitution?

CHAPTER LXIX.

COLD-TAKING AND CONSUMPTION.

In Chapter XXIII., I have given a full account of my partial recovery

from consumption. I have even spoken of the postponement as if it were

complete and final. More than twenty years had now passed away, and I

had begun to indulge the hope that I should never have another relapse.

As one element of this hope, I had nearly broken up the habit--once very

strong--of taking cold, especially on my lungs. In truth, I believed all

danger from this source to be entirely removed, and my particular

susceptibility to any thing like acute pulmonary attacks forever at an

end. I was confident, moreover, that the art of avoiding cold was an art

which not only an individual, here and there, like myself, could

acquire, but one which was within the reach of every one who would take

the needful pains.

On a certain occasion of this latter kind, I was under a conventional

necessity of exposing myself, in an unusual degree, for several

successive evenings, to circumstances which, at an earlier period of my

life, would, almost inevitably, have been followed by a cold. Was it

safe, in my present condition, to run the risk? I hesitated for some

time, but finally decided to comply with the request which had been

made, and take the responsibility. I believed my susceptibility to cold

so entirely eradicated that there was little if any danger.

But, as the event proved, I was quite mistaken; a severe cold came on,

and left me in a condition not merely alarming, but immediately so. My

lungs were greatly oppressed and my cough exceedingly severe and

harassing; and it was followed with great debility and rapid emaciation.

Ashamed of myself, especially as I had boasted, for so many years, of

an entire freedom from all tendencies of this sort, I endeavored, for a

few days, to screen myself entirely from the public eye and observation.

But I soon found that inaction, especially confinement to the house,

would not answer the purpose,--that I should certainly die if I

persisted in my seclusion.

What now should I do? I was too feeble to work much, although the season

had arrived when labor in the garden was beginning to be needed. Trees

were to be pruned and washed, and other things promptly attended to. The

open air was also the best remedy for my enfeebled and irritated

bronchial cavities. Whether there was, at this time, any ulceration of

tubercles in my lungs, is, to say the least, very doubtful. However, I

greatly needed the whole influence of out-of-door employment, or of

travelling abroad; and, as it seemed to me, could not long survive

without it.

Accordingly I took my pruning knife in my hand, and walked to the

garden. It was about a quarter of a mile distant, and quite unconnected

with the house I occupied. At first, it was quite as much as I could do

to walk to the garden and return without attempting any labor. Nor could

I have done even this, had I not rested several times, both on the road

and in the enclosure itself.

It was a week before I was able to do more than merely walk to the

garden and back, and perhaps prune a small fruit tree or shrub, and then

return. But I persevered. It seemed a last if not a desperate resort;

yet hope sometimes whispered that my hour had not yet come, that I had

more work to perform.

At length I began to perceive a slight increase of muscular strength. I

could work moderately a quarter of an hour or more, and yet walk home

very comfortably. In about two months, I had strength enough to continue

my labors several hours, in the course of a whole day, though not in

succession--perhaps two in the forenoon and two in the afternoon. In

about three months, I was, so far as I could perceive, completely

restored.

It is to be remarked and remembered that, during the whole three

months, I never took the smallest particle of medicine, either solid or

fluid. My simple course was to obey, in the most rigid and implicit

manner, all known laws, physical and moral. It was my full belief at

that time,--it is still my belief,--that conformity to all the Creator's

laws is indispensable to the best of health, in every condition of human

life, but particularly so when we are already feeble and have a tendency

to consumption.

When it became known to my neighbors, who saw me day after day, reeling

to my garden or staggering home, that I refused to take any medicine,

there was a very general burst of surprise, and, in some cases, of

indignation. "Why," said they, "what does the man mean? He must be

crazy. As he is going on he will certainly die of a galloping

consumption. Any one that will act so foolishly almost _deserves_ to

die."

As soon as I found myself fairly convalescent, I returned gradually to

all those practices on which I had so long relied as a means of

fortifying myself, but which, since my _fall_, had been partially

omitted. Among these was bathing, especially cold bathing. To the last,

however, I returned very cautiously. Not for fear I should not be able

to secure a reaction, but rather for fear Nature would have to spend

more _vitality_ during the process than she could well afford to spare.

I have known cases of the latter kind. An aged minister in Cleveland,

Ohio, who had long followed the practice of cold bathing every morning,

came to me in Dec. 1851, when the cold weather was very intense, and

told me that though he could, with considerable effort, get up a

reaction in his system after the bath, he was afraid it _cost_ too much.

I advised him to suspend it a few weeks, which he did with evident

advantage.

There are, however, many other things to be done besides giving due

attention to cold bathing, if we would harden ourselves fully against

taking cold, to which I should be glad to advert were it not foreign to

the plan I had formed, and the limits which, in this work, I have

prescribed to myself.

CHAPTER LXX.

FREEZING OUT DISEASE.

I am well acquainted with one man of Yankee origin, who formerly made it

a practice to freeze out his colds, as he called it. It is certainly

better to prevent them, as I have all along and always taught. But this

man's story is somewhat amusing, and by way of relief from our more

sober subject, I will very briefly relate it.

Whenever he fancied he had taken cold, he would go, at about nine

o'clock in the evening, in such diminished clothing as would render him

in a very little time, quite chilly, and remain out of doors, when the

weather would possibly permit, till he was almost frozen, and then come

in and go immediately to bed, and procure a reaction. This he called

freezing out his colds. Whether it was the cold or the heat that

restored him, may be a point not yet fully settled; but it was a

well-known fact to his friends, though they insisted in protesting

against the practice, that every vestige of his cold would frequently,

if not always, immediately disappear.

But it was a method of treatment which, as the event proved, was not

without its hazards. I met with him a few years since, and on inquiring

whether he continued to be as successful as formerly in freezing out his

colds, he replied that for some time past he had not tried the plan,

for, on a former occasion, after many successful experiments, he had

failed in one, and had concluded to relinquish it. He made no farther

confessions for himself, but his friends have since told me that in the

case he faintly alluded to, he came very near dying under the process.

He was sick with a fever, as the consequence, for a long time.

A man in one of the Middle States, who is himself about half a

physician, and who has in various ways done much for his fellow-men as

a philanthropist, is accustomed to pursue a course of treatment which,

though slightly related to the former, is, nevertheless, founded on

principle. He keeps the sick in a room whose temperature is very

low,--little, if at all, above the freezing point,--in order that they

may inhale a full supply of oxygen. For every one doubtless knows that

the colder the air, the denser it is, and consequently, the greater the

absolute quantity of oxygen inhaled at each breath. By compelling his

patients, however weak and feeble, to breathe a cold atmosphere, he

secured to them an increased and full supply of oxygen.

To prevent his patients from suffering, in consequence of the external

atmospheric cold, he keeps them in warm beds, and only suffers them to

be out of bed a very short time, at long intervals. And while out of bed

even, they are rubbed rapidly, in order to prevent any collapse of the

skin from the cold. I knew him to keep a very delicate female, who was

scrofulous if not consumptive, for several weeks of the coldest part of

the winter, in a room whose temperature seldom exceeded 30 deg. to 40

deg., scarcely permitting her to go out of it night or day, and what is

still more curious, she slowly recovered under the treatment, and is

now--seven or eight years afterwards--in the enjoyment of excellent

health.

CHAPTER LXXI.

THE AIR-CURE.

The individual alluded to in the preceding chapter, once sent for me to

come and aid him for a time. He was the proprietor of a somewhat

dilapidated water-cure establishment, which he wished to convert into

what he chose to denominate an air-cure. For though half a physician

himself, he had usually employed men of education to assist him; but,

not having been quite fortunate in his selection, in every instance, he

was disposed to make trial of myself.

In expressing to me his desires, he said he understood, perfectly well,

my position. He well knew, in the first place, that I was not a

hydropathist, but a regular, old-school physician, with this

modification: that I had, for the most part, lost my faith in medicine,

and relied chiefly on the recuperative efforts of Nature. He thought, on

some points, as he said, a little differently from me; still, he

supposed that wherein we could not agree we could at least agree to

differ.

The sum total of his wishes, in short, was, that I would aid him in such

way and manner as might seem to me best. He believed air to be the most

important and efficient remedial agent in the world. His ideas of the

virtue of this aerial fluid were hardly exceeded by those of Mr.

Thackrah, of Leeds, England, who believes that we subsist more on air

than on food and drink.

I was with this good man about six months, when, finding it impossible

to carry out his plan, I left him. But I left him with regret. His

purposes were generous in the extreme--I might even say noble. He loved

to cure for the pleasure of curing--not for the emolument. In short, he

seemed to have no regard to the emolument--not the slightest, and to be

as nearly disinterested as usually falls to the human lot.

But did he cure? you will perhaps inquire. Yes, if _anybody_ cures.

Persons came under his care who had been discharged by other

physicians--both allopathic and homoeopathic--as incurable; and who

yet, in a reasonable time, regained their health. They followed our

directions, obeyed the laws of health, and recovered. You may call it

what you please--either cure or spontaneous recovery. Miracle, I am

quite sure, it was not.

What, then, were the agencies employed in the air-cure? My friend

believed that the judicious application of pure air, in as concentrated,

and, therefore, as cool a state as possible, particularly to the

internal surface of the lungs, was more important than every other

agency, and even more important than all others. But then he did not

forget the skin. He had his air bath, as well as his deep breathings; it

was as frequently used, and was, doubtless, as efficacious.

He also placed great reliance on good food and drink. Animal food he

rejected, and condiments. I have neither known nor read of any

vegetarian, of Britain or America, who carried his dietetic

peculiarities to what would, by most, be regarded as an extreme, more

than he. And yet his patients, with few exceptions, submitted to it with

a much better grace than I had expected. Some of them, it is true, took

advantage of his absence or their own, and made a little infringement

upon the rigidity of his prescriptions, but these were exceptions to the

general rule; and I believe the transgressors themselves regretted it in

the end--fully satisfied that every indulgence was but a postponement of

the hour of their discharge.

One thing was permanently regarded as ultra. He did not believe in

breakfasting; and therefore kept every patient, who wished to come under

his most thorough treatment, from the use of food till about the middle

of the day. This permitted of but two meals a day, which, however, is

one more than has sometimes been recommended by O. S. Fowler, the

phrenologist, and even by a few others.

The main error, however, of this air-cure practice,--if error there was

in it,--consisted in the idea of its applicability to everybody, in

every circumstance. For though it may be true that as large a proportion

of inveterate cases of disease would disappear under such treatment as

under any other, yet there are probably not a few to whom it would be

utterly unadapted.

CHAPTER LXXII.

THE CLERGYMAN.

An Ohio clergyman, just setting out in his ministerial career, consulted

me, one day, about his health and future physical prospects. His nervous

system and cerebral centre had been over-taxed and partially prostrated;

and his digestive and muscular powers were suffering from sympathy. In

short, he was a run-down student, who, in order to be resuscitated,

needed rest.

It was not, however, the rest of mere inertia that he required, but rest

from those studies to which his attention had been long and patiently

confined. His bodily powers were, indeed, flagging with the rest; but

then it was impossible for him to be restored without _some_ exercise.

In truth, it was not so much a _rest_ of body, mind, or heart that he

needed, as a _change_.

I will tell you what a course he had been, for five or six years,

pursuing. Though his father was reckoned among the wealthier farmers of

Ohio, yet, having a large family to sustain and educate, he did not feel

at full liberty to excuse his children from such co-operation with him

as would not materially interfere with their studies. Hence they were

required--and this son among the rest--not only to be as economical as

possible, in all things, but also to earn as much as they could,

especially during their vacations. They were not, of course, expected to

do any thing which was likely to impair their health, but, on the

contrary, to take every possible pains to preserve the latter, and to

hold labor and study and every thing else in subserviency to it.

The son for whom I was requested to prescribe, not only attended to his

father's wishes and expectations, and endeavored to fulfil them, but

went much farther than was intended, and did more than he ought. Besides

keeping up with his class, he taught school a very considerable portion

of the time, so that his mental apparatus, as I have already more than

intimated, was continually over-taxed; and he had been a sufferer, more

or less, for several years, when I met with him.

My advice was that he should leave his studies, entirely, for two years,

and labor moderately, in the meantime, on his father's farm. His

principal objection to doing so, was, that he was already at an age so

much advanced, that it seemed to him like a wrong done to society, to

delay entering upon the duties of the ministry two whole years. But I

reasoned the case with him as well as I could, and, among other things,

pointed out to him the course pursued by his Divine Master.

I have never met with him from that day to this; nor have I ever

received from him--strange as it may seem--any communication on the

subject. But I have been informed from other sources, that after

laboring for a time with his father, he was settled as a minister in a

neighboring village with greatly improved health and highly encouraging

prospects. He is at the present time one of the main pillars,

theologically, of the great State of New York, and, as I have reason for

believing, is in the enjoyment of good health.

It is easy to see that the time he spent on his father's farm, instead

of being a loss to him, was, in the end, among the most important parts

of the work of his education. How much better it was for him to recruit

his wasted energies before he took upon him the full responsibilities of

preacher and pastor in a large country church and congregation, than to

rush into the ministry prematurely, with the prospect, amounting almost

to a certainty, of breaking down in a few years, and spending the

remnant of his days in a crippled condition,--to have the full

consciousness that had he been wise he might have had the felicity of a

long life of usefulness, and of doing good to the souls and bodies of

mankind.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

HE MUST BE PHYSICKED, OR DIE.

Mr. S., a very aged neighbor of mine, fell into habits of such extreme

inactivity of the alimentary canal, that instead of invoking the aid of

Cloacina, as Mr. Locke would say, every day, he was accustomed to weekly

invocations only. There was, however, a single exception. In the month

of June, of each year, he was accustomed to visit the seaside, some

twenty miles or more distant, and remain there a few days, during which

and for a short time afterward, his bowels would perform their wonted

daily office.

And yet, despite of all this, he got along very well during summer and

autumn, for a man who was over seventy years of age. It was not till

winter--sometimes almost spring--that his health appeared to suffer as

the consequence of his costiveness. Nor was it certain, even then,

whether his inconveniences,--for they hardly deserved the name of

sufferings,--arose from his costiveness, or from the croakings of

friends and his own awakened fears and anxieties. Nearly every one who

knew of the facts in his case was alarmed, and many did not hesitate to

cry out, even in his hearing, "He must be physicked, or die!" And their

fears and croakings, by leading him to turn his attention to his

internal feelings, greatly added to his difficulties.

My principal aim, as his friend and physician, was to convince him that

there was no necessity of anxiety on the subject, as long as none of the

various functions of the system were impaired. As long as digestion,

circulation, respiration, perspiration, etc., were tolerably well

performed, and his general health was not on the decline, it was not

very material, as I assured him, whether his alvine movements were once

a day, once in two days, or once a week.

The various emunctories or outlets of the body should, undoubtedly, be

kept open and free, so that every portion of worn-out or effete matter

may be effectually got rid of. In order to have this done in the very

best manner, it is indispensably necessary that we should eat, drink,

breathe, sleep, and exercise the muscles and all the mental and moral

powers daily. And yet we are to such an extent the creatures of habit,

that we can, in all these respects, bring ourselves to almost any thing

we choose, and yet pass on, for a time, very comfortably. Thus we may

eat once, twice, thrice, or five times a day, and if possessed of a good

share of constitutional vigor, we may even accustom ourselves to

considerable variation from the general rule with regard to drinking,

sleeping, exercise, temperature, etc. Healthy men have been able to

maintain their health, in tolerable measure, for a long time, without

drink, without exercise, and even without sleep. Of the truth of this

last remark, I could give you, did time and space permit, many

well-attested, not to say striking facts.

I was not wholly successful in my attempts at quieting the mind and

feelings of my aged patient or his friends. And yet his erratic habit

was never entirely broken up. He lived to the age of fourscore without

suffering much more from what are usually called the infirmities of age,

than most other old men. It must not, however, be concealed that he

possessed what has been sometimes denominated an iron constitution.

Mr. Locke strongly insists that children should be trained, from the

very first, to diurnal habits of the kind in question; and I cannot help

thinking that such habits should be secured very early--certainly at

eight or ten years of age. Some of the healthiest men and women I have

ever known were those who had either been trained or had trained

themselves in this way. And yet I would not be so anxious to bring

nature back to this rule when there have been large digressions, as to

be found administering cathartics on every trifling occasion.

An old man, who eats little and exercises still less, but has a good

pulse, a good appetite, and a free perspiration, with a cheerful mind,

need not take "physic" merely because his bowels do not move more than

once a week; nor need those who are feverish, and who eat and exercise

but little. The disturbance which will ensue, if medicine be taken, may

be productive of more mischief, on the whole, than the absorption into

the system of small portions of the retained excretions, or the small

amount of irritation they produce--and probably will be so.

It will be a solace to some to know that the alvine excretions of the

system are not so much the remnants of our food, when that food is such

as it should be, as a _secretion_ from the internal or lining membrane

of the bowels. Consequently, if this secretion is interrupted by

disease, there will be a proportionally diminished necessity for alvine

evacuations.

Prof. ----, of Ohio, had been sick of fever, for a long time, and, on

the departure of the disease, his bowels were left in such a condition

that cathartics, or at least laxatives, began to be thought of; but his

physician interdicted their use: His costiveness continued to the

twenty-first day, without any known evil as the consequence. On this day

nature rallied. Then followed a period of quiescence of fourteen days,

and then another of seven days, after which he fell into his former

diurnal habits. There was much croaking among the neighbors, on account

of the treatment of his physician; but the results put all to silence.

The case of Judge ----, in the interior of the same State (Ohio), was so

much like that of Prof. ----, in all its essential particulars, that I

need but to state the fact, without entering at all upon the details.

J. W. G., a lawyer of Massachusetts, was sick with a lingering

complaint, attended with more or less of fever, for several months.

During this time there was one interval, of more than thirty days,

during which his bowels did not move. And yet there was no evidence of

any permanent suffering as the consequence.

The principal use I would make of these facts, so far as the mass of

general readers is concerned, is the following: If, during feebleness

and sickness, human nature will bear up, for a long time, under

irregularities of this sort, is it needful that we should be alarmed and

fly at once to medicine in cases _less_ alarming--above all, in these

cases, when, except in regard to costiveness, the health and habits are

excellent? May we not trust much more than we have heretofore believed,

in the recuperative efforts of Nature?

CHAPTER LXXIV.

WHO HATH WOE? OR, THE SICK WIDOW.

Early in the year 1852, I received a letter, of which the following,

with very slight needful alterations, is an extract. It was written from

the interior of Massachusetts.

"About three months ago, I took a long journey by stage-coach, which

brought on, as I think, an internal inflammation. Since that time I have

taken very little medicine. Please tell me whether it is right for me to

bathe daily in, and drink freely of, cold water; and whether it is safe

to make cold applications to the parts affected.

"I take as much exercise as I can without producing irritation. I do

not, by any means, indulge in the food which my appetite craves.

"I am twenty-six years of age; was married and left a widow, while young

and very ignorant, under circumstances the most deeply painful. I have a

strong desire to get well if I can; though if I must give up the thought

I am willing to die.

"I should be very glad to see you, if you will take the trouble to come

and see me. I should have made an effort to consult you, in person,

before now, if I could have safely taken the journey."

At the time of receiving this letter I was travelling in a distant

State, and, as an immediate visit was wellnigh impracticable, I wrote

her, requesting such farther information as might enable me to give her

a few general directions, promising to see her on my return in the

spring. In reply to my inquiries, I received what follows:--

"I have been, from childhood, afflicted with bunches in the throat.

There is no consumptive tendency on either my father's or my mother's

side; but I come, by the maternal side, from a king's evil[I] family. I

am an ardent, impulsive creature, possessing a nervous, sanguine

temperament; naturally cheerful and agreeable, but rendered, by

sickness, irritable, capricious, and melancholic. I fear consumption so

much, that were I convinced it was fully fastened upon me, I might be

tempted, unless restrained by a strong moral influence, to commit a

crime which might not be forgiven.

"I have great weakness in the throat, and soreness in the chest, with a

dull pain between the shoulders. My appetite is extraordinary;--I think

it has increased since I have dieted. My flesh is stationary. I gain a

few pounds, and then commit some wild freak and lose it. I am

unaccountable to myself. I think, sir, that my mental disturbances

impair my health.

"I anticipate much pleasure from seeing you; for I see, by your letter,

you understand me. I have always been thought inexplicable. I feel a

universal languor. I am, at times, unconscious. I feel dead to all

things; there seems a loss of all vitality; and sometimes there is a

sense of suffocation. All these feelings are extreme, because I am, by

my nature, so sensitive. I met the other day with a slight from a

friend, a young lady, which caused grief so excessive that I have ever

since been suffering from influenza."

These lengthy extracts may not be very interesting to the general

reader, except so far as they reveal to him some of the internal

cogitations of a soul borne down with a load of suffering, which almost

drove her to suicide. "Who hath woe,"--as Solomon says, with respect to

a very different description of human character,--if not this poor

widow?

And yet it required a personal visit, and the conversation of a couple

of hours, to fathom the depths of her woe, to the utmost. For there are

secrets of the human heart, with which, of course, no stranger--not even

the family physician--should presume to intermeddle; though to these

depths, in the case of the half-insane sufferer of whom I am speaking,

it was not necessary that I should go, in order to find out what I had

all along suspected. Disease had been communicated several years before,

of a kind which was much more communicable _then_, than it was

eradicable now.

Whenever, by the laws of hereditary descent, in their application to

health and disease, our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren

suffer, we may recognize in it the hand of the great Creator; nor do we

doubt, often, the wisdom of such laws nor their ultimate tendency to

work out final good. But when we find a widow suffering many long years,

from a disease to which a husband's weakness and wickedness has

subjected her, what shall we say, especially when we have reason to fear

that the evils in question, some of them, at least, will be terminable

only, in their effects, with life itself?

My patient is _patiently_ wearing out her ills; and what she cannot wear

out, she is learning to endure. Her case cannot be reached with

medicine, at least with safety, and is only to be affected, so far as

affected at all, by yielding the most unflinching obedience to the laws

of God, physical and moral. She will not die of consumption; she will

live on; but how much progress she may be able to make towards the land

of life and health, is by no means certain. Her case is, at best, a

trying one, and must compel us, whenever we reflect on the subject, to

say, "Who hath woe, if not persons situated like this widow?"[J]

FOOTNOTES:

[I] She was not aware that king's evil, or scrofula, is oftentimes the

parent of consumption.

[J] Since this chapter was written, I have had the pleasure of learning

from a reliable source that the young woman above referred to is now

enjoying comparatively good health. She married a second time, a year or

two afterwards; and by following out the course prescribed, and with the

blessing of Heaven, she came at length to her present position of

usefulness and happiness.

CHAPTER LXXV.

THE PENALTY OF SELF-INDULGENCE.

The thought that a minister of the gospel can be gluttonous is so

painful that, after selecting as the caption to the present chapter, "A

gluttonous minister," I concluded to modify it. Perhaps, after all, it

might be as well in the end, to call things by their proper names.

However, we will proceed, as we have set out, for this once.

A minister about forty years of age came to me one day, deeply involved

in all the midnight horrors of dyspepsia.

On investigating his case, I found it one of the most trying I had ever

met with. It was not only trying in itself, in the particular form and

shape it assumed, but it had been rendered much more troublesome and

unmanageable by injudicious medical treatment.

My course was a plain one, and I proceeded cautiously to prescribe for

him--not medicine, for in my judgment he needed none, but simply a

return to the physical laws he had so long and so palpably violated.

These laws I endeavored briefly to recall to his attention. As he was an

intelligent man, I dealt with him in the most plain and direct manner.

Some two or three weeks afterward he called on me again, saying that he

was no better. I repeated my prescription, only more particularly. Still

I was not, as I now think, sufficiently particular and definite, for

want of time. Moreover, he still clung to the off-hand customs of

empiricism,--that of looking at the tongue, feeling the pulse, and

seeming "wondrous wise,"--and vainly hoped I would treat him in the same

direct way, instead of requiring what he regarded as a more circuitous

course.

He called on me the third time. We had now ample leisure and

opportunity for attempting to ferret out the causes which had operated

to bring him into his present condition, some of which, it appeared, had

been of long standing.

I inquired, in the first place, concerning his exercise. This, he said,

was taken very irregularly, chiefly in walking abroad on business,

seldom or never in company. His mind, in all probability, was not

directed, to any considerable extent, from its accustomed mill-horse

track. His gait, too, when he walked, was staid and measured. It was

never buoyant, lively, or playful. And as for amusement, he had none at

all.

His diet was still worse than his exercise. He had a large family, and

resided in the midst of a dense population; and was so situated as to

render his house, practically, a kind of ministerial thoroughfare. He

probably entertained, at his hospitable table, more ministers, literary

men, and students than any other three clergymen in the neighborhood.

"Now," said he to me, "we have a good deal of table preparation to make,

and Mrs. Y., who dearly loves to have things in pretty good order, sets

a full table, with, a large variety. Well, this food must be eaten. It

will never do for a minister who has a large family and lives on a

moderate salary, to _waste_ any thing. And, besides, as I ought to tell

you, we sometimes, if not always, have a very considerable amount of

rich food on the table."

"Do you mean to intimate that the bountiful provision you make for

others renders it necessary for you to overeat? Or have your remarks a

reference to a supposed necessity of eating rich food?"

"We are not, of course, absolutely compelled to _any_ thing. My meaning

is this: In order to meet the wants of those who are liable to call on

us at almost any hour, _we prepare largely_. Then, to meet these varying

and often very fastidious tastes, we must have _a large variety_ of

food, and it must be _highly seasoned_. And then, if it happens that our

company is not as large as is expected, we have an extra quantity

remaining, and I am tempted to aid in eating it up, the highly seasoned

food among the rest."

"And you think, do you, that this highly seasoned food is the cause of

your dyspepsia?"

"Undoubtedly it is."

"And do you expect to be cured of a disease which is produced by certain

definable causes, like this, and yet be permitted to go on in the same

way you have long gone? Do you suppose I have any power to grant you an

immunity from the evil effects of high living while that high living is

persisted in? Can you get rid of an effect till you first remove the

cause?"

"Why, no, sir, not exactly. Such an expectation would be very

unreasonable. But is there no medicine I can take that will _partially_

restore me? Perhaps, at my age, entire restoration from such a hydra

disease as dyspepsia is hardly to be expected; but can you not patch me

up in part?"

"What! and suffer you to go on sinning?"

"Why, yes, to some small extent. It is very hard, nay, it seems to me

almost impossible, to break away from the routine of my family, at least

as long as Mrs. Y. is fully determined to prepare for company according

to the prevailing customs. I could submit to a different arrangement if

she were ready for it."

"I wish I could encourage you to pursue this compromising course of

conduct. But it is not so. You must change your habits entirely, or you

must continue to suffer. For if it were possible to patch you up, for a

short time, while your present habits are continued, it would not be as

well for you in the end: It would only add another head and horn,

perhaps several others, to the monster that annoys you. No, sir; you

must change your habits or give up the contest. There is no use in

attempting to do any thing, in such a case as yours, with medicine."

"Well, then, if it must be so, it must. I will try once more, and see

what I can do."

He left me with a downcast look, and, I suspected, with a heavy heart.

At all events, my own heart was heavy, and seemed almost ready to bleed.

Here was a father in our ministerial Israel,--one to whom multitudes

looked up for the bread of spiritual life,--who was a perfect slave to

his appetites; or, at least, to the conventionalisms of modern

house-keeping. He groaned daily and hourly under bodily disease the most

aggravated and severe. His eyes were red and swelled; the sides of his

nose enlarged and inflamed, till he had the appearance of being about

half a sot. He knew all about it, and yet refused to take the first step

in the way of reformation.

I saw him, by accident, once more, and would have spoken with him

freely; but he seemed to shun every thing beyond a merely passing

compliment. I saw how it was with him; and the reflections which arose

in my mind gave me the most intense pain.

Two or three weeks afterward, while in an intimate and confidential

conversation with two of his very familiar friends, I ventured to

predict his fall, with nearly as much particularity as if the events

which were predicted had already taken place. I was asked how I dared to

say such things, even in secret, of so good a man and such a father in

the American Church. So I gave them, by way of reply, the principal

facts in the case, as detailed above.

Not many years passed ere this very minister was tried for a crime much

more high-handed than gluttony, though sometimes the sequel to it; and

not only tried, but silenced. The results of the trial were as shocking

to most people as they were unexpected. Every one said: "How can it be?"

Mr. Y. became a farmer, and is still so. But he is cured of his

dyspepsia. Compelled, as I have reason to believe he is, to practise the

most rigid economy, having very little temptation to unlawful

indulgence, and having an abundance of healthful exercise in the open

air, he has every appearance, externally, of a reformed man. His old

friends would, I think, hardly know him. His skin is as clear, and his

eyes and nose as physiologically correct in their appearance, as yours

or mine. True, he is an old man, but he is not a gluttonous old man. He

is a fallen man, but a healthy, and, I hope, a penitent one. He has

experienced a species of first resurrection, and has, I trust, the hope

of a better one still.

Now, had this man believed, in the first place, that the fault of his

dyspepsia was not wholly chargeable on Mrs. Y., but also on

himself,--had he clearly seen that he loved high living, and would not

relinquish it,--he might have been reformed without a dreadful and

scathing ordeal, and without disgracing the cause of his Divine Master,

But alas! "the woman that thou gavest to be with me," as he said, was in

fault; and so he did not reform himself.

That his wife was in fault, most deeply, I do not deny. She knew her

husband's weakness, and yet continued to place before him those

temptations which she well knew were too strong for him. How she could

do this, and persist in doing it, is, to me, a mystery. But she had her

reward; at least, in part. For in the fall and retirement of her husband

from public life, and in the consciousness--which was the most terrible

of all--of his guilt, must not her sufferings have been terrible?

It is indeed true that she may not have been wise enough--for this

wisdom has not yet been made public property, in the fullest sense--to

look at the subject in one point of view, which would be calculated to

add to the poignancy of her anguish. So that we may be almost ready to

say, in her case, "Ignorance is bliss." I refer, here, to the infliction

of scrofula and nervousness, by high living, on the next generation.

For while Mrs. Y. was bowing down to public opinion, and preparing rich

viands for her guests, and practically compelling her husband and

children to eat up what they had nibbled at and left, she was not only

fastening dyspepsia upon the former and nervousness upon herself, but

imparting more or less of a tendency to nervousness and scrofula upon

the rest of her family. Of the two thousand children born in a day, in

the United States, from two hundred to three hundred--perhaps nearer

four hundred--come into the world with a scrofulous tendency; and of

these, it is highly probable, that at least one hundred per day are

manufactured at just such tables as those which were set by Mrs. Y. for

the teachers of the religion of Jesus Christ.

I have quoted the old adage, that "Ignorance is bliss;" but alas! is it

not to trifle with the most solemn considerations? Can that be regarded

as blissful which leaves a mother, who, in general, means to love and

honor the Saviour, to destroy her husband and one or two of his

children? There is little doubt that, besides shutting her husband out

of the sacred enclosure, after she had destroyed his health, Mrs. Y. was

the means of destroying at least one or two of her children. One of

them, who was scrofulous, ran at last--a very common occurrence--into

consumption, and perished early, in the beginning of active usefulness.

I may be suspected of exaggeration, by some of my readers. Would to God,

for humanity's sake and for Christ's sake, it were so! For though I

cannot subscribe to the creed of those who profess to be willing to come

into everlasting condemnation for the glory of God, yet, so long as

opportunity for repentance shall last, I would willingly be convicted of

untruth, if so that the falsehood might be made palpable to my mind,

rather than believe what I am compelled to believe with regard to the

murderous tendency on soul and body of our murderous modern cookery. Is

it not true--the old adage, that while "God," in his mercy, "sends us

meats, the Devil," in his malignity, "sends us cooks?"

This unnatural cookery,--this mingling medicine with viands naturally

healthful, and torturing the compounds thus formed into sources of

irritation, has more to do with that sensuality which has come upon us

like a flood,--much of it in new forms,--than many are aware. And I am

much mistaken if modern societies for moral reform, popularly so called,

might not thank the over-refined cookery of a gross and highly

stimulating diet, for that necessity which impels to their own field of

labor.

One thing more might have been mentioned in its proper place--the

tendency of high living to eruptions on the skin. These, in their

various forms of pimple, carbuncle, boil, etc., are becoming quite the

order of the day. Mr. Y.'s family had a full share of them, especially

those of them who were scrofulous. I have already mentioned the

appearance of Mr. Y.'s face, and have alluded to the change which took

place after his fall. But I should have spoken of the eruptions on his

face, which, at times, were such as almost made him ashamed to enter the

pulpit.

You will see, from the tenor of these remarks, that I have laid the

guilt, in this sad affair, just where I believe it ought to rest. I have

not sought to exculpate one individual or party, at the expense of

another equally guilty, but rather to do justice to all.

Only one thing remains, which is to confess my _own_ guilt. Have I not

great reason to fear that my advice was not sufficiently pointed and

thorough? I might have gone to Mr. Y. and told him the truth, the whole

truth. What if it had given offence? Would not the prospect of doing

good, rather than of giving offence, have been worth something? In any

event, I do regret most deeply my unfaithfulness, even though it arose

from delicacy and diffidence, for that very delicacy and diffidence were

far enough from being grounded on the love of God. They were grounded

much more on the love of human approbation. No man was ever more free

from it than our Saviour. Ought I not to have used the same plainness

that he would have used? Had I rebuked Mrs. Y. as kindly and as

faithfully as he rebuked Martha at Bethany, how much, for ought I can

ever know, might have been saved, not only to the cause of health and

conjugal happiness, but also to that of piety.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

DR. BOLUS AND MORPHINE.

A telegraphic communication was made to me one day, nearly as follows:

"B. J. W. is very sick, and is not expected to live through the day.

Please come on immediately."

The distance was about one hundred and fifty miles, and the mode and

means of conveyance neither very direct nor rapid for these latter

times. It was more than probable that Mr. B. J. W. would be dead before

I could reach the place. However, as he was a particular friend, and as

there was some hope, I concluded to set out.

Late in the evening,--or rather, in the night,--I arrived at the place,

and found the young man still alive. He was, however, as it was easy to

perceive, in a very critical condition. Glad to find him alive, but

inclined to fall in with the general opinion that his case was a

hopeless one, and withal greatly fatigued, I yielded to the demands of

exhausted Nature, and slept a short time, when his physician arrived.

Now I had been sent for, in part, as a special friend, and in part, as a

medical counsellor. And yet there were difficulties. Dr. Bolus, the

family physician, was just such a man--for reasons that might be

given--as I dreaded to advise with, should my advice be needed. He was

one who would be likely to think any important suggestion an impeachment

of his own superior wisdom. Science, true science, is always modest, and

does not fear any thing; because she loves, most of all things, _to be

right_. But Dr. Bolus had not, as I think, enough of true science to

make him feel or perceive the want of it. The ignorant are always

self-confident in proportion to their ignorance.

We examined the patient, as soon as possible, and retired for

consultation. Dr. Bolus gave a full history of the progress of the case,

with a particular account of the treatment. I saw at once, both from the

existing symptoms and Dr. Bolus's statement, that the tendency to the

brain--so great as to keep up an almost constant delirium--was quite as

likely to be caused by the enormous quantities of morphine and quinine,

and other active medicines which had been administered, as to belong

properly to the disease. I therefore advised a gradual reduction and

ultimate discontinuance of the extra stimulants.

Dr. Bolus was opposed to the reduction I proposed, but finally consented

to it, at least in part, and the patient evidently derived almost

immediate benefit from it. When I had pushed my views with regard to the

stimuli as far as I could, we separated, and as the distance at which

the doctor resided was considerable, and as I was on the spot to watch

the patient, he proposed not to call again till early in the morning of

the following day.

I was by no means satisfied with the compromise we had made. It had not

accomplished its intended object. Dr. Bolus had, indeed, yielded a

little, but not enough to satisfy me. I believed the amount of stimulus

still given vastly too great, and was unwilling to continue it. In

truth, I persuaded one of the attendants to omit the principal articles,

whenever the hour came for administering them, assuring him that I would

take all the responsibility.

Of the other attendant I would have made the same requisition, but he

being exceedingly attached to Dr. Bolus, would never have tolerated the

slightest concealment, or departure from the strictest letter of the

law.

It was easy to see that the less stimulating treatment of each alternate

two hours, during which it was entirely omitted, left behind it, on the

patient's frame, a better influence than the more active treatment of

the other two. And when the next medical consultation came, I pleaded

for a still greater diminution of the stimulus. But, as I had

unwillingly used a little duplicity,--a thing I now deeply regret,--in

order to come at my conclusions against the stimulants, I was not

willing to state, in full, the grounds of my opinion, and therefore

could not prevail with Dr. Bolus to consent to any farther advances in

the unstimulating plan.

I was now, at length, compelled to leave for home; and the results, for

the rest of the time, were reported to me through the kindness of the

young man's friends. It is sufficient, perhaps, to say that he finally

recovered; but it was not till the lapse of several months. In the mean

time, a severe ulcer broke out on the lower part of his back, which

caused much suffering, and appeared to retard very greatly the progress

of his recovery.

My errors in this case were numerous and great. Believing, as I did, in

the outset, that Dr. Bolus and myself could never agree, I did wrong in

consenting to a consultation with him. I ought to have been nothing but

a visitor, or else to have entered fully into the spirit and duty of a

counsellor. In the former case I might, indeed, have outraged every

feeling of benevolence; in the latter I ought to have proposed my

objections in full, and not to have compromised so as to submit to what

I really believed to be radically and essentially wrong.

For I did most fully believe all this; and in spite of every effort at

concealment, my scepticism finally came out, and I was weak enough to

speak of it, and openly to find fault with Dr. Bolus. A practical

quarrel followed between Dr. Bolus and myself, in which the friends

joined, or, at least, strongly sympathized.

My own belief, then, was, and it still remains the same, that the

violence of the young man's disease, especially the tendency to the

brain, was chiefly, if not wholly, owing to the medicine administered;

and that, from the very first, no active medicine--nothing but an

exceedingly mild and cooling treatment--was required. It was even my

belief that the ulcer was caused by the medicine.

But, while I lost confidence in human nature, and especially in the

human nature of some of my brethren of the medical profession, by this

experiment, I became more thoroughly convinced than ever before of the

great need of honest and benevolent as well as scientific men in this

department, and of the general impotency and worse than impotency of

much that is dignified with the name of medical treatment. I became most

fully convinced, that in acute diseases as well as chronic, Nature,

unembarrassed, will generally accomplish her own work, when left to

herself and to good and careful nursing and attendance.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

BLEEDING AND BLISTERING OMITTED.

One of my neighbors had fallen down-stairs, and injured himself

internally, in the right side of the chest; and a degree, greater or

less, of inflammation had followed. The pain was constant, though not

severe; but the soreness was considerable, and did not give promise of

speedy amendment.

My advice was to keep quiet, both in body and mind, and to avoid all

kinds of exertion that could possibly affect the chest. I also advised

the use of water, not only for drink, in small draughts, but, if the

pain and soreness should be troublesome, as an external application to

the part affected. The food was to be mild and unstimulating. A tendency

to crowd around the fire was to be guarded against and prevented, by

putting on, if necessary, an increased amount of clothing.

Two days passed away with no great variation of the symptoms, either for

better or worse. I was now fully convinced that I had taken the true

course, because, otherwise, my patient must, by this time, have become

worse. Accordingly, I persevered in my general let-alone plan for about

two weeks, when the patient fully recovered.

He was a slender boy, in the fifteenth year of his age, strongly

inclined, by inheritance, to disease of the chest and brain; and this

consideration, among others, led me to be extremely cautious about his

treatment. The greater the danger the greater the necessity that what is

done should be done right, or we shall defeat our own purposes.

But the most remarkable fact in relation to this very interesting case

is,--and it is chiefly for the sake of this fact that I have related the

story,--that more than forty-eight hours had passed, after the

occurrence of the accident, before it came into my mind that any thing

could, by possibility, be done for the chest, in the way of bleeding,

blistering, etc.,--so utterly irrational had this treatment, once so

fashionable, come to be regarded, both by myself and a few others. How

strange that I should not think of it in two whole days! Twenty years

before, I should not have dared to pass through the first twenty-four

hours, in such a case, without _thinking_, at least, of balsams and

mustard poultices and the whole paraphernalia of external treatment, to

say nothing of bleeding and blistering.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

MEDICAL VIRTUES OF SLEEP.

My own child, a boy nine or ten years of age, and somewhat inclined to

croup, was one evening wheezing considerably, and, as his mother

thought, was threatened with an immediate attack, either from this or

some other disease. Of course, there was not a little anxiety manifested

in the family on his account, and we were deliberating what to do with

him, when the late Dr. Shew, the hydropathist, chanced to come in.

After a little general conversation, we turned our thoughts again to our

little patient, and asked Dr. Shew what he would do with him if he were

his patient. "If it were my case," said he, "I would give him a tepid

bath--say at about the temperature of 80 deg. or 85 deg." "Would you do

nothing more?" "Nothing at all, except to put him early to bed."

I was not committed to hydropathy, as I have before told you. I never

have been, though I had a sort of general respect for Dr. Shew; and

hence it was that, incidentally, I asked him the question which I did;

and I was pleased with his reply. There was nothing suggested which was

at all akin to violence. He did not propose a shower bath of any kind.

He did not speak of hot bathing, which for that hour of the day might

have induced too violent a perspiration. He did not propose vapor

bathing or steaming. A tepid bath could, abstractly considered, do no

harm. It would, at least, while away the time till nature could have

opportunity to rally. And then, if the return to health should be

attributed to the application of the tepid water, we had no special

objection to it. We had no medical pride--most certainly I had

none--that would lead me to fear lest I should add to the popularity of

the cold-water system.

But it was rather late in the evening,--between seven and eight

o'clock,--almost time for such a child to be in bed. In order to get up

a tepid bath and make the application, so much time would be required

that it would keep him from sleep till nine o'clock, and perhaps later;

whereas, I had a very high opinion of the healing and renovating power

of natural and healthy sleep. It struck me that to put the child to bed

immediately, and let him have a good night's rest, would be a much wiser

measure than to bathe him even in _tepid_ water. So, after thanking Dr.

Shew for his advice, I told him that, for the reasons above stated, we

had concluded to omit the bath and put the child immediately to bed.

On being put in bed and suitably covered, he went to sleep immediately,

and fell into a gentle perspiration, and in about two hours his

breathing was much better. It continued to improve till the next

morning, when he arose, at the usual time, and was nearly well. Dr. Shew

himself jocosely observed that the _sleep_ cure had proved quite as

successful as the _water_ cure.

Much, therefore, as I prize bathing of all sorts, in its proper place,

it must never take the place of other and more important influences,

whenever these influences can be brought to bear on the case. Indeed, no

bathing of any kind can be desirable, any farther than as it serves to

aid these natural processes. It has no magic or miraculous power. If we

do not eat, drink, sleep, and wake, all the better for it; if the

various offices of digestion, respiration, circulation, perspiration,

and cerebral action are not thereby, as a whole thing, better performed,

it might as well--nay, better--be omitted. Otherwise we waste time and

trifle away vital energy.

If all the functions of the body and all the faculties of the mind could

be kept steadily employed, and in healthful proportion, it is obvious

that a person could not be sick. Or, if one of these only should be

deranged, and we should fall sick, as the consequence, what else, pray

tell me, is needed, but to effect a speedy return of the faltering

function or part to its proper post and duty?

But sleep, more than all things else, whenever the usual hour has

actually arrived, has the effect to facilitate a cure. We all know how

wakeful some maniacs are, and how hurried and deranged all the movements

of the muscular and nervous systems are apt to become, no less than

those of the brain itself. And we all know, too, how much good it does

such persons to be able to obtain good, sound, substantial, quiet sleep.

It acts like a charm, and does more than charms can do, or mere

medicine.

Half the formality of having watchers by night in the sick room, does

more harm than good. It were better, in many instances, to extinguish

all the lights, except at certain set times and on particular occasions,

and let the patient sleep. And yet I have as exalted an estimate of the

importance of careful nursing as any other individual.

For example of my meaning, in a case of seeming contradiction, I may say

that I have taken all the needful care of a young man who was very sick,

for more than thirty successive nights with the exception of two, and

yet maintained my health, which, as you already know, was never very

firm. And I have known those who could do this for three months. But

they extinguish or hide their light, and acquire a habit of waking at

certain times, so as never to neglect the wants of the patient.

So true is it that sleep is the grand restorer as well as the great

curer of disease, that its salutary influence in the case of various

infantile complaints, has long been known and regarded. And one reason

why infants should neither be nursed nor fed in the night, as many

physiologists maintain, is, that it breaks in upon the soundness of the

sleep, as experience has most abundantly proved. Sleep, in short, if not

a "matchless" sanative, is at least a universal one.

CHAPTER LXXIX.

CURE BY DEEP BREATHING.

A young man, fifteen or sixteen years of age, who was in the habit of

suffering from protracted colds, nearly the whole winter, till they

seemed to terminate almost in consumption in the spring, came under my

care about March 1st, 1854, and was treated as the nature of his case

seemed to require, though with a few of what may be, by some, regarded

as peculiarities.

He was directed to rise in the morning at about six o'clock, which at

that season of the year is about as early as any one can see well

without lamp-light. At the moment of leaving his bed, he was required to

wet his body all over, as quickly as possible, either with the hand or a

sponge, or if preferred, with a coarse towel, and then wipe himself

hastily and partially, so as to leave on the surface a little moisture,

and yet not enough to cause, by evaporation, any sensations of

chilliness. The water to be used was to be cold, or at such temperature

as is usual at that season, when standing all night in a room without

fire. This was to be followed by a rapid rubbing with _crash mittens_, a

coarse towel, or the hand, as long as he could keep up a good reaction

and a proper degree of vital warmth.

Or, if rubbing the body increased the cough, and an assistant was

required, in this case, a healthy man well charged, so to speak, with

electricity, was always to be deemed preferable. In general, however,

the young man found no difficulty in keeping himself warm, in this

exercise, about half an hour.

Whenever his strength began to flag, or a little before,--for I did not

think it desirable to go farther than the mere borders of fatigue,--he

was placed in bed and well covered, so as to be immediately warm. The

room itself was kept as cool as possible, even in the coldest weather,

the fire having been entirely removed at bedtime the night before, and

the room well aired and ventilated.

This method of placing him in a warm bed was called dry packing. In this

dry pack he usually remained from half an hour to an hour. At the end of

this period, he was required to get out of bed, and repeat the former

course of rubbing the naked surface of the body a long time, in the cold

air, though, in this case, without repeating the application of the cold

water.

Thus the forenoon passed away, with a few slight but unimportant

variations. At twelve o'clock, this alternation of air-bathing with

friction and dry-packing, ceased, and the patient was expected to put on

his clothes and come to dinner. You will, perhaps, ask when and where he

had his breakfast. No breakfast was allowed him. Nothing was to be

taken, except small draughts of water, till twelve o'clock.

Another operation, which had much more the appearance of peculiarity

than any other part of the treatment, but which was deemed, more than

all else, indispensable to his recovery, consisted in a series of deep

inspirations or breathings. It may be described thus: The patient was

required to draw as much air into his lungs as possible, and then

immediately expel as much of it as possible. This was to be repeated and

continued till a suitable degree of fatigue was induced. At first, it

was only required as a species of amusement while in the dry pack; but

subsequently it was demanded in other circumstances.

I have usually required a person to begin the process by ten, twenty, or

thirty deep inspirations, according to his strength of lungs and their

irritability; for, at first, it often makes him cough. In the present

case, I began with fifty, and gradually increased the number to one

hundred. Sometimes, by way of experiment, and to pass away the time

while in the dry pack, he went much farther; once to six hundred. In

this case, however, the face became slightly flushed, the eyes reddened,

and the whole arterial action became hastened. It was evidently like

"too much of a good thing," and was never repeated.

The afternoon was spent in physical exercise, active amusement, reading,

conversation, etc. The first consisted chiefly in sawing and splitting

wood, and in walking abroad. The amusements were of various kinds. The

reading was chiefly of the lighter sort, such as newspapers and

magazines. The conversation--not always controllable--was the best we

could furnish him. Some of the walks were long, extending to five or six

miles.

Music, both vocal and instrumental, was regarded as a most valuable

amusement, and was not wholly overlooked. It had its difficulties, but

most of them could be surmounted. As a devotional exercise, its soothing

influence was almost always evoked.

I have said that no breakfast was taken by this young man, and no drink

used but cold water. The dinner was also without drink, and so was the

supper. The first consisted of a very few kinds of coarse

food,--generally not more than two or three at once,--such as coarse

whole-meal bread, rice, potatoes, apples, etc., and was the principal

meal. The supper was a lighter meal, both as respected quantity and

quality, and was taken at about six o'clock. No condiments were allowed

except salt, and very little of this; and no animal food, or the

products of animals, except, occasionally, a little milk. Fruits, either

raw or cooked, were frequently among the staples at dinner, but never at

supper.

This treatment, with slight variations, would be applicable to most

persons suffering with lingering complaints, and to persons in health,

as a means of invigorating their systems; but my present purpose is,

chiefly, to speak of it as a remedial agency in the particular case of

this young man.

I had hoped to be able to effect a cure on him in about a month. But I

was happily disappointed in finding him recover so fast that he was

dismissed and sent home on the twenty-fifth day. Nor has his consumptive

tendency ever again appeared with much severity. Since the spring of

1856--now between two and three years--it has not appeared at all.

This method of cure, by deep breathing, consists simply in using the

lungs freely, without overworking them. They may be overworked as well

as used too little; though the danger is generally in the latter

direction. They are made, most undoubtedly, for a great amount of

action, in breathing, conversation, singing, reading, etc.; and yet, in

all these respects, they are sadly neglected.

Our ordinary conversation is such as hardly to exercise the lungs at

all. We talk with the mouth and throat rather than the lungs. So is it,

for the most part, with our singing. And, as for breathing, we only

breathe a little way down, even when our dress is such as to form no

impediment. Full breathing, except in making violent efforts, is hardly

known.

CHAPTER LXXX.

SPIRIT-DOCTORING.

One of the most amusing incidents of my "Forty Years among Pills and

Powders," is found at full length of detail in the following chapter.

The amusement it affords has, however, a tinge of sadness.

A young man came under my care in the early part of the year 1854, who,

for the sake of convenience, I will call Thomas. He was about eighteen

years of age, but as delicate, sensitive, and effeminate as a female

directly from Broadway would have been, or as a plant reared in a

hothouse. In truth, he had been reared very much like many females of

the present day, in a manner entirely sedentary--the creature of

over-tenderness and over-kindness.

His disease was scrofula; but, with his scrofulous tendencies were

conjoined some other difficulties, more obscure and still more

unmanageable. His joints were enlarged; and in particular portions of

his body were various watery swellings or sacs.

As it was a scrofulous tendency that lay at the bottom or basis of his

complaints, I proceeded to treat him accordingly. I was to have him

under my care three months, during which time, it was believed,

something might be done, if ever. At least, it was believed that a

beginning might be made, if indeed the disease should prove to be at all

curable.

He was subjected to the treatment, with few variations, which is

mentioned in the preceding chapter. He was not permitted, however, to do

much in the way of deep breathing till his general health and strength

could be improved by other measures. Warm water, in his case, was

preferred, also, to cold, and was used in the form of a tub-bath, at

five o'clock in the afternoon.

Thomas had been with me about three weeks, without much variation of

condition or prospects, when I received a long letter from his friends,

the purport of which was that they had been favored with a communication

from the "spirit world," which was attended with the appearance of so

much truth and reality, that they were not at liberty wholly to

disregard it. The communication purported to be made by the late Dr.

Benjamin Rush, of Philadelphia.

As these friends of Thomas well knew I was not a believer in this

new-fangled spiritualism, they had taken much pains to satisfy me that I

was to have for my venerable counsellor not a mere pretender, but the

veritable Dr. Rush himself. As one evidence in the case, they had

inquired through the "medium," who were the present associates of the

good doctor in his new abode; who, nothing loath, had deigned to gratify

their supposed curiosity, by giving them the names of five distinguished

physicians, among whom were the elder and younger Dr. Ingalls, of

Massachusetts, and Dr. Sanborn, of New Hampshire.

And then, with regard to Thomas, he only said, at first, that he was

very much interested in him, and that he would examine him and report.

Soon after this, at another communication, he said his case was a

difficult one, but he thought not incurable. He added, that he was

already in very good hands, the best, perhaps, that could be found in

this mundane sphere, but rather cautiously insinuated that there were

symptoms in the case which I had not yet got hold of, but which would,

if rightly apprehended, modify, in some of its particulars, my

treatment. What it was in the case which I had not discovered, he did

not say directly, but subsequently intimated that the young man's

disease was not scrofula, as I had pronounced it, but dropsy of the

joints.

It was not long afterward that the mother paid us a visit, and brought,

well written out, the substance, as she said it was, of quite a number

of communications from Dr. Rush. Much was said in them about the

necessity of exercise and a plain diet. And, in general, so far as the

mere treatment was concerned, the statements of the spiritual doctor

accorded so well with those of the earthly one, that had I been a

believer in these modern mysteries, I should have been highly gratified,

not only on Thomas's account, but my own.

But the spirit doctor urged a few variations in the treatment of the

young man. Beside pressing a little harder than myself the use of green

vegetables, and particularly of vegetable juices, he requested, with

great apparent earnestness, that he might be permitted to occupy a room

heated by a wood fire, rather than by coal. He also made a few other

suggestions of less importance.

His mother was a very good woman, save her great credulity. And even

here, perhaps, I do her injustice, for there were some curious facts and

coincidences. The venerable spirit doctor appeared to have possessed

himself of certain secrets which it was extremely puzzling to conjecture

how an impostor could have obtained.

After spending a day or two with me, and giving me "much exhortation,"

the mother returned to her friends. Of her safe arrival, as well as of

certain changes that had been resolved on, the husband informed me, by a

letter, which, so far as the case of Thomas is concerned, I copy entire.

"Dear Sir:--By Mrs. P., in her recent visit to your place,

you have been made acquainted with some of the

manifestations of spirits, made to us through a young lady,

a medium of our acquaintance.

"The communications purporting to come from Dr. Rush (as he

says in his last communication, tell Dr. ---- that it is the

veritable old Dr. Rush, the signer of the Declaration of

Independence), and with such apparent earnestness and

reality, we feel that, to us, they are something more than

human or earthly, and of momentous account in this case of

Thomas, and that we are not at liberty longer to disregard

them. And though we have great confidence in yourself and

your practice, we hope you will not think we are losing

either when I say that we have decided to have Thomas

return to ----, and commence following the prescriptions of

this invisible personage. They appear to be harmless, and

may be of great virtue; and much which pertains to them

appears to be in harmony with your practice.

"Again, in closing, I must say that these communications

come to us with such force and apparent reality and truth,

that I think it would not be doing justly, either to Thomas

or our Creator, longer to disregard them.

"With much esteem, yours, etc., ---- ----."

In a somewhat extended postscript it was added: "We have witnessed other

manifestations, of several of which we had ample proof of their

correctness."

On another small portion of a sheet which was appended to the former, I

found, in pencil, the following:--

"We have, this evening, had another conversation with Dr.

Rush. His medium was in ---- to-day, and was brought to us

in order that she might speak to us (Mrs. P. and myself). We

are directed to tell you this: that he wants Thomas to be

under her (Mrs. P.) care; that there are no earthly

physicians that can cure him; that we could not have placed

him in better hands than with you. He (Dr. Rush) says he can

and _will cure him_. He says he could cure him without our

help, if he could impress him, but in that he has not yet

succeeded. He says he has seen Thomas with rubbers on, and

that he would have taken them off if he could. Says

positively, he must not wear them. Be good enough, dear sir,

to see that he does not wear them in coming home." He adds,

in conclusion, "Tell Dr. ---- to remove him from the room he

now occupies, and place him in one with a wood fire, and

where he will have no bed-fellow."

Thus ended the communication. Thomas went home, according to request,

and was, forthwith, put under the treatment of the spiritual doctor. All

appeared to be going on very well for a short time; but after the lapse

of about three weeks, I heard of his death. No particulars were added,

in the papers, but I afterwards learned that his death was rather

sudden.

I did not chance to fall in with Mr. P. for several months, and out of

respect to his feelings and those of Mrs. P., I did not depart from my

usual track to call on them or even write. At the end of the year,

however, I visited them, and after the usual passing remarks, the

following conversation took place.

"It seems, then, that Dr. Rush with all his wisdom and skill could not

save Thomas."

"No; he said it was too late for any power of earth or heaven to cure

him."

"But he was very confident he could cure him?"

"Perhaps he spoke with more confidence than he really felt, in order to

encourage us and lead us to exert ourselves."

"Do I understand you? Do you mean to say that perhaps the spirit

doctors, like the fleshly ones, in order to encourage the friends of the

sick, will depart a little from the truth?"

"Not exactly that. Rather this: we do not consider it a departure from

the truth."

"I am of a different opinion. In earth, or elsewhere, I call such a

course as you intimate a species of white lying--quite common on earth,

but which, till now, I did not suppose had found its way to the confines

of the world spiritual."

The conversation ended here, and was not afterward resumed. I have,

indeed, witnessed a good deal of spiritual doctoring since that time,

but it was of a somewhat different character from the foregoing.

For example: I saw a family in the interior of Massachusetts, whose

faith in spiritualism and spirit doctrine was perfect. The mistress of

the house was the patient. The physician a young man who had been a

mechanic, but who had very recently become convinced that it was his

duty to attend the sick,--not to do anything for them, on his own

responsibility, but only to suffer an old Indian physician to operate

through him as a medium.

The chief thing which Dr. H. did, so far as I observed, was to lay his

hands on her, and sit for some time in that position. I am not sure

that he did not prescribe a few very simple things, from time to time,

such as a little weak tea, or the infusion of some domestic herb, from

the garden. He was counted, everywhere (for his circuit was a large

one), very successful; for his patients generally recovered. Their

recovery, it is true, was often very slow.

CHAPTER LXXXI.

REMARKABLE CURE OF EPILEPSY.

When I was a lad, a man was employed by my father on his farm, who used

occasionally to fall down in convulsions, lie for some time, not

entirely still, but foaming at the mouth and agitated or rocked to and

fro, as if in great distress; and yet, as I afterward learned,

senseless. These attacks, they told me, were _falling sickness_ fits.

The man was weak in mind, and not vigorous in body, though, by diligence

and perseverence, he could accomplish something in the progress of a

whole day. He died but little beyond middle age.

Since that time I have been intimately acquainted with several

individuals who were subject to these attacks of epilepsy, some of whom

were affected in one way, some in another. The cause, too, was as

various as the manner of attack, and in a few instances was peculiar and

remarkable. In general, their memory and intellectual faculties, as well

as their bodily strength, became, ultimately, a good deal impaired. In

my practice as a physician, I had very few of these cases, and none in

which I could afford relief at first. The patients were, however, for

the most part, of middle age, or at least beyond thirty years. Several

had taken nitrate of silver or other minerals, till their skins were of

a blue-black color.

In the beginning of the year 1854, a young man about seventeen years of

age, of scrofulous and nervous temperament and of great delicacy, came

under my care, to be treated for this disease, whose history, from

beginning to end, was remarkable. I will call him Samuel.

When about twelve years of age he had difficulty with another boy,--an

Irish or Scotch lad,--which ended in a personal affray, in which Samuel

was worsted, and his head severely injured. It was thought by some that

a portion of the skull, which, by the violence of the blow it had

received, had been forced in, ought to have been elevated by the

trephine; but I believe no surgeon of reputation ever saw him. Being

young, the depressed portion of skull gradually resumed its place, so

that the depression could scarcely be seen.

All, however, was not right within, for he was soon afterward attacked

by epilepsy. Whether, at first, any connection between the disease and

the bruised skull was suspected by the friends, I was not able to learn;

but probably not. The attacks having been once commenced, were frequent

and severe, and every year became more so. They were particularly

frequent and severe during the winter and spring.

The medical art was invoked in his behalf, especially in the region

round about New Haven, Conn. He was not only treated by the regular

physicians, of different kinds and schools, but by not a few empirics or

quacks. By some of them he was evidently injured, and by none was he

benefited. The tendency still continued to be downward, on the whole,

and his friends were, at length, almost discouraged.

All this while his diet appears to have been the usual diet of that part

of New England in which he resided---too stimulating, and too much

refined by cookery. In general, too, his active and perverted appetite

led him to excess in quantity; but, as his friends never thought of its

being a morbid or diseased appetite, no strong efforts were made to

control it. In truth, as he was feeble and growing, it was thought

necessary that he should eat stimulating and highly seasoned food, and

in large quantity. He was also accustomed to tea and coffee. All his

appetites, as it afterwards appeared, were, to say the least, very

active, though the gratification of _the third appetite_ was wholly

confined to solitude.

No restriction, nor indeed any direction, so far as I could learn, had

been made at this period, with regard to his mental food. Whatever he

chose to read, he was indulged in, both as regards quantity and quality.

And as usually happens, in the case of epileptic, and scrofulous people,

he was quite too much inclined to works of imagination, with which the

age and country abound. It appears, also, that being regarded as quite

unequal to the task of laboring in field or garden, he was thus, in

large measure, deprived of two essentials of health and happiness,

especially to epileptics; viz., air and exercise.

In August, 1853, he went to an institution that had once been a

water-cure establishment, but which had undergone many modifications,

till it better deserved the name of College of Hygiene, than water cure.

Here he remained several months.

The peculiar treatment he received at this institution consisted, first,

in a plain and unstimulating diet. Water was his only drink, and bread

and fruits, with a few well-cooked vegetables, his only food. But, in

the second place, he was subjected to a course of treatment not unlike

that described in Chapter LXXIX, with the exception of the deep

breathing and cold-bathing. The last, however, was, I believe, used

occasionally.

There was, indeed, one important addition made to the treatment above

alluded to. This consisted in an exercise designed to expand and

strengthen the lungs, by what was called _shaking down the air_. This

exercise was practised very frequently, and was curious. I will describe

it as well as I can.

He was first required to inflate his chest as much as possible, and

then, while retaining the air with all his might, rise on his toes, and

suddenly drop on his heels, with a sort of jerk, several times in

succession, till he could hold his breath and retain the air no longer,

which was now suffered gradually to escape. A new recruit was then drawn

in, and treated in the same manner. The exercise, as a whole, seemed to

consist of a series of jumpings up and down, without quite raising the

toes from the floor, and of deep sighing. The object aimed at was to

shake down a large amount of good, pure air, into the cells of the

lungs, and retain it there as long as possible; and then, to let out or

force out the air, so as to empty the lungs as perfectly as possible.

The warm bath was occasionally used at four o'clock in the afternoon,

but with doubtful effect. Exercise, especially mechanical exercise, was

of much more service, and so was the gymnasium. He was, however,

required to forbear all violence, in his exercises and amusements; nor

was he allowed any severe studies. His reading was to be light, though

not trifling.

For several months next subsequent to his arrival at the institution, he

appeared to improve. Instead of weekly, or semi-weekly, or still more

frequent attacks, he suffered but rarely; and, in one instance, he was

exempt from an attack for several weeks. But in December and January

they became, once more, rather frequent. They had, however, usually been

most frequent in winter and spring.

He now began to be apprehensive of a return of his disease, in all its

former violence; and the dread of February, March, and April had an

influence on his system which was any thing but favorable--since fear,

in these cases, is often worse than the evils which excite it. And,

according to his faith, or rather according to his want of faith, so it

was with him. The attacks became very frequent, sometimes daily; and, in

one or two instances, twice a day.

He came under my special and almost exclusive care, Feb. 1, 1854. I soon

discovered that there was a close connection between excess and

irregularity, in regard to his food and his paroxysms of disease. I saw,

also, that a part of his food had been too stimulating. In justice,

however, I ought to say that in the government of the other appetites,

he had succeeded far better than I had expected, though his power to

control himself was far from being perfect.

While, therefore, I did not materially change the general treatment in

other particulars, I determined to regulate his diet; and, with a view

to this important end, to watch him, and even to deal out to him his

daily rations, with just as much care and particularity as if he were a

mere child. He ate but two meals a day, and these were taken at _twelve_

and _six_; and then I always sat by him. I did not leave him, except for

one single meal, for a period of fifty-five days.

During the whole of this long period--long, I mean, to the patient--he

not only had no attacks of his disease, but none of the giddiness or

other symptoms which had formerly accompanied or preceded them. He did

not, it is true, gain in flesh or strength during the time. In all this

and in many more particulars he remained nearly stationary.

Towards the close of March, his friends became desirous of taking him

home. I was not without apprehension; but, hoping for the best, I

submitted to their wishes as cheerfully as I could. He was among them

for a short time; and was then, by my particular request, as well as in

conformity with his own choice, placed on a farm.

Nearly three months after his return to his friends, I received a letter

from him, which I insert here, not only as a convenient nucleus around

which to cluster certain suggestions I wish to make to the general

reader, but also as a continuation of my patient's history. It was dated

June 18, 1854.

"MY DEAR PHYSICIAN,--I am now at Mr. ----'s. Every thing

seems to be in perfect accordance with the wishes of those

who are concerned in the case. I can get as plain a diet as

I please, and have nothing, so to say, to tempt me. I

confine myself to a very small variety. I have had

strawberries ever since I came here, which was June 7th. I

eat sometimes nearly a pint at a meal. Sometimes I eat

nothing but strawberries and dry bread. I have some sugar on

the table, and sweeten the berries a little. I eat

considerable potatoe--say two or three at dinner--sometimes

a little more. I have had two dinners of asparagus, just

boiled in a little water, and poured on to some crusts of

toasted bread. It was good. I do not think I have had more

than three things set on the table for me, at a time, while

I have been here. I have bread, potatoes, and berries for

dinner. For supper I have bread and berries, and sweetened

bread, as it might be called. It is sweetened but a very

little. Now don't I live plainly.

"But I have left out some things that I have had. I had

Graham mush a few days, but I like the bread better, as Mrs.

---- makes such good bread. Mr. ---- likes it better than

superfine. I have had boiled rice--a few meals. I had one

meal of bag-pudding--Indian--with a few whortleberries in

it.

"I have now given you an account of how I live. I eat at ten

or half-past ten, A. M., and at four, P. M. So I do not have

to go to bed with a meal of victuals on my stomach.

"After I left you, and before I came here, I had, all the

time, a great looseness of the bowels. It seemed to weaken

me. Afterwards I thought it was caused, partly, by some very

tart, dried apples, of which I ate freely at every meal.

Aunt ----thought it was working at hoeing up turf around

trees, for she said that working hard with her arms affected

her in that way. My stomach did not seem quite right.

Perhaps I strained it in coming home. The very next day

after I came here, I commenced eating the ripe strawberries

at meals, and have eaten them freely ever since. I sometimes

eat nearly a pint at a meal. From the first they have seemed

just the thing for me. They regulated my stomach and bowels,

and they have strengthened them ever since.

"I eat alone, and enjoy it capitally. I would not go back to

the Institution (the Hygiene establishment) for a great

deal, because there are so many things there to harass one's

mind, or tempt him, at every corner of the street and almost

every shop. Since I came here I have not tasted of any thing

between meals, and have had no inclination to do so. I think

there will be no trouble on that account.

"I am busy out of doors a good deal of the time. I have hoed

corn, piled cord-wood, driven team, picked strawberries,

etc. At night I milk one cow. I go barefooted three or four

hours in the middle of the day, use no flannels, dress very

thin,--as little as I can get along with.

"Do you wish me to learn to swim, if possible? There is a

pond--a natural one--about a mile from this place. Will you

not answer me soon, and give me your opinion on this and

other subjects?

"In love, yours, etc.

"SAMUEL."

About a month later, viz., July 18, he wrote thus:

"MY DEAR DOCTOR:--Five months and a half without a symptom!

I have not the slightest feeling to remind me of my old

attacks. Should I not be thankful?

"A short time since, I had a very sore stomach. It got out

of order, I think, in consequence of eating too much. I

broke off, went a day without nothing to eat; eat less now,

and feel well. When Mrs. ---- was here, she told me she

thought I might eat all I craved. I did so, and suffered the

consequences, though I cured myself.

"There is a place here in the woods where raspberries are so

thick that people get six quarts at a time. Apples are

nearly ripe. Pears will soon succeed them.

"Yours truly,

"SAMUEL."

Two weeks later than the above,--a little more than six months after the

discontinuance of the epileptic attacks,--I received a letter from

Samuel's guardian, in which he wrote as follows:

"We have continued the same course of diet as at your house;

in short, have carried out your views perfectly as possible.

Notwithstanding all this, he (Samuel) has lost flesh and

strength; and, for the last few weeks, has fallen off

greatly, in mental and physical vigor. He has run down in

flesh to eighty pounds, is pale as this paper, coughs

considerably, especially at night, yet does not expectorate

very much. He had a spell of spitting blood, some five or

six weeks ago, raised perhaps a gill. I do not think that it

debilitated him very much at the time."

Not far from this time Samuel was taken from the farm, and subjected to

various changes in his habits, which were unauthorized, and which

probably proved injurious. He took a large amount of cream,--an article

which had not before been allowed him,--also a little fresh meat at his

dinners. Instead of going without his breakfast, as before, he now

appears to have taken breakfast; and in some instances, at least, to

have used not only large quantities of cream at this early hour, but

animal food likewise. There was a strong and increasing belief among his

friends, that his food was not sufficiently nutritious, and that he was

suffering for want of materials for blood; whereas the error lay in the

other direction. His stomach and other digestive organs were overloaded

and depressed by the large amount of nutriment he had for some time

received. But more on this hereafter.

He now appeared to be falling into what is called a galloping

consumption, of which he died a few weeks afterward. There should have

been a post mortem examination; but, from various causes, it was not

attended to. At the time of his death he was about eighteen years of

age.

The treatment of this young man on the farm, was by no means what had

been intended. The experiment of having him eat alone was hazardous, and

I sternly protested against it. But the hours at which he chose to take

his two meals, especially the first, were such as to preclude,

practically, a better arrangement. There was no one that wished to eat

at ten in the forenoon, but himself; and it was not customary for the

family to convene for eating in the afternoon, till six. Now, although,

abstractly considered, he selected the best hours for his meals, yet,

taking society as it is, and human nature as _his_ was, it would have

been much better, in the result, had he eaten with the family at twelve

and six. He would have eaten less, and yet would probably have been

better nourished and better satisfied.

No housekeeper who has the usual feelings of a housekeeper, will be

content to set before a young man of seventeen or eighteen years of age,

no more, for example, than one-sixth as much food as she would prepare

for six such persons. It would seem to her almost like prisoner's fare.

And then, few young men or old ones will content themselves with one

sixth as much food when sitting alone, entirely unrestrained, as when in

company, where pride or self-respect would have influence. And of one

thing we may, at least, be sure, viz., that Samuel, with his almost

illimitable appetite, tempted by abundance and assured that he might,

with safety, eat as much as that appetite craved, would never be the

individual to stop short of fifty per cent more of carbon than his

feeble machinery could appropriate; while every ounce of the surplus was

burned up by his lungs, at an expense of that vital energy which should

have been husbanded with the greatest care, and expended no faster than

was indispensably necessary.

His friends, no doubt, supposed--for such views greatly prevail--that he

would not be likely to hurt himself on plain and simple food; and, in

truth, that it was so light and unsubstantial that he needed a large

amount of it to keep him alive.

One or two individuals, largely interested in him, gave this as their

opinion, more than once, and vainly believe, to the present day, that he

ran down and died for want of proper nourishment. Whereas, we need

nothing more than Samuel's own confessions, to show us, as clearly as

the sunlight could possibly show us any thing, that it is much more

likely that he perished from excess of nutrition than for the want of

it.

Let us look a little at particulars. It appears, most clearly, that

Samuel always had before him a good supply of bread, of such excellent

quality that he could make a full and agreeable meal of it. While under

my special care, he could eat and enjoy a full meal of the driest bread;

and he would even have proceeded beyond the limits of safety on it, had

I permitted it, and this, too, without berries, sugar, or cream, to make

it still more inviting, or without his "sweetened bread," as he called

it, for a dessert. It is, moreover, by no means probable, that the

morbid keenness of his appetite was at all diminished by being on a farm

and in the open air much of the time.

Observe, now, his living. Fruit, he says, he allowed himself always, at

both dinner and supper, sometimes a pint at a meal. Dried apple-sauce,

very "tart," as he called it, he appears to have had at every meal.

Sugar, moreover, to sweeten his berries, etc., he always had on the

table. Will one who has such an appetite as he had, eat moderately,

with fruit, sugar, and apple-sauce always before him,--and these

regarded as a dessert, of which he may eat _ad libitum_, after having

eaten a full and more than a full meal of bread? In potatoes, too, he

indulged, as you will see by referring to his letter, in rather large

quantity.

Now the most healthy person in the world, would ere long have an acid

stomach, as well as weakened lungs, who should undertake to live in this

way; how much more a person who has long been feeble, especially in his

lungs, nervous system, and even his digestive system, for that was

active rather than strong.

Indeed, there are many circumstances which favor the belief that he

burned himself out by excess of stimulus, or, in chemical language, by

excess of carbon. His thoughts seem to have been very largely on eating.

It will be seen by the extracts I have made from his letters, that after

speaking on any other needful topic, he would soon get back to the

subject of eating. Observe, too, he says he feels no temptation to eat

between his meals; but why? First, doubtless, because he eat to the full

at his regular meals; and secondly, because the food was mostly, if not

always, set away out of his reach.

Another thing deserves consideration. Not only was he, but his friends

also, inclined to the opinion that he would not, and perhaps could not,

hurt himself on such things as plain dry bread; but they also appeared

to believe, _practically_, at least,--and the belief is very

common,--that the use of bread would atone for other transgressions.

Thus, suppose he were to have, for once, a rich pudding to eat, or some

baked beans, or sweetened rice pudding,--which, as you know, are of

themselves very pure nutriments,--set before him, and he were to eat to

the full, till the question should begin to arise in his own mind,

whether he had not gone too far, it was apt to be thought, or rather

_felt_, that an addition of plain bread, or some fruit, or a few cold

potatoes, or some other vegetable, would be a correction for the

preceding excess. Such, I say, is the virtue which, by a kind of

tradition, is awarded to coarse and plain food, and to fruits, and even

nuts. I know, indeed, that this idea would hardly be defended in so

many words; still, it is practically entertained.

To make plainer a great dietetic error, I will explain my meaning. It is

believed, for example, that a pound or two of greasy baked beans would

not be so likely to hurt a person, if a little bread or fruit or potatoe

or sauce were eaten after them, as if eaten alone,--a belief than which

none can be more unfounded or dangerous.

One more proof that Samuel was constantly inclined to excess in eating,

is found in the fact that there was a continual tendency, in his

stomach, to acidity, which was best relieved by a day of entire

abstinence; and the same might be said of a tendency to relaxation of

the bowels, and its correction. In short, if there be a plain truth

fairly deducible from the facts in the case, it is that he was destroyed

by a carbonaceous nutriment in too great proportion for his expenditure.

It may have been feared by his friends, that he yielded, at this period,

to _other propensities_. Indeed, one letter which I received after his

death, more than intimated all this. The remark alluded to was as

follows:--"I have had the fear that there was something unexplained

about his case, as you say you once had." For various reasons, I am

inclined to believe that the indulgence referred to had little to do

with his comparatively sudden death. His whole soul was pivoted on that

great central organ, the stomach. For this he lived, and for this,

probably, he died.

My own principal error, in relation to the case, was, in suffering him

to go upon the farm with such unintelligent, though well-intentioned

teachers. Lord Bacon and others have said, "A little knowledge is a

dangerous thing;" and in nothing is the remark more applicable than to

the first or pioneer knowledge of people on hygiene. From the very

nature of the case it must be so. I ought either to have protested

against the farm, _in toto_, or given such minute instructions that they

could not have been easily mistaken. But I had my reasons, at the time,

for the course I took, and I thought them quite sufficient. How easy it

is, in this world, to find cause for misgivings!

CHAPTER LXXXII.

SCARLATINA CURED BY LETTING ALONE.

At a certain season when scarlet fever was very prevalent among us, a

member of my family was attacked with it slightly, and, as it was

believed by almost everybody to be contagious, the case excited much

alarm. The fact that in persons of my friend's age, it had, during the

season, occasionally proved fatal, no doubt increased the apprehension

and alarm, and led to many anxious fears about the treatment. Those who

regarded my general method of treating disease as rather too "tame," and

who supposed themselves in special danger of "taking the disease," were

not only curious, but curiously inquisitive to know what I would do in

my own family, to meet this supposed terrible malady.

My first object was to quiet all fears, especially in the patient. It

would have been easy--comparatively so--to do this, had it not been for

the croakings of our neighbors. They told the sick person so many dismal

stories of persons of her age--she was in middle life--who had died of

scarlet fever, that it was not so easy to resist, wholly, the

impressions. The most resolute and determined are apt to yield, in such

circumstances.

However, we did the best we could. We endeavored not only to keep her

quiet in mind, but in body. All irregularities were carefully watched

and guarded against; not by giving medicine to prevent evil, real or

imaginary; not by prophylactics, as they are called; but by strictly and

carefully obeying all the laws pertaining to the human, physical frame,

so far as they were then understood.

It was one object to keep the patient cool,--not, of course, chilly; for

this would have been worse than a temperature a little too high. But

excess of heat, in its application to the surface, was dreaded as one

of the worst of evils; and no pains were spared in attempts to keep the

sick-room not only cool, but well ventilated. Her food, also, both for

the sake of the general circulatory system, and for that, also, of the

sympathizing skin, was not only cool, but unstimulating.

In addition to all this, and in pursuance of the same general plan, a

warm or rather a tepid bath was administered. But in applying this the

greatest care was used. The water was only warmed just enough so as not

to feel uncomfortable. It had so good an effect that it was repeated.

The fever did not run so high as had been expected; and our

apprehensions gradually disappeared. All went on well, and, in a few

days, health was entirely restored. None of the neighbors sickened as

the consequence, either of infection or of contagion.

I do not mean, by the relation of this fact, to intimate that every case

of scarlatina, treated in the same way, would be attended with similar

results; for the powers of life are often fed by sicklier streams than

in the present case. There is often a large amount, so to speak, of

combustible matter in every "nook and corner," ready to be ignited by

the burning flood, as it courses its way through the system. Yet, even

then, the flame would be greatly diminished by keeping quiet. Who has

not observed the difference, amid a general conflagration, between a

most perfect stillness and a blustering or windy moment? The difference

between perfect quiet of body and mind and great agitation and fear, in

their effects on health and disease, is scarcely less striking, if not,

indeed, more so.

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

IGNORANCE NOT ALWAYS BLISS.

Pope says of the freethinker, that he may be "all things in an hour." So

may some people in their medical creed, at least, practically. They

change their opinions with almost every change in the position of the

weathercock. To-day they are very orthodox, medically; to-morrow they

are ready to throw physicians and medicine to the four winds, if not to

the dogs. Just as the freethinker is now very orthodox in religious

matters, and in a day or an hour quite out at sea.

My troubles with patients of this description have been numerous and

great. They promise well, and probably _mean_ well. But just as the new

wad in a boy's pop-gun drives out the old one, in order to occupy its

place, so the very next medical adviser, especially if he have much

self-confidence, secures their entire trust, and I, for the time, seem

to lose it. At least, mine is eclipsed. The people I am describing are

of too easy virtue to be virtuous.

And whence all this? It arises from ignorance--not very blissful

ignorance, either. As well might Nebuchadnezzar's image, had it

possessed sensation, been blissful, as such persons as these. Brass,

iron, and clay may quite as easily unite to form a reliable compound, as

these persons become settled in opinion with regard to a proper medical

treatment.

I had one patient of this description who harassed me for many years. It

is true that he finally recovered; but I hardly know how. His recovery,

when I reflect on it, leads me towards the belief that people oftener

get well in spite of their medicine, than as the consequence of using

it.

He was originally a boot and shoe maker; and being exceedingly

ambitious, he had neglected exercise, and worked too hard at the bench,

as well as committed certain imprudences connected with diet, till he

was almost a perfect wreck, from dyspepsia. He was about twenty-five

years of age.

At first, despite of his ignorance, I had hope of being able to put him

upon the high road to health. He seemed unusually docile. But, as I have

before said, virtue is sometimes too easy. He would believe in and

follow me almost implicitly, for a little while; but when about half or

perhaps two-thirds of the way to the land of health, he would become

impatient, and either run to me anxiously or veer to somebody else. I

have known him to start in pursuit of me when I was a full day's journey

distant, and not easily found even then.

But I have also known him go, with the same earnestness and anxiety, to

another adviser, and follow his directions with the same care with which

he had followed my own, and perhaps about as long. While following a

person, however, he was, for a very short period at the first, entirely

devoted to him and his principles, which, as far as it went, was

undoubtedly favorable.

Once he followed, for a time, a clairvoyant,--a female,--and took her

medicine. She gave him, it is true, rather more medicine than he was

willing to take, or even pay for; but as I gave him less than he

desired, he thought it advisable to give her system a fair trial. I do

not know whether he thought himself at all benefited by her

prescriptions. Most certain it is that he did not long follow her, and

that he came to me again some time afterwards, in the same condition as

formerly.

In another instance, he sought relief of the hydropathists. One of the

most eminent of them had him under his care for a long time. I believe

he even visited, and staid a week or two, at a Water Cure Institution.

Yet he never acknowledged any benefit from this treatment. He finally

tried to unite allopathy and hydropathy, and to invoke their combined

forces. A meeting of myself and an eminent hydropathic practitioner was

appointed and held, but even this did not result in his recovery.

And yet he finally recovered, though I hardly know how. Such cases

force me to the acknowledgment that human physical nature is tough, that

we are machines made to live. Were it not so, this dyspeptic friend of

mine must, at a comparatively early age, have sank to the grave, a

victim of ignorance. He has, however, acquired wisdom in the school of

experience.

A brother of his, who was my patient in a similar complaint, and from

similar causes, recovered in a very few months. But he was not a mere

weathercock.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

MEASLES WITHOUT SNAKEROOT AND SAFFRON.

In the early part of the year 1854, measles prevailed considerably, and

was rather severe even under the most favorable circumstances. In our

cities, such as New York and Boston, it destroyed a great number of

valuable lives. It was by no means confined to children; it attacked

adults, who had hitherto escaped it, as well as children.

One of my most intimate female friends, who was over forty years of age,

had often been exposed to it without taking it, and had begun to hope

she should escape through life. The family to which she belonged had it,

and in the end a blow fell on her. It alarmed her most fearfully. She

declared, again and again, that she should not and could not survive it,

and her fears greatly aggravated the severity of her symptoms.

She was well acquainted with the most enlightened views on the subject

of disease, and though her fears were great, she endeavored to pursue

the proper course at first, which, as she knew, consisted mainly in

supporting her strength as much as possible, in the most appropriate and

healthful ways. She had no thought, it would seem, of taking medicine.

But she had neighbors,--some of them of the gossiping kind,--who called

on her frequently, to convince her of the necessity of _taking something

to bring out the measles_, and to relate the pitiful story of Mr. and

Mrs. Such-an-one, who perished because they would do nothing to save

themselves, and to entreat her to take at least a little saffron and

snakeroot tea. And they had some influence with her; not indeed at

first, but after she became weakened by the disease. Drowning people, it

is said, catch at straws.

I was called to see her late one Saturday evening. She did not know, as

she said, that any medicine was needed, but as she was considerably

advanced in life, and many had sunk under the disease of late, and as

she had such a continual feeling of depression and fainting, she thought

it barely possible I might think it advisable to give her some little

thing to make her feel more comfortable.

There were indeed many things that required attention. Her feet were

cold, unnecessarily so, and her room was not properly ventilated. Then

she needed small draughts of water much oftener than she had been

accustomed to receive them, or had dared to venture in their use. She

needed no snakeroot and saffron, nor indeed any other form of herb tea.

I gave particular orders with regard to the little things so needful in

such cases, and in order to be on hand in case of alarm, I remained in

the house till morning.

More than once during the night, her courage nearly failed her, and I

was summoned to her bedside. In one or two instances, she ventured to

complain of me as neglectful of her case, because I gave her no

medicine. But I cheered and encouraged her as well as I could. Her

disease had made her a child, and she needed a child's treatment. I was

not, indeed, without my fears, but I did not see how her condition could

be alleviated by medicinal agents, unless they become necessary as a

substitute for that faith in Nature, which she was accustomed to

exercise when she had more strength. This faith, as I have already told

you, did indeed sometimes fall a little below the proper standard, but

the depression was in general but momentary.

Early in the morning a near neighbor called, and kindly inquired how she

did; and when assured that she was, as yet, no better, was unable longer

to repress her feelings. "Why, in the case of _my_ children," said she,

"the measles never came out without giving them something, and they

never would have done so to this day." Yet she had a large family. I

might have asked her how she knew what Nature _could_ have done unaided,

since she gave her no opportunity to test her strength; but she was too

ignorant to converse with on such subjects. To have asked her how she

knew whether her children got well in spite of the medicine they took,

or on account of it, would have been but throwing pearls before swine,

and I would not do it.

It was very soon reported, all over the neighborhood, that Mrs. O. was

in a very dangerous condition, and if she did not have some other

doctor, would soon die. And, what was worst of all, the stories got back

to Mrs. O. herself. And now came the tug of war; and had not the

eruption, just at this time made its appearance, I do not know what the

results might have been.

Before noon, however, of this day (Sunday), every thing went right, and

Mrs. O. was as blooming as she had been before pale and disconsolate. My

good friend who had given me the morning homily, did not again make her

appearance, and the neighbors in general who had dealt out their

jeremiades so freely, kept themselves at a very respectful distance.