WHAT a blessed era in the world's history that was when the ladies had no nerves! Alas! I was born too late instead of too early, as the complaint of some is. I am cursed with nerves, and, as a consequence, am ever and anon distressed with nervous fears of some direful calamity or painful affliction. I am a simpleton for this, I know; but then, how can I help it? I try to be a woman of sense, but my nerves are too delicately strung. Reason is not sufficient to subdue the fears of impending evil that too often haunt me.
It would not be so bad with me, if I did not find so many good souls ready to add fuel to the flames of my fears. One of my most horrible apprehensions, since I have been old enough to think about it, has been of that dreadful disease, cancer. I am sure I shall die of it,—or, if not, some time in life have to endure a frightful operation for its removal.
I have had a dull, and sometimes an acute pain in one of my breasts, for some years. I am sure it is a cancer forming, though my husband always ridicules my fears. A few days ago a lady called in to see me. The pain had been troubling me, and I felt nervous and depressed.
"You don't look well," said my visitor.
"I am not very well," I replied.
"Nothing serious, I hope?"
"I am afraid there is, Mrs. A—" I looked gloomy, I suppose, for I felt so.
"You really alarm me. What can be the matter?"
"I don't know that I have ever mentioned it to you, but I have, for a long time, had a pain in my left breast, where I once had a gathering, and in which hard lumps have ever since remained. These have increased in size, of late, and I am now confirmed in my fears that a cancer is forming."
"Bless me!" And my visitor lifted both hands and eyes. "What kind of a pain is it?"
"A dull, aching pain, with occasional stitches running out from one spot, as if roots were forming."
"Just the very kind of pain that Mrs. N—had for some months before the doctors pronounced her affection cancer. You know Mrs. N—?"
"Not personally. I have heard of her."
"You know she had one of her breasts taken off?"
"Had she?" I asked, in a husky voice. I had horrible feelings.
"Oh, yes!" My visitor spoke with animation.
"She had an operation performed about six months ago. It was dreadful! Poor soul!"
My blood fairly curdled; but my visitor did not notice the effect of her words.
"How long did the operation last?" I ventured to inquire.
"Half an hour."
"Half an hour! So long?"
"Yes; it was a full half hour from the time the first incision was made until the last little artery was taken up."
"Horrible! horrible!" I ejaculated, closing my eyes, and shuddering.
"If so horrible to think of, what must it be in reality?" said my thoughtless visitor. "If it were my case, I would prefer death. But Mrs. N—is not an ordinary woman. She possesses unusual fortitude, and would brave any thing for the sake of her husband and children. It took even her, however, a long time to make up her mind to have the operation performed; and it was only when she was satisfied that further delay would endanger her life, that she consented to have it done. I saw her just the day before; she looked exceedingly pale, and said but little. A very intimate friend was with her, whom I was surprised to hear talk to her in the liveliest manner, upon subjects of the most ordinary interest. She was relating a very amusing story which she had read; when I entered, and was laughing at the incidents. Even Mrs. N—smiled. It seemed to me very much out of place, and really a mockery to the poor creature; it was downright cruel. How any one could do so I cannot imagine. 'My dear madam,' I said as soon as I could get a chance to speak to her, 'how do you feel? I am grieved to death at the dreadful operation you will have to go through. But you must bear it bravely; it will soon be over.' She thanked me with tears in her eyes for my kind sympathies, and said that she hoped she would be sustained through the severe trial. Before I could get a chance to reply, her friend broke in with some nonsensical stuff that made poor Mrs. N—laugh in spite of herself, even though the tears were glistening on her eyelashes. I felt really shocked. And then she ran on in the wildest strain you ever heard, turning even the most serious remark I could make into fun. And, would you believe it? she treated with levity the operation itself whenever I alluded to it, and said that it was nothing to fear—a little smarting and a little pain, but not so bad as a bad toothache, she would wager a dollar.
"'That is all very well for you to say,' I replied, my feelings of indignation almost boiling over, 'but if you had the operation to bear, you would find it a good deal worse than a bad toothache, or the severest pain you ever suffered in your life.'
"Even this was turned into sport. I never saw such a woman. I believe she would have laughed in a cholera hospital. I left, assuring Mrs. N—of my deepest sympathies, and urged her to nerve herself for the sad trial to which she was so soon to be subjected. I was not present when the operation was performed, but one who attended all through the fearful scene gave me a minute description of every thing that occurred."
The thought of hearing the details of a dreadful operation made me sick at heart, and yet I felt a morbid desire to know all about it. I could not ask my visitor to pause; and yet I dreaded to hear her utter another sentence. Such was the strange disorder of my feelings! But it mattered not what process of thought was going on in my mind, or what was the state of my feelings; my visitor went steadily on with her story, while every fifth word added a beat to my pulse per minute.
The effect of this detail was to increase all the cancerous symptoms in my breast, or to cause me to imagine that they were increased. When my husband came home, I was in a sad state of nervous excitement. He anxiously inquired the cause.
"My breast feels much worse than it has felt for a long time," said I. "I am sure a cancer is forming. I have all the symptoms."
"Do you know the symptoms?" he asked.
"Mrs. N—had a cancer in her breast, and my symptoms all resemble hers."
"How do you know?"
"Mrs. A—has been here, and she is quite intimate with Mrs. N—. All my symptoms, she says, are precisely like hers."
"I wish Mrs. A—was in the deserts of Arabia!" said my husband, in a passion. "Even if what she said were true, what business had she to say it? Harm, not good, could come of it. But I don't believe you have any more cancer in your breast than I have. There is an obstruction and hardening of the glands, and that is about all."
"But Mrs. N—'s breast was just like mine, for Mrs. A—says so. She described the feeling Mrs. N—had, and mine is precisely like it."
"Mrs. A—neither felt the peculiar sensation in Mrs. N—'s breast nor in yours; and, therefore, cannot know that they are alike. She is an idle, croaking gossip, and I wish she would never cross our threshold. She always does harm."
I felt that she had done me harm, but I wouldn't say so. I was a good deal vexed at the way my husband treated the matter, and accused him of indifference as to whether I had a cancer or not. He bore the accusation very patiently, as, indeed, he always does any of my sudden ebullitions of feeling. He knows my weakness.
"If I thought there were danger," he mildly said, "I would be as much troubled as you are."
"As to danger, that is imminent enough," I returned, fretfully.
"On the contrary, I am satisfied that there is none. One of your symptoms makes this perfectly clear."
"Indeed! What symptom?" I eagerly asked.
"Your terrible fears of a cancer are an almost certain sign that you will never have one. The evil we most fear, rarely, if ever, falls upon us."
"That is a very strange way to talk," I replied.
"But a true way, nevertheless," said my husband.
"I can see no reason in it. Why should we be troubled to death about a thing that is never going to happen?"
"The trouble is bad enough, without the reality, I suppose. We are all doomed to have a certain amount of anxiety and trouble here, whether real or imaginary. Some have the reality, and others the imagination. Either is bad enough; I don't know which is worse."
"I shall certainly be content to have the imaginary part," I replied.
"That part you certainly have, and your full share of it. I believe you have, at some period or other, suffered every ill that flesh is heir to. As for me, I would rather have a good hearty fit of sickness, a broken leg or arm, or even a cancer, and be done with it, than become a living Pandora's box, even in imagination."
"As you think I am?"
"As I know you are."
"Then you would really like to see me have a cancer in my breast, and be done with it?" I said this pretty sharply.
"Don't look so fiercely at me," returned my husband, smiling. "I didn't say I would rather you would have a cancer; I said I would rather have one, and be done with it, than suffer as you do from the fear of it, and a hundred other evils."
"I must say you are quite complimentary to your wife," I returned, in a little better humour than I had yet spoken. The fact was, my mind took hold of what my husband said about real and imaginary evils, and was somewhat braced up. Of imaginary evils I had certainly had enough to entitle me to a whole lifetime exemption from real ones.
From the time Mrs. A—left me until my husband came in, the pain in my breast had steadily increased, accompanied by a burning and stinging sensation. In imagination, I could clearly feel the entire cancerous nucleus, and perceive the roots eating their way in all directions around it. This feeling, when I now directed my thoughts to my breast, was gone—very little pain remained.
After tea, my husband went out and returned in about an hour. He said he had been round to consult with our physician, who assured him that he had seen hundreds of cases like mine, not one of which terminated in cancer; that such glandular obstructions were common, and might, under certain circumstances, unless great care were used, cause inflammation and suppuration; but were no more productive of cancer, a very rare disease, and consequent upon hereditary tendencies, than were any of the glandular obstructions or gatherings in other parts of the body.
"But the breast is so tender a place," I said.
"And yet," returned my husband, "the annals of surgery show ten cancers in other parts of the body to one in the breast."
In this way my husband dissipated my fears, and restored my mind to a comparatively healthy state. This, however, did not long remain; I was attacked on the next day with a dull, deeply-seated pain in one of my jaw-teeth. At first, I did not regard it much, but its longer continuance than usual began to excite my fears, especially as the tooth was, to all appearance, sound.
While suffering from this attack, I had a visit from another friend of the same class with Mrs. A—. She was a kind, good-natured soul, and would watch by your sick-bed untiringly, night after night, and do it with real pleasure. But she had, like Mrs. A—, a very thoughtless habit of relating the many direful afflictions and scenes of human suffering it had been her lot to witness and hear of, unconscious that she often did great harm thereby, particularly when these things were done, as was too often the case, apropos.
"You are not well," she said, when she came in and saw the expression of pain in my face.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing more than a very troublesome tooth-ache," I replied.
"Use a little kreosote," said she.
"I would; but the tooth is sound."
"A sound tooth, is it?" My visitor's tone and look made my heart beat quicker.
"Yes, it is perfectly sound."
"I am always afraid of an aching tooth that is perfectly sound, since poor Mrs. P—had such a time with her jaw."
"What was that?" I asked, feeling instantly alarmed.
"Which tooth is it that aches?" my friend asked.
I pointed it out.
"The very same one that troubled Mrs. P—for several months, night and day."
"Was the pain low and throbbing?" I eagerly asked.
"Yes; that was exactly the kind of pain she had."
"And did it continue so long as several months?"
"Oh, yes. But that wasn't the worst! the aching was caused by the formation of an abscess."
"A what?" A cold chill passed over me.
"An abscess."
"At the root of her tooth?"
"Yes. But that wasn't so bad as its consequences; the abscess caused the bone to decay, and produced what the doctors called a disease of the antrum, which extended until the bone was eaten clear through, so that the abscess discharged itself by the nostrils."
"Oh, horrible!" I exclaimed, feeling as sick as death, while the pain in my tooth was increased fourfold. "How long did you say this abscess was in forming?"
"Some months."
"Did she have an operation performed?" I have a terrible fear of operations.
"Oh, yes. It was the only thing that saved her life. They scraped all the flesh away on one cheek and then cut a hole through the bone. This was after the tooth had been drawn, in doing which the jaw-bone was broken dreadfully. It was months before it healed, or before she could eat with any thing but a spoon."
This completely unmanned, or, rather, unwomanned me. I asked no more questions, although my visitor continued to give me a good deal of minute information on the subject of abscesses, and the dreadful consequences that too frequently attended them. After she left another friend called, to whom I mentioned the fact of having a very bad tooth-ache, and asked her if she had ever known any one to have an abscess at the root of a sound tooth.
She replied that tooth-ache from that cause was not unfrequent, and that, sometimes, very bad consequences resulted from it. She advised me, by all means, to have the tooth extracted.
"I can't bear the thought of that," I replied. "I never had but one tooth drawn, and when I think of having another extracted I grow cold all over."
"Still, that is much better than having caries of the jaw, which has been known to attend an abscess at the root of a tooth."
"But this does not always follow?"
"No. It is of rare occurrence, I believe. Though no one knows when such a disease exists, nor where it is going to terminate. Even apart from caries of the jaw, the thing is painful enough. Mrs. T—, an intimate friend of mine, suffered for nearly a mouth, night and day, and finally had to have the tooth extracted, when her mouth was so much inflamed, and so tender, that the slightest touch caused the most exquisite pain. A tumor was found at the root of the tooth as large as a pigeon's egg!"
This completed the entire overthrow of my nerves. I begged my friend, in mercy to spare me any further relations of this kind. She seemed half offended, and I had to explain the state of mind which had been produced by what a former visitor had said. She, evidently, thought me a very weak woman. No doubt I am.
"In the dumps again, Kate?" said my husband, when he returned home in the evening. "What is the matter now?"
"Enough to put you or any one else in the dumps," I replied fretfully. "This tooth-ache grows worse, instead of better."
"Does it, indeed? I am really very sorry. Can't any thing be done to relieve you?"
"Nothing, I am persuaded. The tooth is sound, and there must be an abscess forming at the root, to occasion so much pain."
"Who, in the name of common sense, has put this in your head?"
My husband was worried.
"Has Mrs. A—been here again?"
"No," was my simple response.
"Then what has conjured up this bugbear to frighten you out of your seven senses?"
I didn't like this language at all. My husband seemed captious and unreasonable. Dear soul! I supposed he had cause; for they say a nervous woman is enough to worry a man's life out of him; and, dear knows, I am nervous enough! But I had only my fears before me then: I saw that my husband did not sympathize with me in the least. I merely replied—
"It may be very well for you to speak to your wife in this way, after she has suffered for nearly three days with a wretched tooth-ache. If the tooth were at all decayed, or there were any apparent cause for the pain, I could bear it well enough, and wouldn't trouble you about it. But it is so clear to my mind now, that nothing but a tumour forming at the root could produce such a steady, deep-seated, throbbing pain, that I am with reason alarmed; and, instead of sympathy from my husband I am met with something very much like ridicule."
"My dear Kate," said my husband, tenderly, and in a serious voice, "pardon my apparent harshness and indifference. If you are really so serious about the matter, it may be as well to consult a dentist, and get his advice. He may be able to relieve very greatly your fears, if not the pain in your jaw."
"He will order the tooth to be extracted, I have not the least doubt."
"If there should be a tumour at the root, it will be much safer to have it out than let it remain."
A visit to the dentist at once was so strenuously urged by my husband, that I couldn't refuse to go. I got myself ready, and we went around before tea. I did not leave the house, however, before making my husband promise he would not insist upon my having the tooth taken out on the first visit. This he did readily.
The dentist, after examining very carefully the tooth pointed out to him, said that he didn't believe that tooth ached at all.
"Not ache, doctor?" said I, a little indignantly.
"If you had it in your head, you would think it ached."
"Pardon me, madam," he returned, with a polite bow. "I did not mean to say that you were not in pain. I only mean to say that I think that you are mistaken in its exact locality."
"I don't see how I can be. I have had it long enough, I should think, to determine its locality with some certainty."
"Let me examine your mouth again, madam," said the dentist.
This time he examined the right jaw—the pain was on the left side.
"I think I have found out the enemy," said he, as he took the instrument from my mouth with which he had been sounding my teeth. "The corresponding tooth on the other side has commenced decaying, and the nerve is already slightly exposed."
"But what has that to do with this side?" I put my hand where the pain was, as I spoke.
"It may have a good deal to do with it. We shall soon see." And he went to his case of instruments.
"You are not going to extract it, doctor!" I rose from the operating chair in alarm.
"Oh no, no, madam! I am only going to put something into it, to destroy the sensibility of the nerve, previous to preparing it for being filled. The tooth can still be preserved. We will know in a minute or two whether all the difficulty lies here."
A preparation, in which I could perceive the taste and odour of creosote, was inserted in the cavity of the decayed tooth. In less than five seconds I was free from pain.
"I thought that was it," said the dentist, smiling. "A sound tooth is not very apt to ache of itself. It is sometimes difficult to tell which is the troublesome member. But we have discovered the offending one this time, and will put an end to the disturbance he has been creating."
I could say not a word. My husband looked at me with a humorous expression in his eye. After we were in the street, he remarked, pleasantly—
"No abscess yet, my dear. Were it not for physicians, who understand their business, I am afraid your Job's comforters would soon have you imagine yourself dying, and keep up the illusion until you actually gave up the ghost."
"I really am ashamed of myself," I replied; "but you know how shattered my nerves are, and how little a thing it takes to unsettle me. I do wish my Job's comforters, as you call them, would have more discretion than to talk to me as they do."
"Let them talk; you know it is all talk."
"No—not all talk. They relate real cases of disease and suffering, and I immediately imagine that I have all the symptoms that ultimately lead to the same sad results."
"Be a woman, Kate! be a woman," responded my husband.
This was all very well, and all easily said. I believe, however, I am a woman, but a woman of the nineteenth century, with nerves far too delicately strung. Ah me! if some of my kind friends would only be a little more thoughtful, they would save me many a wretched day. I hope this will meet the eyes of some of them, and that they will read it to a little profit. It may save others, if it does not save me from a repetition of such things as I have described.
TWO young men, one with a leather cap on his head and military buttons on his coat, sat in close conversation, long years ago, in the bar-room of the—Hotel. The subject that occupied their attention seemed to be a very exciting one, at least to him of the military buttons and black cap, for he emphasized strongly, knit his brow awfully, and at last went so far as to swear a terrible oath.
"Don't permit yourself to get so excited, Tom," interposed a friend. "It won't help the matter at all."
"But I've got no patience."
"Then it is time you had some," coolly returned the friend. "If you intend pushing your way into the good graces of my lady Mary Clinton, you must do something more than fume about the little matter of rivalry that has sprung up."
"Yes; but to think of a poor milk-sop of an author—author?—pah!—scribbler!—to think, I say, of a spiritless creature like Blake thrusting himself between me and such a girl as Mary Clinton; and worse, gaining her notice, is too bad! He has sonneteered her eyebrows, no doubt—flattered her in verse until she don't know who or where she is, and in this way become a formidable rival. But I won't bear it—I'll—ll"—
"What will you do?"
"Do? I'll—I'll wing him! that's what I'll do. I'll challenge the puppy and shoot him."
And the young lieutenant, for such he was, flourished his right arm and looked pistol-balls and death.
"But he won't fight, Tom."
"Won't he?" and the lieutenant's face brightened. "Then I'll post him for a coward; that'll finish him. All women hate cowards. I'll post him—yes, and cowhide him in the bargain, if necessary."
"Posting will do," half sarcastically replied his friend. "But upon what pretext will you challenge him?"
"I'll make one. I'll insult him the first time I meet him and then, if he says any thing, challenge and shoot him."
"That would be quite gentlemanly, quite according to the code of honour," returned the friend, quietly.
The young military gentleman we have introduced was named Redmond. The reader has already penetrated his character. In person he was quite good-looking, though not the Adonis he deemed himself. He had fallen deeply in love with the "acres of charms" possessed by a certain Miss Clinton, and was making rapid inroad upon her heart—at least he thought so—when a young man well known in the literary circles made his appearance, and was received with a degree of favour that confounded the officer, who had already begun to think himself sure of the prize. Blake had a much readier tongue and a great deal more in his head than the other, and could therefore, in the matter of mind at least, appear to much better advantage than his rival. He had also written and published one or two popular works; this gave him a standing as an author. Take him all in all, he was a rival to be feared, and Redmond was not long in making the discovery. What was to be done? A military man must not be put down or beaten off by a mere civilian. The rival must be gotten rid of in some manner; the professional means was, as has been seen thought of first. Blake must be challenged and killed off, and then the course would be clear.
A few days after this brave and honourable determination, the officer met the author in a public place, and purposely jostled him rudely. Blake said nothing, thinking it possible that it was an accident; but he remained near Redmond, to give him a chance to repeat the insult, if such had been his intention. It was not long before the author was again jostled in a still ruder manner than before at the same time some offensive word was muttered by the officer. This was in the presence of a number of respectable persons, who could not help hearing, seeing, and understanding all. Satisfied that an insult was intended, Blake looked him in the face for a moment, and then asked, loud enough to be heard all around—"Did you intend to jostle me?"
"I did," was the angry retort.
"Gentlemen never do such things."
As Blake said this with marked emphasis, he looked steadily into the officer's face.
"You'll hear from me, sir." And as the officer said this, menacingly, he turned and walked away with a military air.
"There's trouble for you now, Blake; he'll challenge you," said two or three friends who instantly gathered around him.
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly; he is an officer—fighting is his trade."
"Well, let him."
"What'll you do?"
"Accept the challenge, of course."
"And fight?"
"Certainly."
"He'll shoot you."
"I'm not afraid."
Blake returned with his friend to his lodgings, where he found a billet already from Redmond, who was all eagerness to wing his rival.
On the next morning, two friends of the bellige-rents were closeted for the purpose of arranging the preliminaries for the fight.
"The weapon?" asked the friend of the military man. "Your principal, by the laws of honour, has the choice; as, also, to name time and place, &c."
"Yes, I understand. All is settled."
"He will fight, then?"
"Fight? Oh, certainly; Blake is no coward."
"Well, then, name the weapons."
"A pair of goose-quills."
"Sir!" in profound astonishment.
"The weapons are to be a pair of good Russia quills, opaque, manufactured into pens of approved quality. The place of meeting, the—mdash; Gazette; the time, to-morrow morning, bright and early."
"Do you mean to insult me?"
"By no means."
"You cannot be serious."
"Never was more serious in my life. By the code of honour, the challenged party has the right to choose weapons, place of meeting, and time. Is it not so?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. Your principal has challenged mine. All these rights are of course his; and he is justified in choosing those weapons with which he is most familiar. The weapon he can use best is the pen, and he chooses that. If Lieut. Redmond had been the challenged party, he would, of course, have named pistols, with which he is familiar, and Mr. Blake would have been called a coward, poltroon, or something as bad, if, after sending a challenge, he had objected to the weapons. Will your principal find himself in a different position if he decline this meeting on like grounds? I think not. Pens are as good as pistols at any time, and will do as much."
"Fighting with pens! Preposterous!"
"Not quite so preposterous as you may think. Mr. B. has more than insinuated that Mr. Redmond is no gentleman. For this he is challenged to a single combat that is to prove him to be a gentleman or not one. Surely the most sensible weapon with which to do this is the pen. Pistols won't demonstrate the matter; only the pen can do it, so the pen is chosen. In the—Gazette of to-morrow morning my friend stands ready to prove that he is a gentleman; and your friend that he is one, and that a gentleman has a right to insult publicly and without provocation whomsoever he pleases. Depend upon it, you will find this quite as serious an affair as if pistols were used."
"I did not come here, sir, to be trifled with."
"No trifling in the matter at all; I am in sober earnest. Pens are the weapons; the—Gazette, the battle-ground; time, early as you please to-morrow morning. Are you prepared for the meeting?"
"No."
"Do you understand the consequences?"
"What consequences?"
"Your principal will be posted as a coward before night."
"Are you mad?"
"No, cool and earnest. We fully understand what we are about."
The officer's second was nonplussed; he did not know what to say or think. He was unprepared for such a position of affairs.
"I'll see you in the course of an hour," he at length said, rising.
"Very well; you will find me here."
"Is all settled?" asked the valiant lieutenant, as his second came into his room at the hotel, where he was pacing the floor.
"Settled? No; nor likely to be. I objected to the weapons, and, indeed, the whole proposed arrangement."
"Objected to the weapons! And, pray, what did he name? A blunderbuss?"
"No; nor a duck gun, with trumpet muzzle; but an infernal pen!"
"A what?"
"Why, curse the fellow, a pen! You are to use pens—the place of meeting, the—Gazette—time, to-morrow morning. He is to prove you are no gentleman, and you are to prove you are one, and that a gentleman is at all times privileged to insult whomsoever he pleases without provocation."
"He's a cowardly fool!"
"If his terms are not accepted, he threatens to post you for a coward before night."
"What?"
"You must accept or be posted. Think of that!"
The precise terms in which the principal swore, and the manner in which he fumed for the next five minutes, need not be told. He was called back to more sober feelings by the question—"Do you accept the terms of the meeting?"
"No, of course not; the fellow's a fool."
"Then you consent to be posted. How will that sound?"
"I'll cut off the rascal's ears if he dare do such a thing."
"That won't secure Mary Clinton, the cause of this contest."
"Hang it, no!"
"With pens for weapons he will wing you a little too quick."
"No doubt. But the public won't bear him out such an outrage—such a violation of all the rules of honour."
"By the code of honour, the challenged party has the right to choose the weapons, &c."
"I know."
"And you are afraid to meet the man you have challenged upon the terms he proposes. That is all plain and simple enough. The world will understand it all."
"But what is to be done?"
"You must fight, apologize, or be posted; there is no alternative. To be posted won't do; the laugh would be too strongly against you."
"It will be as bad, and even worse, to fight as he proposes."
"True. What then?"
"It must be made up somehow or other."
"So I think. Will you write an apology?"
"I don't know; that's too humiliating."
"It's the least of the three evils."
So, at last, thought the valiant Lieut. Redmond. When the seconds again met, it was to arrange a settlement of differences. This could only be done by a very humbly written apology, which was made. On the next day the young officer left the city, a little wiser than he came. Blake and his second said but little about the matter. A few choice friends were let into the secret, which afforded many a hearty laugh. Among these friends was Mary Clinton, who not long after gave her heart and hand to the redoubtable author.
As for the lieutenant, he declares that he had as lief come in contact with a Paixhan gun as an author with his "infernal pen." He understands pistols, small swords, rifles, and even cannons, but he can't stand up when pen-work is the order of the day. The odds would be too much against him.
I WAS once sent for, in great haste, to attend a gentleman of respectability, whose wife, a lady of intelligence and refinement, had discovered him in his room lying senseless upon the floor. On arriving at the house, I found Mrs. H— in great distress of mind.
"What is the matter with Mr. H—?" I asked, on meeting his lady, who was in tears and looking the picture of distress.
"I'm afraid it is apoplexy," she replied. "I found him lying upon the floor, where he had, to all appearance, fallen suddenly from his chair. His face is purple, and though he breathes, it is with great difficulty."
I went up to see my patient. He had been lifted from the floor, and was now lying upon the bed. Sure enough, his face was purple and his breathing laboured, but somehow the symptoms did not indicate apoplexy. Every vein in his head and face was turgid, and he lay perfectly stupid, but still I saw no clear indications of an actual or approaching congestion of the brain.
"Hadn't he better be bled, doctor?" asked the anxious wife.
"I don't know that it is necessary," I replied. "I think, if we let him alone, it will pass off in the course of a few hours."
"A few hours! He may die in half an hour."
"I don't think the case is so dangerous, madam."
"Apoplexy not dangerous?"
"I hardly think it apoplexy," I replied.
"Pray, what do you think it is, doctor?"
Mrs. H— looked anxiously into my face.
I delicately hinted that he might, possibly, have been drinking too much brandy; but to this she positively and almost indignantly objected.
"No, doctor; I ought to know about that," she said. "Depend upon it, the disease is more deeply seated. I am sure he had better be bled. Won't you bleed him, doctor? A few ounces of blood taken from his arm may give life to the now stagnant circulation of the blood in his veins."
Thus urged, I, after some reflection, ordered a bowl and bandage, and opening a vein, from which the blood flowed freely, relieved him of about eight ounces of his circulating medium. But he still lay as insensible as before, much to the distress of his poor wife.
"Something else must be done, doctor," she urged, seeing that bleeding had accomplished nothing. "If my husband is not quickly relieved, he must die."
By this time, several friends and relatives, who had been sent for, arrived, and urged upon me the adoption of some more active means for restoring the sick man to consciousness. One proposed mustard plasters all over his body; another a blister on the head; another his immersion in hot water. I suggested that it might be well to use a stomach-pump.
"Why, doctor?" asked one of the friends.
"Perhaps he has taken some drug," I replied.
"Impossible, doctor," said the wife. "He has not been from home to-day, and there is no drug of any kind in the house."
"No brandy?" I ventured this suggestion again.
"No, doctor, no spirits of any kind, nor even wine, in the house," returned Mrs. H—, in an offended tone.
I was not the regular family physician, and had been called in to meet the alarming emergency, because my office happened to be nearest to the dwelling of Mr. H—. Feeling my position to be a difficult one, I suggested that the family physician had better be called.
"But the delay, doctor," urged the friends. "No harm will result from it, be assured," I replied.
But my words did not assure them. However, as I was firm in my resolution not to do any thing more for the patient until Dr. S— came, they had to submit. I wished to make a call of importance in the neighbourhood, and proposed going, to be back by the time Dr. S— arrived; but the friends of the sick man would not suffer me to leave the room.
When Dr. S— came, we conversed aside for a few minutes, and I gave him my views of the case, and stated what I had done and why I had done it. We then proceeded to the bedside of our patient; there were still no signs of approaching consciousness.
"Don't you think his head ought to be shaved and blistered?" asked the wife, anxiously. Dr. S— thought a moment, and then said—"Yes, by all means. Send for a barber; and also for a fresh fly-blister, four inches by nine."
I looked into the face of Dr. S— with surprise; it was perfectly grave and earnest. I hinted to him my doubt of the good that mode of treatment would do; but he spoke confidently of the result, and said that it would not only cure the disease, but, he believed, take away the predisposition thereto, with which Mr. H— was affected in a high degree.
The barber came. The head of H— was shaved, and Dr. S— applied the blister with his own hands, which completely covered the scalp from forehead to occiput.
"Let it remain on for two hours, and then make use of the ordinary dressing," said Dr. S—. "If he should not recover during the action of the blister, don't feel uneasy; sensibility will be restored soon after."
I did not call again, but I heard from Dr. S— the result.
After we left, the friends stood anxiously around the bed upon which the sick man lay; but though the blister began to draw, no signs of returning consciousness showed themselves, further than an occasional low moan, or an uneasy tossing of the arms. For full two hours the burning plaster parched the tender skin of H—'s shorn head, and was then removed; it had done good service. Dressings were then applied; repeated and repeated again; but still the sick man lay in a deep stupor.
"It has done no good; hadn't we better send for the doctor?" suggested the wife.
Just then the eyes of H— opened, and he looked with half-stupid surprise from face to face of the anxious group that surrounded the bed.
"What in the mischief's the matter?" he at length said. At the same time, feeling a strange sensation about his head, he placed his hand rather heavily thereon.
"Heavens and earth!" He was now fully in his senses. "Heavens and earth! what ails my head?"
"For mercy's sake, keep quiet," said the wife, the glad tears gushing over her face. "You have been very ill; there, there, now!" And she spoke soothingly. "Don't say a word, but lie very still."
"But my head! What's the matter with my head? It feels as if scalded. Where's my hair? Heavens and earth! Sarah, I don't understand this. And my arm? What's my arm tied up in this way for?"
"Be quiet, my dear husband, and I'll explain it all. Oh, be very quiet; your life depends upon it." Mr. H— sank back upon the pillow from which he had arisen, and closed his eyes to think. He put his hand to his head, and felt it, tenderly, all over, from temple to temple, and from nape to forehead.
"Is it a blister?" he at length asked.
"Yes, dear. You have been very ill; we feared for your life," said Mrs. H—, affectionately; "there have been two physicians in attendance."
H— closed his eyes again; his lips moved. Those nearest were not much edified by the whispered words that issued therefrom. They would have sounded very strangely in a church, or to ears polite and refined. After this, he lay for some time quiet.
"Threatened with apoplexy, I suppose?" he then said, interrogatively.
"Yes, dear," replied his wife. "I found you lying insensible upon the floor, on happening to come into your room. It was most providential that I discovered you when I did, or you would certainly have died."
H— shut his eyes and muttered something, with an air of impatience; but its meaning was not understood. Finding him out of danger, friends and relatives retired, and the sick man was left alone with his family.
"Sarah," he said, "why, in the name of goodness, did you permit the doctors to butcher me in this way? I'm laid up for a week or two, and all for nothing."
"It was to save your life, dear."
"Save the—!"
"H-u-s-h! There! do, for mercy's sake, be quiet; every thing depends upon it."
With a gesture of impatience, H— shut his eyes, teeth, and hands, and lay perfectly still for some minutes. Then he turned his face to the wall, muttering in a low, petulant voice—"Too bad! too bad! too bad!"
I had not erred in my first and my last impressions of H—'s disease, neither had Dr. S— although he used a very extraordinary mode of treatment. The facts of the case were these:
H— had a weakness; he could not taste wine nor strong drink without being tempted into excess. Both himself and friends were mortified and grieved at this; and they, by admonition, and he, by good resolutions, tried to bring about a reform; but to see was to taste, to taste was to fall. At last, his friends urged him to shut himself up at home for a certain time, and see if total abstinence would not give him strength. He got on pretty well for a few days, particularly so, as his coachman kept a well-filled bottle for him in the carriage-house, to which he not unfrequently resorted; but a too ardent devotion to this bottle brought on the supposed apoplexy.
Dr. S— was right in his mode of treating the disease after all, and did not err in supposing that it would reach the predisposition. The cure was effectual. H— kept quiet on the subject, and bore his shaved head upon his shoulders with as much philosophy as he could muster. A wig, after the sores made by the blister had disappeared, concealed the barber's work until his own hair grew again. He never ventured upon wine or brandy again for fear of apoplexy.
When the truth leaked out, as leak out such things always will, the friends of H— had many a hearty laugh; but they wisely concealed from the object of their merriment the fact that they knew any thing more than appeared of the cause of his supposed illness.