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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.

The recovery was as rapid as could have been expected, even in the most vigorous young person. Nor was there any after-trouble, to require physic, or eye-water, or remedies for the dropsy. And, – what added to my own surprise, if not to that of the neighbors in general, – though she was a feeble woman, constitutionally, she recovered with as much rapidity as the most healthy and robust, and as well, to say the least, as if she had taken "snakeroot and saffron."

CHAPTER LXXXV
THE CONSUMPTIVE PAIR

A young man, recently married, called on me one day, and requested me to visit his family as soon as I could conveniently, for the purpose of having what he was pleased to call a general consultation.

I called in due time, and found the case as follows: Both the husband and wife were descended from consumptive families, and though they had got along tolerably well till very recently, there were now, in them both, many evidences of approaching disease; and though consumptive people are said to be slow in admitting they have consumption, yet this young couple formed an exception to the general rule.

In the bosom of the family, and possessed of their entire confidence, I had an ample opportunity for examining the case of this interesting couple. I found the tendency downward much more marked and rapid than I had expected, and I frankly told them so. Some of the circumstances were, indeed, rather peculiar. Consumptive people are generally sensual, while indulgence is peculiarly fatal to them. But here was a case more glaring than I had before seen. They had been married but about three months; nor were the indulgences of the table believed to be remarkable, as they were forbidden by a due regard to economy. They suffered much by excessive heat in their rooms, both by day and by night, and in several other ways, much more than by high living.

But I endeavored to put all things right, and to convince them of the necessity of keeping them so. In a long, but very familiar series of conversations, – for the most part separately, – I endeavored to show them that conjugal life was a life of duty, as well as of enjoyment; and that consumptive people, in order to live out more than half their days, must forego a great many gratifications to which they might very naturally lay claim.

The results of this conversation were probably worth a hundred-fold the expense they involved. This young couple are, to this hour, for aught I know, enjoying tolerable health; and their health is improving. Their children, though not strong, reap the full benefit of thorough parental reform; and their scrofulous tendencies seem every day more and more receding.

CHAPTER LXXXVI
HOW TO CURE CHOLERA

While cholera was prevailing in our large towns and cities, and a few cases were occurring and proving fatal in my own neighborhood, a friend of mine, who had till recently been a sea captain, complained, one day, of cholera symptoms, and begged to know what he could do to ward off the threatened disease.

On inquiry I found he was more than half right, that cholera, surely enough, was already marking him for its victim. The rice-water discharges, so called, had actually commenced. Had he been any thing but a resolute tar, he would have gone on, most evidently, into severe if not fatal disease.

I gave him the best advice I was able, with regard to diet, exercise, etc., – probably the same, or about the same, that any thoughtful medical man, in the same circumstances, would have given. He was to be cheerful, quiet, and abstinent. For food, he was to use nothing but a little boiled rice, – at least, till the symptoms of cholera began to abate. He was especially directed to avoid all medicine.

Several weeks passed away, during which I heard nothing from him. As I did not hear of his death, however, I concluded he must have recovered. One day, rather unexpectedly, I met him again, and inquired familiarly how he got along with his cholera? He laughed outright, but immediately added, – "Sit down, sir, and I will tell you the whole story."

"After I left you," said he, "the thought struck me, – Why cannot I control the muscles of my system as well as my appetites and passions? Indeed, on occasions, I have done it, at least for a short time. These little rice-water evacuations cannot, in the nature of things, do much harm by being retained. I can do what any man can. These frequent demands of nature seem to me very unreasonable. I will not yield to them. And, like a good sailor, I kept my word. For nearly a whole day I never permitted a single evacuation. Then, after yielding obedience, for once, to nature's clamorous demands, I again enforced my prohibitory law. My task, the second day, was less severe than it was the first, and on the third day I got along very comfortably. The fourth day I was well; and to-day you see me here."

Whether he told me the truth, I do not know, of course; but I give the statement, as nearly as I can recollect, just as it was given to me. I have reason, however, for believing it to be true. The man is still alive, and is as likely to live for twenty or twenty-five years to come, as you or I, or any other individual.

Mrs. Willard, of Troy, New York, under the full impression that the seat of human life is in the lungs, and not in the heart, and that even the blue color of the skin during the collapse of Asiatic cholera, is owing to an accumulation of unburnt carbon in the air cells of the lungs, made the experiment of trusting a few patients, in this disease, to the full influence of pure air, and nothing else. According to her account the experiments were most admirably successful. She cured every individual she experimented on (and it was a considerable number), and in a comparatively short period.

It was my good fortune to escape cholera patients, with the single exception mentioned above. However, I am quite confident that, but for the alarm, which more than half paralyzes our efforts, we might much more frequently recover, under its deadly influences, especially if we begin the work of preparation in good season, and duly and faithfully persevere. There is much in enduring to the end.

CHAPTER LXXXVII
OBSTINACY AND SUICIDE

Without examining the term suicide, in regard to its various shades of meaning, I have placed it at the head of this chapter; for I think it properly belongs there. Of this, however, I leave the reader to judge when he has heard a statement of the facts in the case to which I have applied it.

A young woman was admitted to the family where I was, to be treated for a nervous complaint so obstinate as to remind one who was not wholly insane nor strikingly imaginative, of the demoniacal possessions of eighteen hundred years ago. She would not eat; she would not drink; she would not or could not sleep. In short, she would not, if she could help it, do any thing which did not have an immediate bearing on her own well-being, for the moment. She was, in truth, one of the most selfish creatures in human shape I ever yet saw. If Dr. Johnson, who is said to have held that every sick person is a rascal, had seen her, I wonder what he would have said of the case.

She was one of those young women who have never been governed, and hence cannot govern themselves. If she took it into her head to do or not to do a thing, she would be sure to carry her point, if not in one way, at least in another.

How she came to consent to be placed under my care, I never knew; for all the neighbors and friends of the poor girl well understood that if she came there she would have to obey me; and yet that, if she did obey me, it would be the first instance in which she ever yielded to any mind or will but her own, either earthly or heavenly. Perhaps it was a last resort – a sort of desperation.

I began my directions, however, as if I expected to be obeyed, and had no fears of any disinclination on her part. Some things which pleased her, she consented to attempt; others she would tell me she could not do. When I was quite confident nothing was wanting but a will, I sometimes asked for a reason; but it could, in no instance, be obtained. If I pressed her for an answer, or for a reason, she would either be silent or groan most dreadfully with pain!

At length I saw that nothing could be obtained in this way, and that she must either attend to my directions, as far as was really in her power, or I could have nothing to do with her; and I told her so. She did not appear to care. Her alienation of feeling was so rapid that in a very few days she seemed almost to hate the very sight of me. Indeed, I believe she made statements to this effect to several of her friends.

Her report, so unfavorable and so very strange, soon reached the ears of several very respectable people, who in wonder and surprise came to me, to learn what it meant, and among the rest came her minister. They made diligent though respectful inquiry whether the facts were as she represented them to be. I believe that, for the most part, they were satisfied with the treatment.

But the girl herself was not satisfied. She could not leave the house without help; and yet it was easy to see that she was determined not to remain. She preferred, as she said, to die. Everybody seemed to pity her, despite of her unreasonableness, and the more for her unreasonableness. Her friends assured her that this treatment of mine afforded her the last chance of recovery, and begged her not to decide to leave us too hastily. It was all to no purpose, however; she said she preferred death in the street to a cure at my hands.

There had been serious difficulty about her diet. I had strenuously forbidden the use of certain condiments which I thought injurious to her, but which she was resolutely determined to have. At first, a few things prepared to her taste had been smuggled in by certain psuedo friends; but this, when discovered, was absolutely prohibited.

One evening, just at dark, some of her friends called to see her and me. They found me in the sitting-room. We had a short conversation concerning the patient, in which they were made most distinctly to understand that they must either leave her to be treated wholly according to my discretion or remove her. They were left at a loss what course was best; but at length, in compliance with her clamors, they placed her in their carriage and carried her away.

This was both the first and last patient that ever ran away from me, or that ever appeared to be desirous of doing so. On the whole, though no one pitied her more than myself, I was glad when she was gone. She was hardly worth curing. I never heard from her more, except vaguely, some time afterward, that she was dead, which was probably correct. Most certainly I could not have lived long, in her circumstances.

I was very unwise in taking the charge of her, or, at least, in retaining her a moment after she refused to obey me. However, I had my reward. The public not being possessed of all the facts in the case, probably lost confidence in me. It was proper that they should. He who takes a viper to his bosom, must not be surprised if he suffers the natural consequences of his presumption.