Forty Years in the Wilderness of Pills and Powders

But he was now gone to his final account, and on whose arm could Mary lean for medical advice? Her parents were too poor to pay a physician's bill. What had been paid to her former medical attendant – which, indeed was but a mere pittance – was by authority of the town. Mary felt all the delicacy she should have felt, in her circumstances, and perhaps more, for she refused for some time to ask for farther aid, preferring to groan her way alone.

One evening, when I was present on a moral errand, she spoke of the great benefit she had derived from the perusal of the little books I had sent her, and modestly observed that, deprived as she was by the wise dispensation of Providence, of her old friend and physician, she had sometimes dared to wish she could occasionally consult me. I told her I hoped she would not hesitate a moment to send for me, whenever she desired, for if in a situation to comply with her requests, I would always do so immediately. She was about to speak of her poverty, when I begged her not to think of that. The only condition I should impose, I told her, was that she should do her very best to follow, implicitly, my directions. With this condition she did not hesitate to promise a full and joyful compliance.

From that time forth I saw her frequently, since I well knew that even voluntary visits would be welcome. I found she had become convinced of the necessity of breathing pure air, and of ventilating her room every day. Nor did she neglect, as much as formerly, the great laws of cleanliness. Yet, alas! in this respect, the hard hand of necessity was upon her. She could not do all she wished. However, she could apply water to her person daily, if she could not to her clothing and bedding; so that, on the whole, she did not greatly suffer. Her mother did what she could, but she was old and decrepit.

She had also made another advance. She had contrived to obtain, I hardly know from what source, but probably from the hands of kind friends, a small amount of good fruit to use daily, with one or more of her meals. This excluded a part or portion of that kind of food which was more stimulating and doubtful.

But the greatest difficulty we had to encounter was to shake off the enormous load of narcotic medicine which had been so long prescribed for her that she seemed unable to live without it. Morphine, in particular, she had come to use in quantities which would have destroyed a person who was unaccustomed to its influence, and in frequently repeated doses. I told her she might as well die in one way as another; that the morphine, though it afforded a little temporary relief, was wearing out her vital energies at a most rapid rate, and that the safest, and, in the end, the easiest way for her was, to abandon it entirely. She followed my advice, and made the attempt.

I have forgotten how long a time it required to effect a complete emancipation from her slavery to drugs; but the process was a gradual one, and occupied at least several months. In the end, however, though not without considerable suffering, she was perfectly free, not only from her slavery to morphine, but to all other drugs. All this time, moreover, she was as well, to say the least, as before; perhaps, on the whole, a little better.

I now set myself, in good earnest, to the work of improving her physical habits. The laws of ventilation and cleanliness, to which her attention, as I have already intimated, had become directed, were still more carefully heeded. She was required to retire early and rise early, and to keep her mind occupied, though never to the point of fatigue, while awake. Her habits with regard to food and drink were changed very materially. The influence of the mind on the condition of the body was also explained to her, and the influence of temperature. In short, she was brought, as fast as possible, to the knowledge of physical law in its application to her circumstances, and encouraged to obey it.

The recuperative powers of nature, even in unfavorable circumstances, were soon apparent. This greatly increased her docility and inspired her with faith and hope. The greatest trouble was in regard to muscular exercise. Much of this was needed; and yet how could it be obtained? She could not walk, and yet, in her indigence, she had no means of conveyance, except at the occasional invitation of some friend.

But this even had its good tendencies. To take her up, as we would have taken a child, set her in a carriage and let her ride half a mile or a mile, was obviously of great service to her. She was far less fatigued by it than was expected; her subsequent sleep was far better; nor did any remote evil effects follow. This greatly increased her courage, and raised the hopes of her friends.

She was at length able to be placed in the railroad cars, and with the aid of coaches, at embarking and disembarking, to travel about a good deal, to the distance of ten, twelve, or twenty miles; and all this with favorable effects. Her recovery, at no distant day, began to be regarded, by the most sceptical, as quite probable.

My removal, a hundred miles or so from the village, just at this time, was, however, a misfortune to her. In one of her excursions, she received and accepted an invitation to spend a few months with a distant relative, where she came under the influence of one of the phases of modern quackery, by means of which her progress to the promised land of health was very considerably retarded. She even sickened, but afterward recovered.

Sometime after this, as I subsequently learned, she partially regained her good condition of steady progress, and returned to her father's house. Finding herself, at length, able to do something for her support, she entered into the service of a neighboring family, at first with little compensation except her board, but subsequently at half pay or more. Her domestic duties were such as only taxed her system to a degree which she was able to endure without any injury.

It was in this condition, that, after two or three years of absence, I found her and rejoiced with her. For, though she could no more be said to be restored to perfect health, than a vessel could be considered perfectly sound that is full of shot holes, yet her condition was far enough from being desperate, and was even comparatively excellent. I left her once more with the tear of gratitude to God on her cheek, and again, for many long years, neither saw her nor heard from her.

At our next interview she brought with her a gentleman whom she introduced to me as her husband. The meeting was to me wholly unexpected, but most happy. She lived in this relation, but without progeny, a few years more, and then sank in a decline, to rise no more till the sound of the last trumpet.

Of the particulars of her decline and death, I have never heard a word. Her scrofulous temperament and tendencies rendered her liable to numerous diseases of greater or less severity and danger, to some of which she probably fell a victim. It is, however, by no means impossible that her numerous cares and anxieties – for she was naturally very sensitive – may have hastened her exit.

If I have any misgivings in connection with this protracted, but very interesting case, and consequently any confessions to make, it is with reference to the point faintly alluded to in a preceding paragraph. While I honor, as much as any man, the marriage relation, – for it is in accordance with God's own intention, and is the first institution of high Heaven for human benefit and happiness, – I must freely confess that in the present fallen condition of our race, it occasionally happens that an individual is found unfit for the discharge of its various duties, as well as for the endurance of some of its peculiar responsibilities. Such, as I believe, among others, was Mary Benham.

CHAPTER LXII

FEMALE HEALTH, AND INSANE HOSPITALS

A female, about thirty-five years of age, and naturally of a melancholic temperament, was very frequently at my room for the purpose of conversing with me in regard to her health. Most of her complaints – for they were numerous – were grafted upon a strongly bilious habit, and were such as required in the possessor and sufferer, more than an ordinary measure of attention to the digestive organs and the skin. And yet both these departments, especially the latter, had been in her case, hitherto, utterly neglected. To speak plainly, and with some license as a physiologist, she had no skin. It was little more than a mere wrapper, so far as the great purposes of health were concerned. A dried and even tanned hide, could it have been fitted to her person with sufficient exactness, would have subserved nearly the same purposes.

Perhaps you will excuse the tendency in the description of this case, to exaggeration, when you are informed that the treatment of themselves, in the particular here alluded to, by females especially, is one which habitually fills one with disgust, and sometimes with indignation. Persons of good sense, of both sexes, who from month to month, perhaps from year to year, never wash their skins, nor use much muscular exercise, ought to know that they must, sooner or later, experience the dreadful penalty attached to violated physical law, and from which there is, neither on earth nor in heaven, any possible escape. Can any one suppose, for a moment, that so curious and complicated an organ as the skin, and one of such considerable extent, has nothing to do?

Nearly every living person has some idea, of greater or less intensity, of pores in the skin; at least, they use language which implies such an idea. They talk, often, of the necessity of keeping these pores open. But how is it to be done? Not certainly while they use little or no muscular exercise, by washing, once a day, their hands and faces merely, or, as some say, their fingers, their noses, and the tips of their chins. They may talk, on occasions, very boldly and flippantly, about sweating away a cold, as they term it; but do they vainly suppose that the sweat vessels or sweating machinery has nothing to do, from day to day, which might prevent the necessity of resorting to these sweating processes?

Miss L. appeared to be in utter ignorance of any laws of the skin, or of the digestive or muscular systems. And yet her thoughts had been turned, often and frequently, to her own feelings and sensations. She would talk, almost incessantly, if anybody would hear her, about her aches and pains, and could describe her whole train of feelings, from morning to evening, with a faithfulness and patience and minuteness that would have furnished a genius less than Defoe with material sufficient for quite a huge volume.

Now I could have visited and counselled Miss L., at least once a week, with great profit to herself, had she been as intelligent, in general, as she was familiar with her own sensations. As things were, her confidence was rather more troublesome than agreeable; but she was, practically, a standing patient; and physicians, as you know, cannot choose. They must be, among mankind, like the Great Physician, as they who "serve;" not as those who are to be served, or accommodated. And they must serve those who come to them.

Miss L. was evidently somewhat disappointed, when she found I was not disposed to give her any medicine. A little, she thought, might sometimes be useful; a great deal she did not believe in, of course. Experience had forced upon her some of the lessons of wisdom. However, she contrived to fasten a good deal of faith on the laws of health, which I continually held forth to her. In particular, I urged on her the necessity of endeavoring to keep up what I was wont to call a centrifugal tendency in her system. A good plump, healthful, ever active, and ever vigorous skin was, as I told her, our only hope in her case. As a means to this end, and also as a means of withdrawing her attention from the slavery of a constant attendance on her own sensations, I urged her to mingle with society much more, and go about doing good to others, on the great principle, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." I warned her, however, against the danger of falling into the habit of giving an account of herself – her woes and sorrows – to every one she might meet with, who should kindly inquire about her condition, since it would greatly retard her improvement, even if it did not keep up or renew her disease.

Among other things, I ventured to suggest to her the importance of having something to do – something of a permanent nature. "We hear," I said, "of gentlemen at large, and you seem to be a lady at large. You have, in the usual acceptation of the phrase, nothing to do. Would it not be well for you to take charge of something or of somebody? You might, perhaps, assume the office of teacher, and take the charge of a few pupils; or even adopt a child or two as your own, where you might receive compensation. Or," as I finally added, – for I perceived she shrunk from all responsibilities of this kind, – "you might, perhaps, become the mistress of a family."

On the last mentioned topic, I was also obliged, for obvious reasons, to speak with considerable caution. She was unsocial, timid, fearful of being burdened with cares – the very stuff, though she knew it not, that human life is made of, ay, and human happiness too. But I could not hesitate to make the trial. My suggestions, however, were of little avail. She went on for some time, in the old way, and made very little progress.

I lost sight of her about this time, and never met her more. The sequel of her history I only know from report. It is painful in the extreme. It is, however, the history, in all its essential features, of thousands of selfish people, who, after all, by dint of numbers, force, and influence, contrive to rule the world.

Being fully determined to have no cares or responsibilities connected with children or household, she not only refused to hearken to my advice, but also to one or more truly kind and promising offers of marriage. She pursued her selfish course undisturbed, unless by occasional misgivings, till her brain and nervous system suffered so severely that she began to approach the confines of insanity.

It was, however, a considerable time before the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl broken, and the wheel broken at the cistern. But the terrible result at length came. The demands of violated physical law are inexorable. She was conveyed, as a last resort, in the hope of cure, to an insane hospital. Here, after many and patient attempts to restore the crippled and broken down machinery to healthful motion, she ended her days.

My female patients were not all equally unfortunate. One I had, whose case, if minutely described, would present an array of facts painful in the extreme. She, too, approached the dark regions of insanity; but she did not enter. She still lives, and is at once a useful and happy woman, and an excellent wife and housekeeper. As a means to her recovery, however, she pursued a course diametrically opposite to that pursued by Miss L. She did not shrink from care and responsibility; on the contrary, she submitted to both. First, she sought increased activity and usefulness in her father's family; and, secondly, in a family of her own.

Concerning the last mentioned case, I have few misgivings, and equally few confessions to make. I call it a remarkable case; but it must not be revealed in its details, for other reasons besides its tediousness. In the case of Miss L., however, I have one deep and lasting regret.

In the early part of my acquaintance with her, as a medical man, she probably had more confidence in my integrity and skill than in those of any other living individual. She had been early left an orphan; and I was among the first – perhaps the very first – to take the attitude towards her of a true father. Such kindness, and especially such paternal care, never fail to make their impression.

"Love, and love only, is the loan for love."

At this early sympathizing period, had I been more faithful, I might, perhaps, have saved her. But I was remiss – disposed to delay. I waited, a thousand times, for a better opportunity. I waited till the favorable moment – ay, the only moment – had passed by.

Physicians often err here. God gives to many individuals the most unbounded confidence in medical men; and this remarkable provision of his has a deep meaning. It is not, however, to the intent that they should abuse the influence thus secured to them, by filling their patients' stomachs with pills and powders; but for such purposes, rather, as have been indicated by the general tenor of the foregoing remarks. It is that they may give them wise paternal counsel and sound physiological and pathological instruction.

Such counsel and such instruction were indeed given to Miss L., but not to that extent which the nature of the case required, and which a little more moral courage and Christian plainness would have secured. She was worth saving, and I might, perchance, have been the honored instrument of saving her, and of thus rendering to society a most valuable service. That vital energy of hers which was expended in watching over her own internal feelings, might have been rendered a much more profitable investment.

But the account is closed and sealed, to be agitated or questioned no more till the inquisitions of the last day. Let such considerations and reflections as this remark suggests to the human mind have their intended effect. Let us ever increase our zeal and watchfulness, that we may avoid such a course of conduct as makes confessions meet, or needful, or even salutary.

CHAPTER LXIII

A GIANT DYSPEPTIC

There have been giants in the earth, in nearly every age, if not in every clime – giants mentally, and giants physically. Of course they may have been rare exhibitions, and may thus have elicited much attention; and some of them have attained to quite a memorable place in history.

There have been and still are, on the earth, giants of other descriptions. We sometimes even meet with giant dyspeptics. Dyspepsia, at best, is formidable, many-headed, but not always gigantic. If gigantic size, in this case, were the general rule, what we now call giants would, of course, cease to be regarded as such.

It may be thought that what I shall here call dyspeptic giants, or giant dyspeptics, were better designated as monsters, than giants. Be it so, for we will not quarrel about names; though a difficulty might be found in making the required distinction between giants and monsters; for is not every giant a monster?

Not far from the year 1830, perhaps a little earlier, you might have seen, in connection with a certain private seminary of education, in New England, one of these giant dyspeptics. I do not mean, of course, that he had already attained to giant size, but only that what proved in the result to be gigantic was already a giant in miniature, and was rapidly advancing to one of magnitude.

He had early been a cabin boy; and like many other cabin boys, had been gluttonous, and in some respects intemperate. Not by any means, that he had ever been guilty of downright intoxication; for of this I have no certain knowledge. My belief is, however, that he had gone very far in this direction, though he might not have – probably had not – been justly chargeable with going quite to the last extremity.

But why should such a young man be found at a seminary of learning? Was he with "birds of a feather?" Do not these attract each other?

Mr. Gray, for that is the name I shall give to our young dyspeptic, had been recently subjected to the influences of one of those seasons of excitement well known in the religious world by the name of revivals; and what is not at all uncommon with the rude and uncultivated minds of even more hardened sailors than he, a great change had come over him. In short, he had the appearance, in every respect, of being a truly converted young man.

Why this change of character had led him to this school-house, may not at first appear. Yet such a result is by no means unusual. This waking up the mind, by awakening the soul, and causing it to hunger and thirst after knowledge, has been observed long since, by those who have had their eyes open to what was going on around them.

Young Gray was penniless, and his parents not only poor, but overburdened with the cares of a large family, so that they could give him no aid but by their prayers. He was not, however, to be discouraged by poverty. He agreed to ring the bell, sweep the hall, build fires, etc., for his board and tuition. As for clothing, he had none, or almost none. Charity, cold as her hand oftentimes is, supplied him with something. Dyspepsia had not, as yet, marred his visage or weakened his energies.

In his connection with this seminary and others of kindred character, such as he could attend and yet pay his expenses by his labor, he became, ere long, able to teach others. Here was a new means of support, of which he eagerly availed himself. In whatever he undertook, moreover, he was singularly successful. He was in earnest. An earnest mind, in connection with an indomitable will – what may it not accomplish? It is every thing but omnipotent.

"Heaven but persuades, almighty man decrees," as I have before said, assuming our old English poets as standard authority; but this saying has more in it than mere poetry. Or, if Heaven more than persuades – somewhat more – does not man still decree? But I am inclined, I see, to press this thought, perhaps in undue proportion to its magnitude. Whether or not it abates one half the guilt, I make the confession.

For several years Gray pushed his devious course, through "thick and thin," sustaining himself chiefly by his teaching. In 1835, he was the private instructor of a wealthy family in Rhode Island; but so puzzling, not to say erratic, were some of his movements, that he was not very popular. Subsequently to this, he was found in another part of New England, editing a paper, and teaching at the same time a small number of pupils.

All this while he paid great attention to physical education; but being either a charity scholar, or obliged to pay his way by his own exertions, he had not at command the needful time to render him thorough in any thing, even in his obedience, as he called it, to Nature's laws. Nearly all his studies were pursued by snatches, or, at least, with more or less irregularity.

In nothing, however, was he more irregular than in his diet. This, to a person already inclined, as he certainly was, to dyspepsia, was very unfortunate. Perhaps, as generally happens in such cases, there was action and reaction. Perhaps, I mean, his dyspeptic tendencies led to more or less of dietetic irregularity; while the latter, whenever yielded to, had a tendency, in its turn, to increase his load of dyspepsia.

There was, indeed, one apology to be found for his irregularity with regard to diet, in his extreme poverty. There were times when he was actually compelled to subsist on the most scanty fare; while his principles, too, restricted him to very great plainness. In one instance, for example, after he had finished his preparatory, course of study and entered college, he subsisted wholly on a certain quantity of bread daily; and as if not quite satisfied with even this restriction, while he needed his money so much more for clothing and books, he purchased stale bread – sometimes that which was imperfect – at a cheaper rate. Now a diet, exclusively of fine flour bread, and withal more or less sour or mouldy, is not very suitable for a dyspeptic, nor yet, indeed, for anybody whatever. However, he learned, at length, to improve a little upon this, by purchasing coarse, or Graham bread.

Subsequently to this period, not being able, either alone or with the aid of friends, most of whom were poor, to pursue a regular academic course of instruction, he accepted the proposition that he should become an assistant teacher in the English department of a school in Europe. This, he feared, might postpone the completion of his studies, but would enable him, as he believed, to improve his mind, establish his health, and add greatly to his experience and to his knowledge of the world. It would also perfect him in teaching, so far at least as the mere inculcation of English grammar was concerned.

His health was by no means improved by a residence of three or four years in Europe, but rather impaired. He returned to America, in the autumn of 1839, and as soon as he had partially recovered from the effects of a tedious and dangerous voyage, went to reside in the family of a near relative who was a farmer, with a view to learn, for the first time, what the labors of the farm would do for him.