Forty Years In The Wilderness Of Pills And Powders Part 23

MRS. KIDDER'S CORDIAL.

Should you ever go to Boston, and pa.s.s along a certain street called Court Street, almost to its western extremity, you may probably see at your left hand, in large letters of various fantastical shapes, the words which I have placed at the head of this chapter; viz., "MRS.

KIDDER'S CORDIAL." Sometimes, I believe, it is called her cholera cordial; but it is sufficiently well known, as I suppose, by the former name.

But how is it known? Not merely by the sign I have mentioned, fastened up at the door of that aforesaid shop in Court Street, but by a host of advertis.e.m.e.nts in the public papers; and in other cities as well as Boston. You may find them in almost every public house, post-office, railroad depot, and grocery in New England; or, as I might perhaps say, in the whole Union.

I once had a child severely sick, at a season of the year when not only the Asiatic cholera prevailed, but also the cholera morbus. She was teething at the time, which was doubtless one cause of her illness,--to which however, as I suppose, other causes may have been added. In any event, she was in a very bad condition, and required the wisest and most careful medical attention. There was also a young woman in the house who was ill in the same way, but not so ill as the child.

At that time my residence was very near the metropolis, though, as I have already told you, Mrs. Kidder's cordial could be had almost everywhere. Having occasion to go to town, I fell in with an old friend who kindly inquired after the health of my family. When I had told him, he boldly and with true Yankee impertinence, asked what I had done for my family patients; to which I replied, with a frankness and simplicity which was fully equal to his boldness, "Nothing, as yet." "Do you mean to do nothing?" said he, with some surprise. I told him that I did not know what I might do in future, but that I saw no necessity of using any active medication at present. "Are you not aware," I added, "that physicians seldom take their own medicines or give them to their families?"

"I know very well," said he, "that physicians theorize a good deal about these matters; but after all, experience is the best school-master.

Should you lose that little girl of yours, simply because you are anxious to carry out a theory, will you not be likely to regret it? As yet you have lost no children, and therefore, though much older than myself, you have not had all the experience which has fallen to my lot; and experience is the best school-master."

"True," I answered, "I am not too old to learn from that experience, which, in a certain sense, is the basis of all just knowledge, especially in medicine. What you call my theory, or at least all the theory I have, is grounded on this same experience; not, indeed, that of one man in one neighborhood, nor, indeed, in one nation. I have looked the world over."

"And you have come to the very wise conclusion, it would seem," said he, "that medicine never does any good, and that you will never give it more, except to those who are determined to have it, or will not fasten their faith on any thing else."

"Not exactly that," I replied. "I can think of a great number of cases in which I would give medicine. For example: suppose one of my children had by the merest accident taken a dose of poison, which, if retained, must inevitably destroy it, I would much sooner give that child an active emetic--which, of course, is medicine--than stand still and see it die."

"Very well," said he, "your child and Miss L., are, in one point of view, poisoned. They will probably die, if you stand still and do nothing; at least I have not a doubt that the little girl will. Now take my advice, and do something before it is too late. Give up all your theories and fine-spun reasonings, and do as others do, and save your child."

As I had but little time for conversation with him, even on a highly important and deeply interesting subject, above all to point out the difference between the two cases he mentioned. I was now about ready to say "Good-morning," and leave him. "Stop a moment," said he, "and go with me to the second shop beyond that corner, and get a bottle of Mrs.

Kidder's cordial for your sick folks."

Here I smiled. "Well," said he, "you may continue to smile; but you will mourn in the end. I have used Mrs. Kidder's cordial in my family a good deal, and I a.s.sure you it is no humbug. It is all it promises. Now just go with me, for once, and get a bottle of it. Depend upon it, you will never regret it."

Although my good friend had not succeeded in changing my views by his many affirmations, nor by his strong appeal to his experience of the good effects of the cordial in his own family (for I well knew he had lost almost all his children), I consented to go with him to the shop, partly to get rid of him. When we arrived I bought a bottle of the cordial,--I believe for fifty cents,--put it in my pocket, and carried it home with me.

When I reached home I put away the bottle, on a shelf in our family closet which was quite unoccupied, and inquired about the patients. The little girl was rather better, it was thought, but Miss L. was still weak and low. I told them about the adventure with the bookseller, but omitted to state that I had purchased the cordial.

In a very few days, by dint of good care and attention, and the blessing of a kind Providence, the sick were both of them much better, and I could leave them for a whole day at a time. My business in town demanded my presence, and I repaired thither again. And who should I meet, on getting out of the omnibus, but my old friend, who had reasoned with me so patiently and perseveringly, in defence of Mrs. Kidder's cordial?

He inquired, almost immediately, about my family; to which I joyfully replied, "Better, all better. They were better in less than two days after I last saw you;--yes, they were a little better that very evening."

"I told you it would be so," said he. "I never knew the cordial to fail when taken in season. I have lost several children, it is true; but they did not take it soon enough. I am profoundly glad you were in season.

Does it not operate like a charm?"

"Exactly so," said I, "if it operates at all; exactly like a charm, or like magic. Shall I tell you the whole story?"

"By all means," he replied; "let us have the whole of it; keep nothing back."

"Well, then, I went home, and placed the bottle of cordial on a high and obscure shelf, where n.o.body would be likely to see it, and proceeded with our sick folks just as before. The bottle of cordial remained unknown, except to myself, and untouched, and is probably untouched to the present hour. So you see--do you not?--how like a charm it operates."

"Just _like_ you, doctor. Well, as long as they recovered I do not care.

But I shall always have full faith in the medicine. I know what I know; and if all the world were of your opinion I could not resist a full belief in the efficacy of Mrs. Kidder's Cholera Cordial."

My friend was not offended with me, for he was, in the main, a sensible, rational man. He pitied me; but, I believe from that time forth, gave up all hopes of my conversion. I come to this conclusion because he has never uttered a syllable on the subject, in my hearing, from that day to this hour, though I have met with him probably fifty times.

There can be no doubt that were we to place full faith in the recuperative efforts of nature, three-fourths of our medicine--perhaps I may just as well say nine-tenths--would be quite as useful were it disposed of in the way I disposed of Mrs. Kidder's cordial, as when swallowed. Nay, it is possible it might be much more useful. If a sick person can recover without it just as well as _with_ it, he certainly will get well more easily, even if it should not be more quickly, than if he had a load of foreign substance at his stomach to be disposed of.

In other words, to get well in spite of medicine seems to me much less agreeable, after all that is said in its favor, than to get well in Nature's own way.

CHAPTER LXI.

ALMOST RAISING THE DEAD.

So many people regarded it, and therefore I use the phrase as a t.i.tle for my chapter. I have heard of families of children so large that it was not easy to find names for them all. My chapters of confession are short, but very numerous, and I already begin to find it difficult to procure t.i.tles that are _apropos_.

Mary Benham was the second daughter, in an obscure and indigent family that resided only a little distance from my house, just beyond the limits of what might properly be called the village. I do not know much of her early history, except that she was precocious in mind, and scrofulous and feeble in body.

The first time I ever heard any thing about her, was one night at a prayer-meeting. Mr. Brown, the minister, took occasion to observe, at the close of the meeting, in my hearing, that he must go to Mr. Benham's and see Mary, for she was very ill, and it was thought would not live through the night.

She survived, however, as she had done many times before, and as she did many times afterward, in similar circ.u.mstances. More than once Mr. Brown had been sent for--though sometimes other friends were called, as Mr.

Brown lived more than a mile distant--to be with her and pray with her, in what were supposed to be her last moments. But there was still a good deal of tenacity of life; and she continued to live, notwithstanding all her expectations and those of her friends.

It appeared, on inquiry, that her nervous system was very much disordered, and also her digestive machinery. She was also taking, from day to day, a large amount of active medicine. Still no one appeared to doubt the propriety of such a course of treatment, in the case of a person so very sick as she was; for how, it was asked, could she live without it?

In one or two instances I was sent for; not, indeed, as her physician, but as a subst.i.tute for the more distant or the absent minister. At these visits I learned something, incidentally, of her true physical condition. I found her case a very bad one, and yet, as I believed, made much worse by an injudicious use of medicine.

Yet what could I do in the premises? I had not been asked to prescribe for her, nor even to give counsel as a supernumerary or consulting physician. Dr. M. paid her his weekly and semi-weekly visits, and doubtless supposed all the wisdom of the world added to his own would hardly improve her condition. I was, of course, by all the rules of medical etiquette, and even by the common law of politeness, obliged to bite my lips in silence. One thing, indeed, I ventured to do, which was to send her a small tract or two, in some of the departments of hygiene or health.

Soon after this her physician died; and died, too, by his own confession, publicly made, of stomach disease,--at least, in part. He was a man of gigantic body and great natural physical force. His digestive apparatus was particularly powerful, and it had been both unwisely cultivated and developed in early life, and unwisely and wickedly managed afterward. For an example of the latter, he would, while abroad among his patients, sometimes go without his dinner, and then, on his return to his family and just as he was going to bed, atone for past neglect by eating enough for a whole day, and of the most solid and perhaps indigestible food. In this and other abusive ways he had been suicidal.

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 circ.u.mstances, 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 quant.i.ties 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 emanc.i.p.ation 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 circ.u.mstances, and encouraged to obey it.

The recuperative powers of nature, even in unfavorable circ.u.mstances, 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.