Autobiography of a Quack and the Case of George Dedlow , livre ebook

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48 pages

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. Both of the tales in this little volume appeared originally in the "Atlantic Monthly" as anonymous contributions. I owe to the present owners of that journal permission to use them. "The Autobiography of a Quack" has been recast with large additions.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	27 septembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819928317
Langue	English

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK
AND
THE CASE OF GEORGE DEDLOW
By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D., LL.D. Harvard AndEdinburgh
INTRODUCTION
Both of the tales in this little volume appearedoriginally in the “Atlantic Monthly” as anonymous contributions. Iowe to the present owners of that journal permission to use them.“The Autobiography of a Quack” has been recast with largeadditions.
“The Case of George Dedlow” was not written with anyintention that it should appear in print. I lent the manuscript tothe Rev. Dr. Furness and forgot it. This gentleman sent it to theRev. Edward Everett Hale. He, presuming, I fancy, that every onedesired to appear in the “Atlantic, ” offered it to that journal.To my surprise, soon afterwards I received a proof and a check. Thestory was inserted as a leading article without my name. It was atonce accepted by many as the description of a real case. Money wascollected in several places to assist the unfortunate man, andbenevolent persons went to the “Stump Hospital, ” in Philadelphia,to see the sufferer and to offer him aid. The spiritual incident atthe end of the story was received with joy by the spiritualists asa valuable proof of the truth of their beliefs.
S. WEIR MITCHELL
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK
At this present moment of time I am what the doctorscall an interesting case, and am to be found in bed No. 10, Ward11, Massachusetts General Hospital. I am told that I have what iscalled Addison's disease, and that it is this pleasing malady whichcauses me to be covered with large blotches of a dark mulatto tint.However, it is a rather grim subject to joke about, because, if Ibelieved the doctor who comes around every day, and thumps me, andlistens to my chest with as much pleasure as if I were music allthrough— I say, if I really believed him, I should suppose I wasgoing to die. The fact is, I don't believe him at all. Some ofthese days I shall take a turn and get about again; but meanwhileit is rather dull for a stirring, active person like me to have tolie still and watch myself getting big brown and yellow spots allover me, like a map that has taken to growing.
The man on my right has consumption— smells ofcod-liver oil, and coughs all night. The man on my left is adown-easter with a liver which has struck work; looks like a humanpumpkin; and how he contrives to whittle jackstraws all day, andeat as he does, I can't understand. I have tried reading and triedwhittling, but they don't either of them satisfy me, so thatyesterday I concluded to ask the doctor if he couldn't suggest someother amusement.
I waited until he had gone through the ward, andthen seized my chance, and asked him to stop a moment.
“Well, my man, ” said he, “what do you want! ”
I thought him rather disrespectful, but I replied,“Something to do, doctor. ”
He thought a little, and then said: “I'll tell youwhat to do. I think if you were to write out a plain account ofyour life it would be pretty well worth reading. If half of whatyou told me last week be true, you must be about as clever a scampas there is to be met with. I suppose you would just as lief put iton paper as talk it. ”
“Pretty nearly, ” said I. “I think I will try it,doctor. ”
After he left I lay awhile thinking over the matter.I knew well that I was what the world calls a scamp, and I knewalso that I had got little good out of the fact. If a man is whatpeople call virtuous, and fails in life, he gets credit at leastfor the virtue; but when a man is a— is— well, one of liberalviews, and breaks down, somehow or other people don't credit himwith even the intelligence he has put into the business. This Icall hard. If I did not recall with satisfaction the energy andskill with which I did my work, I should be nothing but disgustedat the melancholy spectacle of my failure. I suppose that I shallat least find occupation in reviewing all this, and I think,therefore, for my own satisfaction, I shall try to amuse myconvalescence by writing a plain, straightforward account of thelife I have led, and the various devices by which I have sought toget my share of the money of my countrymen. It does appear to methat I have had no end of bad luck.
As no one will ever see these pages, I find itpleasant to recall for my own satisfaction the fact that I amreally a very remarkable man. I am, or rather I was, verygood-looking, five feet eleven, with a lot of curly red hair, andblue eyes. I am left-handed, which is another unusual thing. Myhands have often been noticed. I get them from my mother, who was aFishbourne, and a lady. As for my father, he was rather common. Hewas a little man, red and round like an apple, but very strong, fora reason I shall come to presently. The family must have had apious liking for Bible names, because he was called Zebulon, mysister Peninnah, and I Ezra, which is not a name for a gentleman.At one time I thought of changing it, but I got over it by signingmyself “E. Sanderaft. ”
Where my father was born I do not know, except thatit was somewhere in New Jersey, for I remember that he was onceangry because a man called him a Jersey Spaniard. I am not muchconcerned to write about my people, because I soon got above theirlevel; and as to my mother, she died when I was an infant. I get mymanners, which are rather remarkable, from her.
My aunt, Rachel Sanderaft, who kept house for us,was a queer character. She had a snug little property, about seventhousand dollars. An old aunt left her the money because she wasstone-deaf. As this defect came upon her after she grew up, shestill kept her voice. This woman was the cause of some of my illluck in life, and I hope she is uncomfortable, wherever she is. Ithink with satisfaction that I helped to make her life uneasy whenI was young, and worse later on. She gave away to the idle poorsome of her small income, and hid the rest, like a magpie, in herBible or rolled in her stockings, or in even queerer places. Theworst of her was that she could tell what people said by looking attheir lips; this I hated. But as I grew and became intelligent, herways of hiding her money proved useful, to me at least. As toPeninnah, she was nothing special until she suddenly bloomed outinto a rather stout, pretty girl, took to ribbons, and liked whatshe called “keeping company. ” She ran errands for every one,waited on my aunt, and thought I was a wonderful person— as indeedI was. I never could understand her fondness for helping everybody.A fellow has got himself to think about, and that is quite enough.I was told pretty often that I was the most selfish boy alive. But,then, I am an unusual person, and there are several names forthings.
My father kept a small shop for the sale of legalstationery and the like, on Fifth street north of Chestnut. But hischief interest in life lay in the bell-ringing of Christ Church. Hewas leader, or No. 1, and the whole business was in the hands of akind of guild which is nearly as old as the church. I used to hearmore of it than I liked, because my father talked of nothing else.But I do not mean to bore myself writing of bells. I heard too muchabout “back shake, ” “raising in peal, ” “scales, ” and “touches, ”and the Lord knows what.
My earliest remembrance is of sitting on my father'sshoulder when he led off the ringers. He was very strong, as Isaid, by reason of this exercise. With one foot caught in a loop ofleather nailed to the floor, he would begin to pull No. 1, and byand by the whole peal would be swinging, and he going up and down,to my joy; I used to feel as if it was I that was making the greatnoise that rang out all over the town. My familiar acquaintancewith the old church and its lumber-rooms, where were stored thedusty arms of William and Mary and George II. , proved of use in mylater days.
My father had a strong belief in my talents, and Ido not think he was mistaken. As he was quite uneducated, hedetermined that I should not be. He had saved enough to send me toPrinceton College, and when I was about fifteen I was set free fromthe public schools. I never liked them. The last I was at was thehigh school. As I had to come down-town to get home, we used tomeet on Arch street the boys from the grammar-school of theuniversity, and there were fights every week. In winter these weremost frequent, because of the snow-balling. A fellow had to takehis share or be marked as a deserter. I never saw any personal goodto be had out of a fight, but it was better to fight than to becobbed. That means that two fellows hold you, and the other fellowskick you with their bent knees. It hurts.
I find just here that I am describing a thing as ifI were writing for some other people to see. I may as well go onthat way. After all, a man never can quite stand off and look athimself as if he was the only person concerned. He must have anaudience, or make believe to have one, even if it is only himself.Nor, on the whole, should I be unwilling, if it were safe, to letpeople see how great ability may be defeated by the crankiness offortune.
I may add here that a stone inside of a snowballdiscourages the fellow it hits. But neither our fellows nor thegrammar-school used stones in snowballs. I rather liked it. If wehad a row in the springtime we all threw stones, and here was oneof those bits of stupid custom no man can understand; becausereally a stone outside of a snowball is much more serious than ifit is mercifully padded with snow. I felt it to be a rise in lifewhen I got out of the society of the common boys who attended thehigh school.
When I was there a man by the name of Dallas Bachewas the head master. He had a way of letting the boys attend towhat he called the character of the school. Once I had to lie tohim about taking another boy's ball. He told my class that I haddenied the charge, and that he always took it for granted that aboy spoke the truth. He knew well enough what would happen. It did.After that I was careful.
Princeton was then a little college, not