 15 Out of the frying pan into the fire, or the love of a house. Hadn't you better give your landlord notice today that we will move at the end of the year, Mr. Plunkett? Move? For heaven's sake, Sarah, what do we want to move for? Mr. Plunkett. Mrs. Plunkett. It's a very strange way for you to address me, Mr. Plunkett, a very strange way. But for what on earth do you want to move, Sarah? Tell me that. I'm sure we are comfortable enough off here. Here? I wouldn't live in this miserable house another twelve months if you gave me the rent free. I don't see anything so terribly bad about the house. I am well satisfied. Are you indeed? But I am not. I can tell you for your comfort. What's the matter with the house? Everything. There isn't a comfortable or decent room in it from the garret to the cellar, not one. It's a horrid place to live in, and such a neighborhood to bring up children in. You thought it a love of a house a year ago. Me? Mr. Plunkett, I never liked it, and it was all your fault that we ever took the miserable affair. My fault? Bless me, Sarah, what are you talking about? I didn't want to move from where we were. I never want to move. Oh, no, you'd live in a pigsty forever if you once got there, rather than take the trouble to get out of it. Mrs. Plunkett. Mr. Plunkett. Wise from experience, the gentleman deemed it better to run than fight, so muttering to himself he took up his hat and beat a hasty retreat. Mrs. Plunkett had a mother, a fact of which Mr. Plunkett was perfectly aware, particularly, as said relative was a member of his family. She happened to be present when the above spicy conversation took place. As soon as he had retired she broke out with, just like him, anything to be contrary. But I wouldn't live in this old rattletrap of a place another year for any man that ever stepped into shoe leather. No indeed not I. Out of repair from top to bottom, not a single convenience, so to speak, walls cracked, paper soiled, and paint yellow as a pumpkin. And worse than all, ma, every closet is infested with ants and overrun with mice. I'm afraid to open a cupboard or look into a drawer, why yesterday a mouse jumped upon me and came near going into my bosom. I almost fainted. Oh, dear, I never can live in this house another year. It is out of the question. I should die. No one thinks of it except Mr. Plunkett, and he's always opposed to everything, but that's no matter. If he don't notify the landlord, we can. Live here another twelve months, no indeed. I saw a bill on a house in Seventh Street yesterday, and I had a great mind then to stop and look at it. It was a beautiful place, just what we want. Put your things on Sarah right away and go and see about it. Depend upon it. We can't do worse than this. Worse? No indeed. That's impossible. But Mr. Plunkett. Pshaw! Never mind him. He's opposed to everything. If you had given him his way, where would you have been now? Mrs. Plunkett did not reply to this, for the question brought back the recollection of a beautiful little house, new and perfect in every part from which she had forced her husband to move because the parlours were not quite large enough. Never before nor since had they been so comfortably situated. Acting as well from her own inclination, as from her mother's advice, Mrs. Plunkett went and made an examination of the house upon which she had seen the bill. Oh, it is such a love of a house, she said, upon her return. Perfect in every respect. It is larger than this and is full of closets, and the rent is just the same. Did you get the refusal of it? Yes. I told the landlord that I would give him an answer by tomorrow morning. He says there are a great many people after it that he could have rented it a dozen times if he had approved the tenants who offered. He says he knows Mr. Plunkett very well and will be happy to rent him the house. We must take it by all means. That is if Mr. Plunkett is willing. Willing? Of course I'll have to be willing. Oh, it is such a love of a house, I'm sure it must be. A very different kind of affair from this, you may be certain. When Mr. Plunkett came home that evening, his wife said to him quite amiably, Oh, you don't know what a love of a house I saw today up in Seventh Street. Larger, better, and more convenient than this in every way, and the rent is just the same. But I'm sure, Sarah, we are very comfortable here. Comfortable? Good gracious, Mr. Plunkett. I should like to know what you call comfort. How can anyone be comfortable in such a miserable old rattle trap of a place as this? You thought it a love of a house, you remember, before we came into it. Me? Me, Mr. Plunkett, why I never liked it and it was all your fault that we ever moved here. My fault? Yes, indeed it was all your fault. I wanted the house in Walnut Street, but you were afraid of a little more rent. Oh, no, Mr. Plunkett, you mustn't blame me for moving into this barracks of a place. You have only yourself to thank for that, and now I want to get out of it on the first good opportunity. Poor Mr. Plunkett was silenced. The very boldness of the position taken by his wife completely knocked him over to combat. His fault, indeed. He would have lived on year after year in a log cabin rather than encounter the horrors of moving. And yet he was in the habit of moving about once a year. What could he do now? He had yielded so long to his wife, who had grown bolder at each concession, that opposition was now hopeless. Had she stood alone there might have been some chance for him, but backed up as she was by her Poisson mother, victory was sure to perch on her banner, and well did Mr. Plunkett know this. It would cost at least a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars to move, he ventured to suggest. Indeed, and it will cost no such thing. I'll guarantee the whole removal for ten dollars. It cost over a hundred last year. Nonsense, it didn't cost a fifth of it. But Mr. Plunkett knew he had the best right to know, for he had paid the bills. From the first Mr. Plunkett felt that opposition was useless. A natural repugnance to change and a horror of the disorder and discomfort of moving caused him to make a feeble resistance. But the opposing currents swept strongly against to many had to yield. The house in Seventh Street was taken, and in due time the breaking up and change came. Carpets were lifted, boxes, barrels and trunks packed, and all the disorderly elements of a regular moving operation called into activity. Every preparation had been made on the day previous to the contemplated flight. The cars were to be at the door by eight o'clock on the next morning. In anticipation of this early movement the children had been dragged out of bed an hour before their usual time for rising. They were, in consequence, cross and unreasonable, but not more so than mother, grandmother, and nurse, all of whom either boxed them, scolded them, or jerked them about in a most violent manner. Breakfast was served early, but such a breakfast! The least said about that the better. It was while there were no keen appetites to turn away with disappointment. Strange that the cars are not here, said Mr. Plunkett, who had put himself in going order. It's nearly half an hour past the time now. Oh, dear con, found all this moving, say I. That's a strange way for you to talk before children, Mr. Plunkett, retorted his wife. And this is a much stranger way for you to act, madam, forever dragging your husband and children about from post to pillar. For my part I feel like Noah's dove, without a place to rest the soul of my foot. Mr. Plunkett. Mrs. Plunkett. A war of words was about commencing, but the furniture cars drove up at the moment when an armistice took place. In due time the family of the Plunketts were a bag and baggage in their new house. A lover of quiet, the male head of the establishment tried to refrain from any remarks calculated to excite his helpmate, but this was next to impossible. There being so much in the new house that he could not, in conscience, approve. If Mrs. Plunkett would have kept quiet, all might have gone on very smoothly. But Mrs. Plunkett could not or would not keep quiet. She was extravagant in her praise of everything and incessant in her comparisons between the old and the new house. Mr. Plunkett listened and bit his lip to keep silent. At last the lady said to him, with a coaxing smile, for she was not going to rest until some words of approval were extorted from her yeaselord. Now, Mr. Plunkett, don't you think this a love of a house? No, was the gruff answer. Mr. Plunkett, why, what is your objection? I'm sure we can't be more uncomfortable than we have been for a year. Oh, yes we can. How so? There is such a thing as going from the frying pan into the fire. Mr. Plunkett, just what you'll find we have done, madam. How will you make that appear, pray? In a few words, just step this way. Do you see that building? I do. Just to the south-west of us. From that quarter the cool breezes of summer come. We shall now have them fragrant with the delightful exhalations of a slaughterhouse. Humph, won't that be delightful? Then again the house is damp. Oh no, the landlord assured me it was as dry as a bone. The landlord lied, then. I've been from Garrett to Seller half a dozen times, and it is just as I say. My eyes never deceive me. As to its being a better or more comfortable house that is all in my eye, I wouldn't give as much for it by fifty dollars as for the one we have left. Notwithstanding Mrs. Plunkett's efforts to induce her husband to praise the house, she was not as well satisfied with it as she was at the first inspection of the premises. I'm sure, she replied in rather a subdued manner, that it is quite as good as the old house and has many advantages over it. Name one, said her husband. It is not overrun with vermin. Wait a while and see. Oh, I know it isn't. How do you know? I asked the landlord particularly, and he said no. He did. We shall see, and they did see. Tired but with the days moving and fixing, the whole family, feeling hungry, out of humor and uncomfortable, descended to the kitchen after it had become dark, to overhaul the provision baskets and get a cold cut of some kind. But alas, to their dismay, it was found that another family, and that enumerous one, already had possession. Floor, dresser, and walls were alive with a starving colony of enormous cockroaches, and the baskets, into which bread, meat, and sea had been packed, were literally swarming with them. In horror, man, woman, and child beat a hasty retreat and left the premises. It would hardly be fair to record all the sayings and doings of that eventful evening. Overwearyed in body and mind, the family retired to rest, but some of them, alas, not to sleep. From washboards and every other part of the chamber, in which a crevice existed, crept out certain little animals, not always to be mentioned, to ears polite, and more bold than the denizens of the kitchen, made immediate demonstrations on the persons of master, mistress, child, and maid. It took less than a week to prove satisfactorily to Mrs. Plunkett, though she did not admit the fact that the new house was not to be compared with the old one in any respect. It had not a single advantage over the other, while the disadvantages were felt by every member of the family. In a few months, however, Mr. Plunkett began to feel at home, and to settle down into contentment. But as he grew better and better satisfied, his wife grew more and more desirous of change, and is now, as the year begins to draw to a close, looking about her for bills on houses, and examining every day the tulet department of the newspapers with a lively degree of interest. Mr. Plunkett will probably resist stoutly when this lady proposes some new love of a house, but it will be of no use. He will have to pull up stakes and try it again. It is his destiny. He has got a moving wife, and there is no help for him. End of section 15. Out of the frying pan into the fire, or the love of a house. Section 16. Of offhand sketches. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Offhand sketches by T. S. Arthur. Section 16. Marrying account. Is anybody dead? Yes, somebody dies every second. So they say. But I don't mean that. Why are you looking so solemn? I'm not aware that I look so very solemn. You do, then, as solemn as the grave. Then I must be a grave subject, the young man affected to smile. You smile like a death's head, Abel. What is the matter? Abel Lee took his interrogator by the arm and drew him aside. When they were a little apart from the company, he said in a low voice. You know that I have taken a fancy to Arabella Jones? Yes, you told me that a month ago. She's here tonight. So I see. And is as cold to me as an icicle. For a very plain reason. Yes, too plain. Whiskers and mustaches are driving all before them. The man is nothing now. Hair is everything. Glover will carry off the prize unless you can hit upon some plan to win back the favour of Miss Arabella. You must come forward with higher attractions than this rival can bring. Lee drew his fingers involuntarily over his smooth lip and chin, a movement which his friend observed and comprehended. Before the hair can grow, Arabella will be one, he said. Do you think I would make such a fool of myself? Fool of yourself? What do you mean by that? You say you love Arabella Jones. If you wish to win her, you must make yourself attractive in her eyes. To make yourself attractive you have only to cultivate whiskers, mustaches, and an imperial, and present a more luxuriant crop than Glover. The whole matter is very simple and comprised in a nutshell. The only difficulty in the way is the loss of time consequent upon the raising of this hairy crop. It is plain, in fact, that you must take a shorter way. You must purchase what you have in time to grow. Hide yourself for a week or two and then make your appearance with enough hair on your face to conceal one half or two-thirds of your features, and your way to the heart of Miss Jones is direct. I feel too serious on the subject to make it a matter of jesting, said Lee, not by any means relishing the levity of his friend. But my dear sir, urge the friend, what I propose is your only chance. Glover will have it all his own way if you do not take some means to head him off. The matter is plain enough. In the days of chivalry a night would do almost any unreasonable thing, enter upon almost any mad adventure to secure the favour of his lady love. And will you hesitate when nothing of more importance than the dawning of false whiskers and mustaches is concerned? You don't deserve to be thought of by Miss Jones. Just away, Marston, if it is so pleasant to you, remarked Lee with a slightly offended air. No, but my dear fellow, I am an earnest. I really wish to serve you. Still, if the only plan at all likely to succeed is so repugnant to your feelings, you must let the whole matter go. Depend upon it there is no other chance for you with the lady. Then she must go. I would not make a fool of myself for the queen of Sheba. A man who sacrifices his own self-respect in order to secure the love of a woman becomes unworthy of her love. Well said, Able Lee, that is the sentiment of a right mind, and proves to me that Arabella Jones is unworthy of you. Let her go to the whiskers and do you try to find someone who has soul enough to love the man. The young men separated to mingle with the company. Marston could not help noticing Miss Arabella Jones more particularly than before, and perceived that she was coldly polite to all the young men who ventured to approach her, but warm and smiling as a June morning to an individual named Glover, who had been abroad and returned home rich in hairy honors if had nothing else. The manners of this Glover distinguished him as much as his appearance. To think that a woman could be attracted by a thing like that, he said to himself a little pettishly, as he saw the alacrity with which Arabella seized the offered arm of Glover to accompany him to the supper table. Marston was a fellow of a good deal of humor and relished practical joking rather more than was consistent with the comfort of other people. We cannot commend him for this trait of character, but it was one of his faults, and all men have their failings. It would have given him great pleasure could he have induced Able Lee to set up a rivalry in the mustache and whisker line, but Able had too much good sense for that, and Marston, be it said to his credit, was rejoiced to find that he had. Still, the idea having once entered his head he could not drive it away. He had a most unconquerable desire to see someone start in opposition to Glover, and was half tempted to do it himself for the mere fun of the thing, but this was rather more trouble than he wished to take. Not very long after this a young stranger made his appearance in fashionable circles, and created quite a flutter among the ladies. He had, besides large whiskers, larger mustache, and larger imperial than Glover, a superb goatee, and a decided foreign accent. He soon threw the American in the shade, especially as a whisper got out that he was a French count travelling through the country who purposely concealed his title. The object of his visit, it was also said, was the selection of a wife from among the lovely and unsophisticated daughters of America. He wished to find someone who had never breathed the artificial air of the higher circles in his own country, who would love him for himself alone, and become his loving companion through life. How all these important facts in relation to him got wind, few paused to inquire. Young ladies forgot their plain-faced, untitled vulgar lovers, and put on their best looks and most winning graces for the count. For a time he carried all before him. Daily might he be seen in Chestnut Street, gallanting some favoured bell, with the elegant air of a dancing master, and the grimace of a monkey. Stayed citizens stopped to look at him, and plain old ladies were half in doubt whether he were a man or a pongo. At last the counts more particular attentions were directed toward Miss Arabella Jones, and from that time the favoured glover found that his star had passed at Sineth. It was in vain that he curled his mustache more fiercely and hid his chin in a goatee fully as large as the counts. All was of no avail. The ladies generally and Miss Arabella in particular looked coldly upon him. As for Abel Lee the bitterness of his disappointment was already passed. The conduct of Arabella had disgusted him, and he therefore looked calmly on and marked the progress of events. At length the count from paying marked attention to Arabella and company began to visit her occasionally at her father's house. Little to the satisfaction of Mr. Jones the father, who had never worn a whisker in his life and had a most bitter aversion to mustaches. This being the case, the course of Arabella's love did not, it may be supposed, run very smooth, for her father told her very decidedly that he was not going to have that monkey faced fellow coming about his house. Shocked at such vulgar language Arabella replied, Gracious me, father, don't speak in that way of Mr. Decorsi, he's a French count travelling in disguise. A French monkey, what on earth put that nonsense into your head? Everybody knows it, father. Mr. Decorsi tried to conceal his rank, but his English valet betrayed the secret. He is said to be connected with one of the oldest families in France and to have immense estates near Paris. The largest estates he possesses are in Wiscarando if you ever heard of that place. A French count, preposterous. I know it to be true, said Arabella emphatically. How do you know it, Miss Confidence? I know it from the fact that I hinted to him delicately my knowledge of his rank abroad and he did not deny it. His looks and his manner betrayed what he was attempting to conceal. Arabella said Mr. Jones with a good deal of sternness. If you were silly enough to hint to this fellow what you say you did, and he was imposter enough not to deny it on the spot in the most unequivocal terms, then he adds the character of a designing villain to that of a senseless fop. In the name of homely American common sense can you not see as plain as daylight that he is no nearer akin to a foreign nobleman than his barber or boot-black maybe? Arabella was silenced because it was folly to contend in this matter with her father, who was a blunt, common sense, clear-seeing man. But she was not in the least convinced Mr. Dick Horsey was not a French count, for all he might say. And what was better? Evidently saw attractions in her superior to those of which any of her fair compares could boast. My dear Miss Jones, said the Count when they next met, speaking in that delightful foreign accent so pleasant to the ear of the young lady, and with the frankness peculiar to his nature. I cannot withhold from you the honest expression of my sentiments. It would be unjust to myself and unjust to you, for these sentiments too nearly involve my own peace, and it may be yours. The Count hesitated and looked interesting. Arabella blushed and trembled. The words, you will speak to my father, were on the young lady's tongue. But she checked herself and remained silent. It would not do to make that reference of the subject. Then came a gentle pressure of hair upon her cheek, and a gentle pressure from the gloved hand in which her own was resting. My dear young lady, am I understud? Arabella answered delicately by returning the gentle pressure of her hand, and leaning perceptibly nearer the Count to Horsey. I am the happiest of men, said the Count enthusiastically, and I, the happiest of women, responded Arabella, not audibly but in spirit. Your father, said DeCorsi, shall I see him? He will not be well yet, replied the maiden, evincing a good deal of confusion. My father is— He's what? asked the nobleman, slightly elevating his person. He's a man of some peculiar notions. He is, in fact, too rigidly American. He does not like— Arabella hesitated. Ah, doesn't like foreigners. Oui, I comprehend. And the Count shrugged his shoulders and looked dignified. That is, as dignified as a man whose face is covered with hair can look. I am sorry to say that he has unfounded prejudices against everything not vulgarly American. He will not consent, then? I fear not, Mr. DeCorsi. Hmm, ah, and the Count thought for some moments. Will not consent? What then? Arabella, and he warmed in his manner. Arabella, shall an unfounded prejudice interpose with its icy berriers, shall hearts that are ready to melt into one be kept apart by the mere word of a man, Forbid it love, but suppose I go to him. It will be useless he is unbending as iron. Such being the case, the Count proposed an allotment to which Arabella agreed after the expression of as much reluctance as seemed to be called for. A few weeks subsequently Mr. Jones received a letter from some person unknown, advising him of the fact that if at a certain hour on that evening he would go to a certain place, he would intercept Mr. DeCorsi in the act of running away with his daughter. This intelligence half-maddened the father. He hurried home, intending to confront Arabella with the letter he had received, and then lock her up in her room. But she had gone out an hour before. Pacing the floor in a state of strong excitement, he awaited her return until the shadows of evening began to fall. Darkness closed over to all things, but still she was away, and it soon became evident that she did not mean to come back. It was then arranged between DeCorsi and Arabella that he was to wait for her with a carriage at a retired place in the suburbs, where she was to join him. They were then to drive to a ministers, get the marriage ceremony performed, and proceed thence to take possession of an elegant suite of rooms which had been engaged in one of the most fashionable hotels in the city. To escape all danger of interference with her movements, the young lady had left home some hours before evening, and spent the time between that and the blissful period looked for with such trembling delight in the company of a young friend and confidante. Darkness at length threw a veil over all things, and under cover of this veil Arabella went forth alone, and hurried to the appointed place of the meeting. A lamp showed her the carriage in waiting, and a man pacing slowly the pavement nearby, while she was a considerable distance off. Her heart beat wildly, the breath came heavily up from her bosom. She quickened her pace, but soon stopped suddenly in alarm, for she saw a man advancing rapidly from another quarter. In a few moments this individual came up to the person who was walking before the carriage, and whom she saw to be her lover. Loud words instantly followed, and she was near enough to hear an angry voice say, I'll count you, you base scoundrel. It was the voice of her father. Fearful lest violence should be done to her lover, Arabella screamed and flew to the spot. Already was the hand of Mr. Jones at Dickorsey's throat, but the count in disguise, not relishing the rough grasp of the indignant father, disengaged himself and fled ingloriously, leaving poor Arabella to the unbroken fury of his ire. Without much ceremony he thrust her into the waiting carriage, and giving the driver a few hurried directions entered himself. What passed between the disappointed Countess, that was to be, and her excited father, is not our business to relate. Not content with having interrupted this nice little matrimonial arrangement, Mr. Jones called at the hotel where Dickorsey put up, early on the next morning. But the elegant foreigner had not occupied his apartments during the night. He called a few hours later, but he had not yet made his appearance. In the morning, but Dickorsey was still away. On the next morning the following notice appeared in one of the daily newspapers. Nipped in the Bud. Fashionable people will remember a whiskered, mustachioed fellow with a foreign accent named Dickorsey, who has been turning the heads of half the silly young girls in town for the last two months. He permitted it to leak out, we believe, that he was a French count with immense estates near Paris, who had come to this country in order to look for a wife. This was, of course, believed, for there are people willing to credit the most improbable stories in the world. Very soon a love affair came on, and he was about running off with the silly daughter of a good substantial citizen. By some means the father got wind of the matter and repaired to the appointed place of meeting just in time. He found Dickorsey and a carriage in waiting. Without much ceremony he laid violent hands on the count, who thought it better to run than to fight, and therefore fled ingloriously, just as the daughter arrived on the ground. He has not been heard of since. We could write a column by way of commentary upon this circumstance, but think that the facts in the case speak so plainly for themselves that not a single remark is needed to give them force. We wish the Lady Joy at her escape for the count in disguise is no doubt a scheming villain at heart. Poor Arabella was dreadfully cut down when this notice met her eye. It was a long time before she ventured into company again, and ever after had a mortal aversion to mustaches and perils. The count never after made his appearance in Philadelphia. The young man named Marston, who had justed with Abel Lee about the loss of his lady-love, was seated in his room some ten minutes after the sudden appearance of Mr. Jones at the place of meeting between the lovers, when his door was thrown open and inbounded Dickorsey, hair and all. Cloak, hat and hair were instantly thrown aside, and a smooth young laughing face revealed itself from behind whiskers, mustaches, and perils, and goatee. Where's the countess? asked Marston in a merry voice. Did she faint? Dear knows, that sturdy old American father of hers got me by the throat before I could say Jack Robinson, and I was glad to make off with a whole skin. Arabella arrived at the moment and gave a glorious scream. Of anything further? Deponent sayeth not. She'll be cured of mustaches, or I'm no prophet. I guess she will, but the fact is, Marston, and the young man looked serious. I'm afraid this joke has been carried too far. Not at all. The moral effect will tell upon our silly young ladies whose heads are turned with a foreign accent and a hairy lip. You acted the whiskered fob to a charm. No one could have dreamed that all was counterfeit. So far as the general effect is concerned I have no doubt, but I'm afraid it was wrong to victimize Miss Arabella for the benefit of the whole race of weak-minded girls. The effect upon her may be more serious than we apprehend. No, I think not. The woman who could pass by as true a young man as Abel Lee for a foreign count in disguise hasn't hard enough to receive a deep injury. She will be terribly mortified, but that will do her good. If it turned out no worse than that I shall be glad. But I must own, now that the whole thing is over, that I am not as well satisfied with myself as I thought I would be. I don't know what my good sisters at the south would say if they knew I had been engaged in such a mad cap affair. But I lay all the blame upon you. You with your cool head ought to have known better than to start our young hot-brained fellow like me, just let loose from college, upon such a wild adventure. I'm afraid that if Jones once got me fairly into his clutches he would have made daylight shine through me. Ha! No doubt of it. But come, don't begin to look long-faced. We will keep our own counsel, and no one need be the wiser for our participation in this matter. Wait a while, and let us enjoy the nine days wonder that will follow. But the young man, who was a relative of Marston, and who had come to the city fresh from college just in the nick of time for the latter, felt now that the excitement of his wild prank was over, a great deal more sober about the matter than he had expected to feel. Reason and reflection told him that he had no right to trifle with anyone as he had trifled with Arabella Jones. But it was too late to mend the matter. No great harm, however, came of it, and perhaps good. For a year subsequently, Abel Leigh conducted his old flame to the altar, and she makes him a loving and faithful wife. Section 17 Job's Comforters Or The Lady With Nerves 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 telekitely strong. 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, sometime 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 alarmed 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. Well, what kind of 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 affliction 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 anything 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 anyone 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 drain you have 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 she said it was nothing to fear, a little smarting and a little pain, but not so bad as a bad toothache, she would wage her 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 the 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 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 everything 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 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 never 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 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 evolutions of feeling. He knows my weakness. If I thought there were danger, he mildly said, I would be as 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 certain amounts 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, return 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 humor 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 of exemption from real ones. From the time Mrs. A. left me until my husband came, 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 their 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 separation, 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 visited 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 toothache, I replied. Use a little kerosene, she said. 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's 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. That 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 informing? 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 jawbone was broken dreadfully. It was months before it healed, or before she could eat with anything but a spoon. This, completely unmanned, or rather, unwoment 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 attend them, after she left another friend called, to whom I mentioned the fact of having a very bad toothache, and asked her if she had ever known anyone to have an abscess at the root of a sound tooth. She replied that toothache 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 carries of the jaw which have 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 disease exists nor where it is going to terminate. Even apart from carries of the jaw, the thing is painful enough. Mrs. T., an intimate friend of mine, suffered for nearly a month, 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 anyone else in the dumps, I replied fretfully. This toothache grows worse instead of better. Does it, indeed. I'm really very sorry. Can't anything 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 had seemed capitious and unreasonable. Dear soul, I suppose 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 toothache. If the tooth were at all decayed, or if 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 tumor forming at the root can produce such a steady, deep-seated, throbbing pain that I am with reason alarmed, and instead of sympathy for 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 the 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 tumor at the root, it will be much safer to have it out than to 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 having my 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, I said 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 meant to say that I think 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 odor 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 not say 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's 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 strong. 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. End of Section 17. Section 18 of Off-Hand Sketches This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Off-Hand Sketches by T. F. Arthur. Section 18. The Code of Honor 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's 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? Bah! 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 sonateered 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, I'll, what will you do? Do 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 in 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 cow hide 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 anything, challenge and shoot him. That would be quite gentlemanly, quite according to the code of honor. Return 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 in-road 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 favor 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 honorable 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 belligerents were closeted for the purpose of arranging the preliminaries for the fight. The weapon asked the friend of the military man. Your principle, by the laws of honor, has the choice as also to name time and place, etc. Yes, I understand all this 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 pins of approved quality. The place of meeting, the gazette, the time, tomorrow 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 honor, the challenged party has the right to choose weapons, place of meeting, and time. Is it not so? Certainly. Very well, your principle 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 pin, and he chooses that. If Lieutenant Redmond had been the challenge party, he would, of course, have named pistols with which he is familiar. And Mr. Blake would have been called a coward, poltrune, or something as bad, if after sinning a challenge, he had objected to the weapons. Will your principle find himself in a different position if he declined this meeting on like grounds? I think not. Pins are as good as pistols at any time, and will do as much. Fighting with pins? 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 pin. Pistols won't demonstrate the matter. Only the pin can do it, so the pin is chosen. In the gazette of tomorrow 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, whomesoever 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. Pins are the weapons. The gazette, the battleground. Time early as you please tomorrow morning. Are you prepared for the meeting? No. Do you understand the consequences? What consequences? Your principle will be posted as a coward before night. Are you mad? No. Cool and earnest. We fully understand what we were 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. His 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. What? Why curse the fellow a pen? You were to use pens. The place of meeting the gazette. Time tomorrow morning. He is to prove you were no gentleman and you were 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 principle 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 dared do such a thing. That won't secure Mary Clinton the cause of this contest. Hang it, no. With pins for weapons, he'll 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 honor. By the code of honor, the challenged party has the right to choose the weapons and so forth. I know. And you were 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 is the least of the three evils. So at last thought the valiant Lieutenant 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 in his second said but little about the matter. A few choice friends were led 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 his leaf come in contact with a pexang 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. End of section 18, recording by Tom Barron. Section 19 of Off-Hand Sketches This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Off-Hand Sketches by T.S. Arthur. Section 19. Treating a Case Actively A Physician's Story 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 labored. But somehow the symptoms did not indicate apoplexy. Every vein in his head and face was turgid, and he lay perfectly stupid. But I still 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 make if 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 today, and there is no drug of any kind in the house. No brandy? I ventured to 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 anything more for the patient until Dr. S came, they had to submit. I wished to make a call of importance in the neighborhood 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? Ask the wife anxiously. Dr. S thought a moment and then said, Yes, by all means, sent for a barber and also for a fresh flight 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 there too, 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 mischiefs the matter, he said at length. 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 ills my head! For mercies say, 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 up on the floor, unhappening 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 hush there. Do for mercy's sake be quiet. Everything 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 anything more than appeared of the cause of his supposed illness. THE END