Off Hand Sketches, a Little Dashed with Humour

T >> T.S. Arthur >> Off Hand Sketches, a Little Dashed with Humour

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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 any one else in the dumps," I replied
fretfully. "This tooth-ache grows worse, instead of better."

"Does it, indeed? I am really very sorry. Can't any thing 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 seemed captious and
unreasonable. Dear soul! I supposed 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
tooth-ache. If the tooth were at all decayed, or 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 tumour forming at the root could produce such a
steady, deep-seated, throbbing pain, that I am with reason alarmed;
and, instead of sympathy from 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 a 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 tumour at the root, it will be much safer to
have it out than 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 my having the
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?" said I, 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 mean to say that I think
that 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 odour 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 say not 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 is 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 strung. 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.

THE CODE OF HONOUR.

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 is 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?--pah!--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
sonneteered 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--ll"--

"What will you do?"

"Do? I'll--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 and 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 cowhide 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 any thing, challenge and shoot him."

"That would be quite gentlemanly, quite according to the code of
honour," returned 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 inroad 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
favour 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 honourable 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 bellige-rents were closeted
for the purpose of arranging the preliminaries for the fight.

"The weapon?" asked the friend of the military man. "Your principal,
by the laws of honour, has the choice; as, also, to name time and
place, &c."

"Yes, I understand. All is 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 pens of approved quality. The place of meeting,
the--mdash; Gazette; the time, to-morrow 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 honour, the
challenged party has the right to choose weapons, place of meeting,
and time. Is it not so?"

"Certainly."

"Very well. Your principal 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 pen,
and he chooses that. If Lieut. Redmond had been the challenged
party, he would, of course, have named pistols, with which he is
familiar, and Mr. Blake would have been called a coward, poltroon,
or something as bad, if, after sending a challenge, he had objected
to the weapons. Will your principal find himself in a different
position if he decline this meeting on like grounds? I think not.
Pens are as good as pistols at any time, and will do as much."

"Fighting with pens! 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 pen. Pistols won't demonstrate the matter; only the pen can do
it, so the pen is chosen. In the--Gazette of to-morrow 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 whomsoever 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. Pens are
the weapons; the--Gazette, the battle-ground; time, early as you
please to-morrow morning. Are you prepared for the meeting?"

"No."

"Do you understand the consequences?"

"What consequences?"

"Your principal will be posted as a coward before night."

"Are you mad?"

"No, cool and earnest. We fully understand what we are 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."

"Is 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!"

"A what?"

"Why, curse the fellow, a pen! You are to use pens--the place of
meeting, the--Gazette--time, to-morrow morning. He is to prove you
are no gentleman, and you are 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 principal 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 dare do such a thing."

"That won't secure Mary Clinton, the cause of this contest."

"Hang it, no!"

"With pens for weapons he will 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 honour."

"By the code of honour, the challenged party has the right to choose
the weapons, &c."

"I know."

"And you are 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's the least of the three evils."

So, at last, thought the valiant Lieut. 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 and his second said but little about the matter. A few
choice friends were let 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 as lief come in
contact with a Paixhan 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.

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 laboured, but somehow the symptoms did not indicate
apoplexy. Every vein in his head and face was turgid, and he lay
perfectly stupid, but still I 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 may give 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
to-day, and there is no drug of any kind in the house."

"No brandy?" I ventured this 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 any thing more for the patient until Dr.
S--came, they had to submit. I wished to make a call of importance
in the neighbourhood, 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?" asked
the wife, anxiously. Dr. S--thought a moment, and then said--"Yes,
by all means. Send for a barber; and also for a fresh fly-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 thereto, 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 mischief's the matter?" he at length said. 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 ails my head?"

"For mercy's sake, 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 upon
the floor, on happening 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--!"

"H-u-s-h! There! do, for mercy's sake, be quiet; every thing 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.

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