generously provided by the wright american fiction project (http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright2/) of the library electronic text service of indiana university note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 17200-h.htm or 17200-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/2/0/17200/17200-h/17200-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/2/0/17200/17200-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the wright american fiction project (http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright2/) of the library electronic text service of indiana university. angel agnes: or, the heroine of the yellow fever plague in shreveport. the strangely romantic history and sad death of miss agnes arnold, the adopted daughter of the late samuel arnold, of this city. wealthy, lovely, and engaged to be married, yet this devoted girl volunteered to go and nurse yellow fever patients at shreveport, louisiana. after three weeks of incessant labor she met with a painful and fatal accident. _she died in the hope of a blessed immortality_. her intended husband, who had followed her to shreveport, had already died, and the two were buried side by side. terrible scenes during the plague. by wesley bradshaw. issued by old franklin publishing house in philadelphia, pa. entered according to act of congress, in the year 1873, by c. w. alexander, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington, d.c. * * * * * * [advertisement] geo. woods & co's parlor organs. [illustration: organ] their combination solo stops are capable of the most beautiful musical effects. * aeoline--a soft or breathing stop. * vox humana--a baritone solo, not a fan or tremolo. * piano--which will never require tuning. few are aware of the perfection the parlor organ has reached, the variety of musical effects of which it is capable, and how desirable an addition it is to the parlor. these instruments have created much interest and enthusiasm by reason of their quality of tone, elegance of finish and musical effects. the profession and public generally are earnestly invited to examine these beautiful instruments at our own or agents' warerooms, and compare them with other instruments of their class. correspondence with the trade and profession solicited. agents wanted in every town. circulars containing music free. geo. woods & co., cambridgeport, mass. warerooms, * 66 & 68 adams st., chicago. * 33 king william st., london. * m.g. bisbee, 920 chestnut st., philadelphia, pa. in replying cut off this address and enclose in your letter. * * * * * * angel agnes. may god protect you, reader of this book, from all manner of sickness; but above all, from that thrice dreaded pestilence, yellow fever. of all the scourge ever sent upon poor sinful man, none equals in horror and loathsomeness yellow fever. strong fathers and husbands, sons and brothers, who would face the grape-shot battery in battle, have fled dismayed from the approach of yellow fever. they have even deserted those most dear to them. courageous, enduring women, too, who feared hardly any other form of sickness, have been terrified into cowardice and flight when yellow fever announced its awful presence. such was the state of affairs when, a short time ago, the startling announcement was made that yellow fever had broken out in shreveport, louisiana, and that it was of the most malignant type. at once everybody who could do so left the stricken city for safer localities, and, with equal promptitude, other cities and towns quarantined themselves against shreveport, for fear of the spread of the frightful contagion to their own homes and firesides. daily the telegraph flashed to all parts of the land the condition of shreveport, until the operators themselves were cut down by the disease and carried to the graveyard. volunteers were then called for from among operators in the places, and several of these, who came in response to the call, though acclimated, and fanciedly safe, took it and died. then it was that terror really began to take hold of the people in earnest. a man was alive and well in the morning, and at night he was a horrible corpse. the fond mother who thanked heaven, as she put her children to bed, that she had no signs of the malady, and would be able to nurse them if they got sick, left those little ones orphans before another bedtime came around. in some cases even, the fell destroyer within forty-eight hours struck down whole families, leaving neither husband, mother nor orphans to mourn each other, but sweeping them all into eternity on one wave as it were. then it was that a great wail of mortal distress rose from shreveport--a call for help from one end of the land to another. business came to a stand-still, the ordinary avocations of life were suspended. no work! no money! no bread! nothing but sickness! nothing but horror! nothing but despair! nothing but death! alas! was there no help in this supreme moment? there was plenty of money forthcoming, but no nurses. philanthropic men and women in near and also distant states, sent their dollars even by telegraph. but who would go thither and peril his or her life for the good of the city in sackcloth and ashes? praised be the name of that god who gave them their brave hearts, there were some who nobly volunteered for the deadly but loving task. to go was almost certain death to themselves--yet did they go. and most brave, most distinguished, most lovely among those devoted few, was agnes arnold, the subject of this little memoir. we have on our title page called her "angel agnes." that was what many a burning lip named her in the unfortunate city of shreveport, as with her low, kind, tender voice, she spoke words of pious comfort to the passing soul, and whispered religious consolation in the fast deafening ears of the dying. many had called her angel, because their dimming eyes had not beheld a friend's face since they took sick, till they saw hers. let us not fill space, though, with encomiums, but let this noble christian creature's deeds be recorded to speak for themselves. so shall you, reader, do justice to the lovely martyr, whose form, together with that of her intended husband, sleeps in the eternal slumber far away in louisiana. agnes volunteers. one day mrs. arnold, widow of the late well-known samuel arnold of this city, sat in the library of their elegant mansion up town, leading the daily papers. it was shortly after breakfast, and presently agnes, her adopted daughter, entered the room. the arnolds had never had any children, save one, a girl, and she had died when she was three years old. while going to the funeral, mrs. arnold saw a poorly clad lady walking slowly along with a little girl so strikingly like her own dead child, that she was perfectly astonished,--so much so, indeed, that she called her husband's attention to the little one. mr. arnold himself was so surprised that he had the carriage stop, and, getting out, went and inquired the lady's name and address. "for, madame," said he, as a reason for his doing such an apparently strange act, "your little daughter here is a perfect likeness of our own little agnes, whose coffin you see in yonder hearse. you must allow mrs. arnold and me to call upon you, though we are perfect strangers to you; indeed you must." "very well, sir," answered the strange lady, "i shall not, certainly under the circumstances, object." immediately after the funeral the arnolds called at the residence of mrs. morton, whose husband had died more than a year before. she was obliged to take in plain sewing, and when she could do so, she gave occasional lessons in french to eke out a livelihood for herself and child. a very short interview resulted in mrs. arnold persuading the widow to take a permanent situation with her, as her seamstress. and from that date until her death, which took place five years later, the fortunate widow and her child lived with the arnolds as full members of the family. with an exquisite and grateful regard for the sensibilities and possible wishes of her benefactors, the mother of the child voluntarily changed its name from mary to agnes. "i know you will approve of my doing so," said she, on the occasion of her daughter's birthday--the arnolds made quite a time of it, decking the new agnes in all the trinkets which had once belonged to the little agnes, who was gone--"i know you will approve of my doing so, and i cannot think of any better way in which to express my gratitude to you both." mr. and mrs. arnold were moved to tears by these words; in fact, so deep and genuine was their emotion that neither one spoke for some time. they did nothing but fondle and kiss the child they had adopted. thenceforward, instead of mary morton, the child was agnes arnold. years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was twenty-two years old. her own mother and mr. arnold had passed away and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little agnes of old. but like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible ivy that bound agnes' heart and mrs. arnold's heart together, and the same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a perpetual summer in their minds and affections. "mother," said agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair close to mrs. arnold's, "i wish to ask your advice about the affair between george and me. do you think i ought to take any more notice of him or sophia?" "well, i scarcely can speak to you advisedly, agnes, on such a matter," said mrs. arnold. "you are aware that my first and last thoughts are for your happiness. but, from what i know of the circumstances, i do not see that you can make any move either one way or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly." "i have kept back nothing from you, mother," replied agnes; "you know all, just as well as i do myself." "then i think you did perfectly right, agnes, darling. your course has my emphatic approval. i can appreciate perfectly that it must cause you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-shining sun pierces and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud." "well, mother, i will await the turn of events, and whichever way, whether for weal or for woe, i shall abide it. but should i lose george through this, i shall never risk a second such mental agony with any one else." "ah," smiled mrs. arnold, kissing agnes, gayly, "young hearts like yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered. better fish in the sea, et cetera. you know the old adage--but there's the postman, dear; you run and get the letters he has." agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in the other. the single missive was directed to herself, in a chirography which she well knew. giving the four to her mother, she sat down and opened her own. it was couched in cold, formal words, instead of gushing sentences as usual, and to say that it chilled and crushed her is to say only the truth. when her mother had finished her's, agnes handed this letter to her with the quietly spoken remark: "that severs george and me forever in this world, mother. with a keen sword he has cut me off from him, like the gardener ruthlessly cuts the vine from the oak." as she spoke, agnes drew from her bosom a gold locket, and, springing it open, she gazed for a moment upon a handsome manly face which it contained. that was george's likeness. "till eternity george, till eternity--" she did not finish the sentence in words; but the fond, artless, fervent kiss she imprinted upon the picture was such a one as is given to the dead lips of one we love, and are about to part with forever. she snapped the lid shut again, replaced the closed trinket in her bosom, and said: "mother, all is over. i shall never open it again. but in case i die before you, i wish you to have this buried with me." mrs. arnold tried to rally agnes about this, her first disappointment of the heart, and had the satisfaction of presently seeing her quite merry. suddenly agnes, as she glanced over the newspaper, exclaimed: "mother, what a dreadful thing that yellow fever is! did you read this? whole families are being swept out of existence, and have no one to help or nurse them. it's frightful, and yet we boast of our christianity. it's a sin and a shame!" she continued to read the fearful despatches that had first attracted her attention, while her mother remained silent. "mother," she resumed, when she had finished, "i am going down to shreveport." "what do you mean, agnes?" exclaimed mrs. arnold, glancing anxiously at her daughter. "i am going down to shreveport, to help to nurse those poor perishing people." "agnes!" "yes, dear mother. i believe it to be my duty to go and do what little i can toward alleviating the distress of those stricken sufferers." "why, agnes, dear, you would surely perish yourself." "o no, mother, you forget how i waited on papa and you when you both had the fever down in new orleans." this was true. several years before, while the arnolds had been making a pleasure tour in the southern states, they had been seized with the disorder, and but for the unflagging, heroic devotion of agnes, they would most likely have perished. "no, darling, i could never forget that were i to live a hundred years. it is because i do remember the horror of that time that i would not wish you to expose yourself to such another. besides, what would i do without you?" "that is the only subject that gives me any pain, mother; but then god would take care of you as well as of me, would he not?" "yes." "i know it, mother. you have always taught me that, and i firmly believe it. god, who sees and notes the fall of even a sparrow, will not let me fall, except it be his gracious will. no, mother, i feel that i must go, and you must consent and give me your best blessing. it is strange that we see no account of ministers or members of any denomination but the roman church volunteering to go to the stricken city. all seem to stand aloof but them. how noble are those truly christian and devoted women, the sisters of mercy! and shall i be idle and listless when i might be saving life, or at least trying to do so. o, mother dear, i must go. i will come back safely to you. you must give me your consent." mrs. arnold was herself a truly brave and christian lady, and a firm believer in the care that god exercises over all who serve him. and therefore, after a short consideration, she gave the required consent to her daughter agnes, to go to shreveport as a nurse. during the late war, fond fathers sent their sons to the battle-field, not that they wished to have them slaughtered, but willing that, for the sake of their cause, they should take the risk. so now, with much the same motive, mrs. arnold gave agnes her approbation to go and perform her christian duty to the sufferers at shreveport. yet when the parting really came, it seemed as though mrs. arnold could never unclasp her arms from about the form of her daughter. "god will bring me safely back to you, dear mother," urged agnes, gently untwining those loving arms; "good-by." "good-by, darling, good-by." it was over--the parting was over--agnes was gone. mrs. arnold was alone--for evermore in this life. not until the sea and earth give up their dead--not until the book of life might be opened and mankind summoned before the white throne on high, were these two destined to look into each other's face again. mrs. arnold could not foresee the solemn significance of her words as, for the last time, she murmured: "agnes, my darling, my angel, good-by!" in the midst of death. in due course of time agnes approached shreveport. while in the cars she had formed the acquaintance of three sisters of mercy, who were bound upon a similar errand of kindness and peril to her own. at first, upon learning whither she was going, and what her object was, these pious ladies were thoroughly astonished; but when they found by interrogation that she was really in earnest, their friendly admiration became equal to their previous astonishment. "your services will be most welcome, miss arnold, i assure you," said the eldest of the sisters. "this is the third time i have been summoned to nurse in yellow fever, and i know that there are never one-half the number of nurses necessary." a little short of the stricken city they were all stopped, and it required the positive statement of the sisters of mercy that their youthful, lovely companion was really going into the place for the purpose of nursing the sick. "miss," asked an elderly gentleman, "were you ever acclimated here? because if you were not, we cannot let you pass, for you would only get the fever yourself, and become a care instead of a help to us. not only that, but you would surely be a corpse inside of twenty-four hours." agnes explained to the firm but kind gentleman, her new orleans experience, and he relaxed and said: "in that case, miss arnold, i sincerely welcome you, and in the name of the sick and dying people here, pray god that you may be spared to help them. pass through, and heaven bless your brave and noble heart!" reader, if you are a man, possibly you have been in the army, and then possibly you have been in a column, to which has been assigned the task of storming a well-served battery of pieces. if so, you may remember the feelings that were within your heart as you left the last friendly cover of woods, and double-quicked across the open space up hill, and saw the artillery-men waiting till you got close up before pulling the primer lanyards, so as to make sure work of you all. to agnes arnold going into shreveport, the emotions must have been very much like yours in front of that battery. yet there was no fluttering of her pulse. "where shall i go first?" asked this splendid heroine of the gentleman in charge of the district in which she chanced to find herself. "not far; right across the street there into that grocery store at the corner. we haven't been able to send any one there. just been able to look in now and then and give them all their doses. please give me your name, and don't leave there till i come, and i'll look after your baggage." "my name, sir, is agnes arnold. i have no baggage except this one small trunk, and i would rather you let this young man bring it along directly with me." "very well, take it, ned, and follow miss arnold, and see you don't ask anything for the job." "yes, sir," replied the negro porter, and shouldering the trunk he strode on hastily after agnes. he would not go further into the house, however, than the little room immediately in the rear of the store. "surely you are not afraid, you who live here!" exclaimed agnes. "de lor' bless your soul, missus. youse couldn't haul dis yer niggah furder inter dis yallah house with an army muel team. don't yer smell dat 'culiah scent. o, lor', good-by missus. dat's de rele jack, suah!" and without waiting for any further argument or remark upon the subject, the terrified fellow clapped his hand over his mouth and nose, and actually bounded out into the street to where some men were burning tar and pitch as a disinfectant. nor did he seem to consider himself safe until he had nearly choked himself by thrusting his head into the dense black fumes. agnes would have laughed at the silly man, but at this moment such violent and agonized groaning fell upon her ears, that she started and trembled. but it was only for a moment. in an instant more she had thrown off her travelling costume and hat and bounded up stairs. there such a sight met her gaze as would have chilled, the stoutest heart. in a narrow rear chamber were four living people and two corpses. the two dead ones were the father, a man of about forty, and a little girl of six years, his youngest child. the four living people were the mother, thirty years old, a little girl, and two boys, of the respective ages of nine, fourteen, and sixteen. "don't take us away to the cemetery yet! for god's sake, don't!" groaned the woman in agony. "we're not dead yet. it won't be long. but it won't be long. leave us be a while, and then you can bury us all in one grave. for god's sake! please!" "my dear woman, i've come to try and save your lives, not to bury you," replied agnes in a low, kindly voice, patting the sick woman's forehead. "they take plenty of them away and stick them in the ground while they are alive yet. heaven help us, for we can't help ourselves." these words were not spoken consecutively, but in fits and starts between paroxysms of dreadful physical suffering. her racked mind and body prevented the mother from quickly comprehending agnes. and it was not until the latter had talked to her soothingly and cheerfully for several minutes, that she began to perceive the real state of affairs. and then the re-action from the depths of despair was like the infusion of new life and strength to the sick woman. she cried and sobbed as though her heart would break for several minutes, which excitement ended in a spasm. most women would have been terrified at such a scene as was at this moment presented to miss arnold. but she was not a mere fancy nurse. far from it. up went her sleeves, and for the next two hours she worked with her four patients like a trojan, first with the mother, and next with the children. her next care was to separate the living from the dead. the child she wrapped up in a small sheet quite neatly, and for the father she performed the same sad task, using a coverlet, so that when about three o'clock the dead wagon came around with the coffins, both bodies were decently prepared for interment. "'bout what time d'ye think i better git back fur t'others, nurse?" inquired the driver of the wagon, consulting a small pass-book that he carried in his side coat pocket. agnes was horrified to hear such a brutal question propounded to her in the coolest and most business-like manner. "what do you mean?" asked she, indignantly. "mean jist wot i says! no time to fool round, nuther," was the answer. "this is the burton fam'ly, aint it?" he asked, giving his book another glance, and then pitching his eye quickly up around the store, as though looking for a sign with which to compare the note book. "yes, burton," answered agnes. "all right, then! they wuz tuk yisterday at noon. there's a man, a woman, four children!" [he tapped the tip of each finger of his left hand once with the back of the book, and the thumb twice, looking agnes very convincingly in the face all the while, as though to make her thoroughly understand, without putting him to the bother of a second statement.] "six--they wuz tuk at noon yisterday. two dead this mornin'. four more oughten be dead by--let's see--why, time's up now! t'houten be dead now! by--how's that? you aint foolin', hey? big fine fur foolin' the wagon man, you know. now say, if any on 'em's near gone it'll do, you know. save me bother, an' you too, don't you see? ef they're near gone, 'nuff not ter kick nor holler wen we puts 'em in, it'll do, 'cause then they can't git better, you know, an' they're outen their misery sooner." the insinuating leer with which the wretch ended this speech caused miss arnold's blood to run cold. "you brute! you fiend! ghoul! or whatever kind of demon you call yourself, begone! in the name of heaven, begone!" exclaimed the heroic girl, her eyes flashing fire, and her whole frame trembling with disgust and horror. her demeanor cowed the fellow, and he actually cringed as he backed out at the door. but on the sidewalk he seemed to recover his coolness, or at least he assumed to, for stepping in again, he exclaimed: "mind, i'll be round in the mornin', and i don't want no gum games! i've got too much to do on my hands now." agnes paid no heed to him at all, but hastening back to her patients, she recommenced her nursing care of them. there was no fire, and in fact none was needed, except for cooking and preparing the one or two simple remedies which agnes used in connection with the treatment of the sick victims, and which she felt assured would not interfere with the medicine they were taking. in truth, during the whole epidemic, it seemed as though mere medicine was of no avail whatever, and that really the methods and means used by the natives, independent of the doctors, did all the good that was done. first, she got out of the store some mackerel and bound them, just as they came out of the barrel, brine and all, to the soles of the feet of both the mother and children. this simple remedy acted like a charm, for in about three hours the fever began to break. agnes put on fresh mackerel as before, removing the first ones, which, startling as it may seem, were perfectly putrid, though reeking with the strong salt brine when she applied them. by nine o'clock that night the noble young woman had the inexpressible delight of seeing her poor patients so far changed for the better as to be completely out of danger. on the next morning, true to his promise, the dead-wagon man came around. he was one of those in-bred wicked spirits which take delight in hating everything and everybody good and beautiful; just as the greek peasant hated aristides, and voted for his banishment, because he was surnamed the "good." this fellow already hated agnes, and his ugly face was contorted with a hideous grin, as he thrust himself in at the store door and exclaimed: "hallo! where's them dead 'uns? fetch 'em out!" agnes had not expected him to put his threat of coming the next morning into execution. she was therefore somewhat taken aback on beholding him. but she was a girl of steady, powerful nerves, and cool temper, and the instant she saw that the fellow had made up his mind to behave the way he did merely to vex and harass her, she made up her mind to "settle him off." paying no heed therefore to what he said, agnes quietly put on her hat and shawl took her umbrella in her hand, and stepping directly up to the brutal wretch said, in a determined tone of voice: "come along with me; i intend to give you such a lesson that you will not forget in a hurry. you have given me impudence enough for the rest of your life. you have got to go back now with me to the office of the superintendent, where i will have you discharged and then punished as you deserve." perhaps thoughts of dark and cruel acts he had already been guilty of, flashed across his mind, and made him tremble for the consequences to himself. he evidently believed that agnes knew more about him than he thought. or perhaps it was that mysterious influence which a positive mind in motion--like miss arnold's--wields over a vacillating temperament like the dead-wagon driver's. whichever of these causes it was, could of course never be positively known, but, like a flash of lightning, the fellow changed his insolent, braggart manner to one of the most contemptible, cringing cowardice. "don't, missus, don't! ef i've 'sulted yer, 'pon my dirty soul i'll beg yer double-barrelled pardon. please don't yer go to complainin' on me. for ef i'd lose my place, my wife and young 'uns 'ud starve to death in no time. i oughter knowed better then to sass you anyhow, when i seed how good and purty ye wuz!" "please don't leave us! don't leave us, miss agnes, for you've been our good angel. you have saved our lives!" piteously exclaimed mrs. burton and her children in chorus at this moment, fearful that their nurse was really going away, and dreading if she did, that they would all be carried off either to the cemetery or some other dreadful place. "now, please go back, and don't go a tellin' on me fur a sassin yer. i oughter to be ashamed; and i am double-barrelled ashamed. an' ef you'll jest say you'll furgiv' me, i'll go down on my knees. there now, miss agony, ain't that 'nuff? ef it ain't, why i'll do whatever you say fur me to do." the fellow pulled off his hat, and set himself in such a ludicrously woebegone attitude, that miss arnold had great difficulty in restraining herself from laughing outright. she managed, however, to keep a straight face, and replied: "well, this time i will allow it to pass; but never let me hear of such conduct again, or i will not be so lenient." "thank you, missus; and may i ask you a queshun?" "yes." "i want ter ask you, how yer kep' them there fel's from a dyin'? 'cause when they're bin tuk like they wuz tuk yer could jest bet every muel in the kerral that they'd peg out in twenty-seven hours at furthest." "god did it, not i," replied agnes. "don't call me sassin' yer, agin, miss agony, but that ain't so; 'cause thar's nuthin' 'll fetch 'em, when they're tuk the way they wuz tuk. it's magic done it, nuthin' else!" "well, in case you should feel the headache, sick stomach, and chill coming on at any time, or fall in with any person suffering that way, remember the following recipe. take out your book again and put it down." "yes, miss agony, willin'." the fellow produced his book and pencil, and holding the former flat up against the door, wrote at miss arnold's dictation: "put the feet immediately into hot and very strong mustard water--put in plenty of mustard. quickly take a strong emetic of ipecac or mustard water. go to bed immediately, and send for the doctor. while waiting for the doctor, get salt mackerel, directly out of the brine, and bind them to the soles of the feet. and the moment the patient craves any particular article of food or drink, do not hesitate to give it _moderately_. if mackerel cannot be obtained, use strong raw onions or garlic. in a few hours the mackerel will most likely become putrid; if so, remove them, and apply others." "golly! golly! i knowed it was magic--somethin' like that, and not medicine at all!" exclaimed the fellow, nodding his head to himself. "let me look at your book, to see if you have it correctly written," said agnes, stepping partially behind the driver. "lor' bless you, miss agony!" he exclaimed, "you'd never be able to read my writin'. hold on, an' i'll read fur you myself, an' then yer ken tell me ef i'm wrong." as agnes still manifested a desire to look at the book, however, he held it for her inspection. but with the exception of here and there a small word, like _a_ or _the_, she could not decipher any of the scrawl. so she expressed her desire to hear it read. the fellow promptly read it all off without a single mistake, much to the astonishment of miss arnold. "is that all straight, hey, miss agony?" asked he, with a comical expression of mingled pride and curiosity running over his countenance. "yes," replied agnes; "and," added she, "my name is not what you call it, but agnes arnold." "well, now, don't think i wuz callin' yer that fur sass, missus arnold, for i wuz not. i'll hurry along now, for i've got a heap to do this mornin'. things is a gittin' wuss an' wuss every day." "i hope they will soon mend," said agnes, fervently; "good day." "good-by, missus arnold, an' i hope god'll take best care uv you, anyhow," answered the driver. "i trust in him always, and you should also put your faith in him. he is strong to save." with this admonition to her rough companion, agnes turned back into the rear room, and removing her hat and shawl, set herself about kindling a fire to prepare some little nourishment for her sick charges. as the burtons happened to keep a grocery store, she had no difficulty in selecting material fitted for her object. they all continued on the mend until the succeeding day, when the physician having that district in charge made them a visit. he was completely astonished upon finding how favorably the surviving cases had turned out, and he held quite a long conversation with agnes in regard to what she had done, after which he remarked: "indeed, miss arnold, i must confess to you that i feel disposed to credit these recoveries entirely to your faithful and intelligent nursing. for to tell you the truth, the modes of treatment which we physicians have hitherto used in cases showing the symptoms that these did, has failed in nearly eighty per cent. of every hundred. but it is true enough sometimes, that many of these 'grandmother remedies' as we call them, are more efficacious than any others." "this is not a grandmother's remedy, doctor," smilingly replied agnus. "it was told to me some years ago in new orleans." she here concisely narrated to him the history of her experience when she helped to nurse her father in the latter city. "who was it told you, miss arnold? was it dr. robinson? he was noted about that period for his success in treating bad cases of the fever. "no, sir, it was a spanish gentleman, who had lived many years in havana. once in vera cruz he took the vomito, and was saved by this treatment. "most astonishing!" mused the doctor. "i shall not fail to try it." "i have another remedy which is equally efficient in small-pox, doctor, that i got from the same gentleman. you might find it useful at some time, and i assure you i have never known it to fail even in the worst cases. "thank you, i will accept it with pleasure." miss arnold repeated the following, and the doctor took it carefully down in his note book: "as soon as the headache comes, and the chill down the back, and the stomach becomes sick, and the limbs begin to ache, clear the stomach with a strong emetic, put the feet in hot mustard water several times during the next twelve hours. talk very often and encouragingly to the patient as the insanity begins to show itself. as soon as the thirst sets in, give frequently alternate small drinks of cold indian meal gruel--no butter in the gruel--and moderately large drinks of the best plain black tea, _hot_, without milk or sugar. occasionally the gruel may be changed and made of oatmeal, and the tea have a bit of toasted bread in it. as the disorder goes through its course, and a craving sets in, humor this at once with moderate supplies of what is craved. air the room twice or three times each day, taking great care to cover up the patient completely, head and all, while the doors and windows are open. keep the room dark, and at an even temperature. pat the face, arms, &c., with warm barley water, and then with a feather oil the whole surface with sweet oil. this prevents all itching and pitting, or marks." [illustration: poor, noble anges was so wearied out, that she got asleep while she walked with the baby, and stepping too near the stairway, she fell all the way down.] "truly a plain and simple remedy," remarked the doctor, as he put away his book, "i shall not fail to try it also, if i should ever come across any cases of variola." "and you may depend on it, doctor," said agnes, "that it will never fail when properly and intelligently carried out." as he turned to leave, the physician said: "miss arnold, please stay here until i send you a note or a messenger, which i will do within an hour or an hour and a half." a strange incident. in less than the specified time a man came back from the doctor to inform miss arnold that her services were needed in a house about two squares away from there, and that he would show her the place. her little trunk was already packed, her shawl and hat donned, when the messenger arrived. but she found it very difficult to get away from the burtons. these poor, grateful people could not bear to part with her whom they almost worshipped as their preserver. children and mother pleaded almost with anguish for her to stay with them. "i would like to remain, mrs. burton," replied agnes, "but there are hundreds being stricken down every hour around us, who have no one to wait upon them, and who may perish before help can reach them. you and these darlings are now comparatively safe, while others just taken are in deadly peril." her kind remonstrance had its effect, and the burtons now consented to let her go. all kissed her most fondly, bade her good-by, and called down the choicest blessings of heaven upon her head. "god bless you, and keep you safe from the horrible fever!" were the words still ringing in her ears, as the heroic and devoted girl followed the doctor's man out into the street. it was not raining now, but the murky, mist-laden atmosphere was rendered like a damp, choking, heavy pall of gloom by the dense volumes of pitch and tar-smoke with which it seemed to be perfectly soaked, as a sponge is with water. it caused agnes to cough violently and continuously until she arrived at her new destination, which was a private dwelling-house, apparently the abode of some one belonging to the middle class of society. "this is the place, miss arnold," said the man, "a young lady was taken early this morning while she was visiting in the house, and a few hours ago a sister of mercy, who was sent in to nurse her, went down sick. and they're both in bed together." agnes could not account for it, but the moment she heard mention of the sister of charity, a feeling came over her that it must be one of the three with whom she had come hither in the cars. upon reaching the house, she found that her impression was correct. sure enough, tossing in agony and delirium upon the bed, was sister theresa. by some mistake, a male nurse had also been sent to this house, of which circumstance agnes, however, was very glad, as his services were very valuable until she had administered her first simple remedies to the two patients. as soon as she could, she thanked the man, and informed him that she could now get along without him, and that he had better report to the doctor for assignment to some other house. he left, and agnes now commenced her task of peril and unceasing labor. the lady whom sister theresa had come to nurse was comparatively quiet. but, strange as it may seem, theresa herself was extremely violent at intervals. yet when in her right mind, she was the sweetest and gentlest of her sex. alas! how unlike her natural self was she, now that reason was dethroned. all through the long, long, dreary night, agnes never once closed her eyes. all night long, too, she never flagged in her devoted attention to her patients. minute by minute, instant by instant, inch by inch, as it were, she battled with the demon fever that held so fiercely the two sick women in his horrible grasp. ah, noble, noble agnes, when thy soul appears on that final day before god's judgment-seat on high, how thrice enviable will be thy reward! what hymns of glorious praise shall heaven's choir chant for thee! it was nearly day-dawn ere agnes succeeded in getting the sister of mercy into a somewhat quiet state, and then, completely worn out, she was herself obliged to seek a little rest. even her manner of doing this showed how little she dreaded the pestilence, for, instead of going to another room, she lifted theresa further over in the bed, and laying herself down beside her, placed her arm over her, kindly, lovingly, so that if she should chance to move, though never so slightly, it would awaken her. uttering a prayer, first for her patients, and then for herself, agnes fell at once into a light but refreshing slumber, from which, however, she awakened at about the proper time to administer another dose of medicine. this done, she again lay down as before, and in this way she obtained three or four hours of good sleep, which had the effect to refresh her very much indeed; after which she rinsed her face, hands and neck in cold water, and partook of as good a breakfast as she could possibly get under the circumstances. by careful attention in such particulars as these, agnes managed to keep up her health, strength and good spirits, when all the rest of the nurses, both male and female, were completely fagged and wearied out both in mind and body. just after partaking of her frugal meal, agnes was obliged to spring to her bedside, for all of a sudden sister theresa had started up out of her sleep, weeping most piteously, and agnes feared she would throw herself out of bed. but in a few minutes, by her kind, soothing voice, she had quieted her patient and got her to lie down again. agnes never was without her bible, and bethinking herself that its holy words would have a good effect upon theresa, she quickly opened it as chance directed. it was at the twenty-third psalm. "the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want. he maketh me to lie down in green pastures. he leadeth me beside the still waters." agnes was a magnificent reader, and as her flute-like voice, in clear, grand, musical tones, uttered word after word of this most beautiful psalm, not only sister theresa, but the other patient, seemed quickly to alter. and ere she had concluded her reading. agnes noticed that both, but especially theresa, looked better, or rather supremely happy. "you are indeed an angel!" she exclaimed, seizing the hand of her nurse and covering it with kisses. "they told me that the patients you were nursing called you angel agnes, and i am sure you are. may god and the saints keep you ever an angel, as you are now." "yes, yes," added the other patient, fervently, "god bless you! if we had all the rest of the nurses like you, i do not believe any body would die. the hired nurses are nearly all worthless. they work for money alone, and do not care whether the people they nurse live or die." "that is horrible. i hope there are not many nurses of that description." "o, indeed, all are that way except the sisters and yourself," replied the lady. at this juncture the doctor entered in a hurried manner. "well, miss arnold," he exclaimed, "how are you all getting along?" "o, very well, sir, very well. i think we are all past danger." agnes answered the inquiry in a light, cheery tone, that in itself was worth, as the saying goes, a cart-load of medicine. "upon my honor, ladies," continued the doctor, as he advanced to the bed and took each of the invalids' wrists at once, in order to save time, "our nurse here, miss arnold, is the most wonderful lady i have ever seen. she has not failed to break the worst cases we have had. now your symptoms were of the most desperate character, and when you were taken, i never expected to see either of you alive this morning, and yet here you are recovering, and i verily believe beyond further danger. let me see your tongues. well, well, well, this is really astonishing. you are both doing splendidly. just be a little careful, and you are perfectly out of peril. miss arnold, you are worth all our nurses; and really i'm afraid all us physicians also put together." "ah, doctor, you flatter me," laughed agnes, much pleased at the same time to hear the flattery, as well because it seemed to have a brightening effect upon the patients as for any other reason. "indeed i do not flatter you at all, miss arnold. i really begin to wish i was a woman myself, so that if i should get the fever i might have you to nurse me well again." "o never mind about the being a woman, doctor," archly rejoined agnes, "if you should be so unfortunate as to get it, i'll come and nurse you." "will you? well now that's kind and brave of you, i am sure. and speaking of a man, miss arnold, that reminds me. while inspecting a train at the first station, we found a young gentleman aboard, who was coming to shreveport here, expressly to see you. his name was harkness"-"o, doctor!" interruptingly exclaimed agnes, as the color left her cheeks and lips. "i hope you did not permit him to come into this danger!" a far duller observer than the doctor could have seen the intense love of this beautiful girl for the young man referred to. "he's out of peril, miss agnes," explained the doctor, "for we refused to allow him to pass in." no actress ever trod the stage on whose features the emotions of pleasure and regret portrayed themselves at once, as on the face of agnes when heard these words. "would you rather have had us permit his entrance?" asked the doctor. "for my own satisfaction and curiosity i would rather have had it so, doctor. but for his sake, no; a hundred times no." "ah, miss arnold, heart disease is sometimes worse than yellow jack," remarked the doctor half-seriously. "yes, yes, it is always so," said agnes earnestly. "i am surprised he allowed you to come here, miss arnold." the doctor was evidently deeply interested in his wonderful and beautiful nurse, and the artificial twinkle he forced into his gray eyes could not mask his sincerity from agnes, who answered: "doctor, mr. harkness was my intended husband; but a jealous and mischievous young lady, who envied me i suppose, managed, through deceit, to estrange us. and so"-agnes did not know how to finish the sentence. she studied what words to utter in conclusion, until the pause became painfully awkward, seeing which the doctor with much consideration said: "i can guess miss arnold, what you would say, and i fear there has been too much haste on both your parts for each other's happiness. but mr. harkness evidently has for yourself at least a powerful sentiment of something stronger than mere friendly affection, to leave the other young lady and come hither into the midst of such a deadly peril as yellow fever. he has found out the deception, and has, i suppose, come like a man, to tell you so and ask your forgiveness." "that must be it, doctor, that must be it," replied agnes with much warmth, "that's his disposition, i know. he has a noble disposition." after a short further conversation the physician left, with the same request as before, for agnes to remain until he sent her a message where to go next. this was not long delayed, as in about half an hour or so a message came for her to go to a house a few squares away, where a whole family had just been taken down with the disorder. bidding her two patients farewell, agnes hastened away to the new scene of duty. an unexpected patient. the good and beautiful girl, upon arriving at the stricken home, at once set herself to the heavy task she was called on to perform, with cheerful alacrity; but it was the worst case she had yet had. indeed, it would have been utterly impossible for her to get through, but for the fact that there was an old negress employed by the family, and who, having had the fever last year, was not afraid of it. silver, odd as it may seem, was the name of this negress, and she proved herself to be quite as sterling as her name implied. she was also quite intelligent, and carried out all of miss arnold's directions to the letter. yet, for all this, one of the patients, a little girl of six years, died. agnes was exceedingly pained to lose the little darling; but the wonder was that it lived and stood the attack of the fever as long as it did, for it had been already suffering several days before with an acute summer complaint. the rest of the family all recovered, and miss arnold received their most grateful thanks. truly they hardly knew what method to take to show her how grateful they really were. they were pretty well off in worldly matters, but their kind angel agnes was twice as wealthy as they, so that neither money nor anything which money could buy was of any use to her. "i will tell you what you may do to express your gratitude for what little good i have, under the blessing of god, been able to render you. help your poorer neighbors immediately around you here. there are scores and scores of families who are actually starving, as well as sick. give them all the assistance you can. rich people can take care of themselves, but the poor cannot." this was faithfully promised, and, we may add, just as faithfully performed. during the next ten days agnes was kept continually busy, night and day, in her arduous and dangerous duties. but by strict adherence to her original design and method, she kept herself in perfect health and spirits, and in the midst of her labors and anxieties she found time to send daily messages to her mother. on the succeeding monday, while nursing a poor woman in the northern part of the city, a note was brought to her by the dead-wagon man--the same genius with whom agnes had had the encounter. "missus agonyess," said he, trying to pronounce her name correctly, as he remembered the correction--an effort which betrayed him into a double error--"i wuz asked to fetch this here letter to you. it wuz giv to me by a black feller who's a nussin' in the little hospital. a young man guv it to him last night, and promised to give him his gold watch ef he'd find you out and git it to yer." "hospital--young man--gold watch!" ejaculated agnes in a disjointed way, as she took the letter. a glance at the handwriting was sufficient, and her face grew deadly white as she opened and read: "agnes--angel agnes, i hear they call you--and they may well call you that--darling, i found out the trick by which we were estranged. i was foolish, i was wrong to treat you so. and when i learned you had come here into this pest-hole, i was crazy with anxiety for fear you would take the fever and die. i did not know how i _did_ love you till then. god forgive me, guilty wretch that i am, for driving you to such a desperate piece of romance. i came here to tell you how sorry i was, and to ask you to take me bask to my old place in your heart. but now i am afraid it is too late. i have been hanging around the town a week or longer, trying to get in on some train. not succeeding in my object this way, i have been obliged to walk in by night, concealing myself in the daytime, and walking forward again in the darkness. thus i have eluded them, and got in. but so far i have been unable to find you, and now i fear it too late, for i am sick with the fever in the hospital. "i have given myself up to die, for they are not especially kind or attentive to me, as they think i ought to have stayed away, and not come in and added to their labors, as they have more of their own sick than they can attend to. "o agnes, what i would give just to see you before i die, just to hear your voice! but this is a judgment upon me for the way i have treated you. perhaps you are dead too. if so, then i shall meet you very soon in the other world. if you are not dead, and you get this letter, then, for the sake of the olden times, don't hold any malice toward me, but forgive me in my grave. i have given my watch and some money to the nurse here, to get him to give you this letter. i would like you, to buy it from him and send it, if possible, to mother, for it belonged to my father. good by, agnes, good-by. meet me in heaven. george." the tears were running down the pale face of miss arnold, and the dead-wagon man was in a perfect fever of excitement, but he did not speak till she raised her eyes from the letter, when he spluttered out: "lor' bless you, missus agonyness, i hope there ain't no yaller jeck in that there letter. but you looks orful sick." "i want to go to where you got this letter at once." "all right, missus agonyness, i'll drive slower nor usual, and go back on my route, an' you ken foller the wagon. i'd let yer ride, but there aint room." next door there was a sister of mercy nursing, and agnes asked her to look in at her patient till she could return herself, and then she set out for the hospital where george was lying sick. soon arriving there, she went immediately to the nurse and ordered him to give her the gold watch george had given him, which he did very quickly. then she ordered the nurse to take her instantly to the bedside of the young man. this he did with reluctance, evidently because he was ashamed of the way in which the patient was being treated. leading agnes to the darkest end of a small room in which were a number of sick, he showed her george harkness. poor fellow! in a sort of stupor, there he lay doubled up like a ball on the bare floor in a hot, close corner. agnes was enraged, but there was no time to waste in quarrelling or scolding. "bring that man this moment into the best room you have; put him into bed, and fetch the following things. i will stay and nurse him." there was an imperiousness and determination about her tones that caused agnes to be obeyed instantly, and in a few minutes harkness was laid upon the bed. there was no prudish finicking about agnes. taking pen-knife from her pocket, she ripped the boots off george's feet, pulled off his socks, and in less than three minutes more was laving his feet and legs to the knees in hot mustard water. fully half an hour did she continue her exertions with the sick man before he recovered his senses sufficiently to recognize her. as he did so, he started up, and gazed a long time at her--like one in a dream. "george, do you know me? i am agnes," said she, in a very soft, but trembling voice. he reached his hands along the bed-clothes to take hers, apparently to ascertain if she and he were still in the flesh, or were spirits of the other world. there was magic in the warm eager pressure of her hand, for instantly harkness appeared to gain his full senses. "agnes! agnes! have you found me? thank god for this. i am so glad to see you before i die. it takes the thorn out of my pillow, and puts felicity into my heart to see you again. i know by this you have forgiven me." "hush, george, there's nothing to forgive. do not talk, you are too sick. i have come to nurse you. and, with god's help, you shall soon be well again. with god's help--there, dear, you are all the world to me!" there was an intensity of love in the whispered words that thrilled george's heart. agnes's lips touched his ear as the last accents were breathed, so low that he alone could hear them. "thank you, o, my darling, my angel. twenty fevers shall not kill me now," said george, but in a very weak voice. brave heart, george! loving heart, agnes! but fate willed otherwise. you were to be united, but not then, not then; not until you both had crossed the mysterious river which has but one tide, and that ever flowing in at eternity's gates, but never returning. hour after hour agnes battled with the demon fever which was gnawing at the vitals of her beloved george. at intervals her care seemed to get the better of the disorder, and to cause it to loosen its grip. but, alas! after twenty-four hours of unceasing toil and anxiety, poor devoted agnes was forced to endure the mental agony of seeing harkness die. the last thing he did was to smile up in her yearning face, and try to thank her for all she had done for him. his voice was gone; but she knew what the slowly moving parched lips were saying for all that. slipping her arms under his shoulders, agnes bent down, and raising him up ever so gently, she pressed him to her bosom and kissed him. even as she did so harkness breathed his last. with a deep sigh, agnes allowed the corpse to sink gradually down again upon the bed, composed the limbs, closed the eyes, and bound up the fallen jaw. these sad offices finished, her next care was to see that the body was properly interred in a separate grave by itself--a matter which was quite difficult of accomplishment. but she succeeded in having the burial so effected. the death of mr. harkness under such circumstances was, of course, quite distressing to agnes arnold, and somehow or other she could not banish from her mind a presentiment of an additional calamity that was about to befall her. yet her mind was perfectly at ease, so far as she herself was concerned. never at any moment could death surprise her; for, from early years, she had lived up to the admonition of our saviour, "be ye also ready." yet this gloom, that wrapped itself around her like an ominous pall, she could not penetrate, nor cast from her, no matter how strenuously she tried to do so. more devoted even than before, did she now become in her ministrations to the sick and suffering people of shreveport. agnes saves a child, but dies herself. the last family which agnes nursed lived in the northern portion of the city, and consisted of a mother and three children; the youngest a baby twelve months old. ordinarily they had been in middling circumstances, but having lost her husband by a railroad accident six months previously, the widow was reduced to quite a straightened condition. and when the fever seized her, she was in utter despair at the thought of being taken away from her dear ones. but when they brought agnes to nurse her, and told her of the wonderful good fortune that always attended the heroic girl, she seemed to take fresh spirit and gain strength. as yet the baby was unscathed by the dreadful plague, and it would have been sent away, could they have got any person to take it. that, however, was impossible. "never mind, mrs. green, do not let that subject worry you any more. i will take good care of the baby. they shall not take it away from you," said agnes, hugging the infant to her. "o, god bless you! god bless you, always," exclaimed the poor mother, thrilled with the deepest gratitude. "my darling! my baby! my baby!" true to her word, agnes never neglected the little thing, though sometimes, between it and her patients, she was nearly beside herself. reader, if you are a woman, and have ever had even an ordinary sickness in your household, you can easily comprehend the position in which agnes was placed with her three patients to nurse, and an infant to care for at the same time. yet she never murmured, never became impatient. but, in the mysterious workings of providence, it was destined that the good, the beautiful, the angelic girl should not be long of this world. "de good lord ob hebben has tuk her away to her reward!" wept an old negress, who had been saved by the kind and tender care of agnes, a short time before, and who had waited on her in her dying moments, and closed her eyes when all was over. this poor old creature was only too happy when they gave her permission to prepare the inanimate form of her late benefactress for the grave. when she had done all, she did not know what to do for some ornament, till at last a brilliant thought came across her mind, and she adopted it. wherever agnes used to go she always carried a small basket containing little useful articles, together with a pocket bible, out of which she was ever reading some portion of god's holy word, appropriate to the mental condition of the patients she might be nursing. out of this basket old rachel took the pocket bible, and, with the tears coursing down her wrinkled features, she placed the sacred book in the clasped hand of the quiet sleeper, and laid both gently back on the still pure bosom. "o, honey," she groaned, "ef ye could on'y open dem hebbenly eyes ob yourn, an' see dat book dar, wot you used to lub so well, how you would bress dis poor ole niggah fur puttin' it in dat pooty white hand ob yourn." the manner in which agnes lost her life was as follows: during the day the three who were ill with the fever were exceeding troublesome, fairly overtasking the strength of agnes in attending to them. shortly after noon, also, the baby began to exhibit symptoms of being ill. it steadily grew worse, and became exceedingly fractious. the only way in which agnes could pacify it, was to keep walking with it in her arms constantly. the moment she would attempt to sit down to rest herself or lay it in its crib, so that she might do something for the others, it would scream dreadfully till she began to walk it again. in this way agnes worried along for the greater portion of the night, never closing her eyes nor sitting down. just before daylight, however she became so utterly wearied out with fatigue, that she actually got asleep several times while walking. during one of these overpowering moments she stepped too near the top of the stairway, lost her balance, toppled over, and fell heavily all the way down to the bottom. there she struck the small of her back upon the edge of a water-pail that happened to be standing on the floor. had she not been encumbered with the baby she might have saved herself. but the instant she awoke, and found that she was falling, her first and only thought was how to keep the infant from going down underneath herself and being surely killed. to prevent this, she endeavored to hold it up, which effort caused her to twist or turn round in her descent, and so fall as to inflict on herself the dreadful and fatal injury. she must have screamed as she went down, because two men who were passing by, ran in immediately, and carried her into the next room. the pain she suffered was most excruciating, yet the first words she uttered were: "is the baby safe? poor little darling!" "yes, ma'm. i hope you aint hurted any worse than the baby," replied one of the men, with genuine, though unpolished sympathy. "thank god, the baby's safe," said agnes. "i am hurt; but after awhile i think i will be able to get up. i would be deeply obliged to you though, gentlemen, if you would stay till daylight--that is, if you are not afraid of the fever. there are three sick with it up stairs." "no, ma'm, we're not afeard of it. i'll stay with you, and, john"--the speaker turned to his companion--"you go up to the house, and ask one of the sisters to come right along with you, for it'll be more nicer for this lady to have a female with her than men. it'll make her feel more natural and easy, won't it ma'm?" "o, thank you a thousand times, sir," replied agnes, most deeply affected by the considerate gallantry of the kind-hearted, manly fellow, who was hugging the baby up to him just like a father, and keeping it quiet by all sorts of baby talk. in about half an hour the other man returned with a sister of mercy, who at once recognized agnes. she was one of those with whom agnes had come on the cars into shreveport. the injured girl whispered in her ear how she was hurt, and sister mary dispatched the man who had brought her hither, for additional help, which in a short time arrived. as soon as the doctor came and examined the injury agnes had sustained, he found that, independent of the fracture of the spine, she was much hurt internally. he had no hopes of her recovery, and he commenced, in a roundabout way to break the opinion to her; but she saw it already in his face, and interrupted him: "ah, doctor, i know all. do not hesitate to tell me exactly how long i have to live. i have no fear of death, i am prepared for it." the physician thereupon informed her that she might possibly survive forty-eight hours. "forty-eight hours!" she rejoined, "that is much longer than will be needed for what i wish to do." then, in the most composed manner, she dictated to sister mary a letter to her mother, narrating all which had occurred since her previous letter, including an account of the accident. this done, the heroic girl prepared to pass whatever of life remained to her in pious conversation with sister mary, and advice and comfort to poor old rachel, the negro woman, who hung over her, constantly weeping. as it became apparent that dissolution was close at hand, sister mary asked miss arnold: "agnes, is there any matter relating to your worldly affairs that you have not already thought of, or that you wish attended to." "no, sister, i believe not. ah, yes, there is," she quickly added; "i would ask, that when i am gone, you will put my poor body in a grave immediately beside that of mr. harkness. he was my intended husband, and died only a short time ago with the fever. also, will you add a postscript to mother's letter, and say to her that it was my dying wish, that if she lives, she will at some future time have us both taken up and brought home, and bury us in one grave there?" "indeed, i will do so. is there nothing else, agnes?" there was a great sadness in her voice as sister mary asked this, just as though, years agone, when her own face was young and pretty, and her own heart happy and free, she had been loved and had lost her love in the grave. "no, sister, nothing more of this world. come, death, o come," said agnes, as she was seized with a paroxysm of pain. "in god's good time, agnes, dear," suggested the sister. "yes, yes, in his good time, agnes!" repeated the dying girl, as though chiding herself for her impatience to be gone; "the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." "pray, sweet agnes, pray to him for strength to keep you, all unfearful, while passing through the dark valley." "give me, o, my heavenly father, give me strength in this mine hour of tribulation and suffering? not my will, but thine be done!" surely "angels ever bright and fair" bore away these half-whispered words to heaven like sweet incense. for awhile agnes seemed to be wandering, or perhaps she was dreaming; for her eyes were closed as though in slumber, and a smile like she used to smile, flitted over her pale face, as she stretched out her arms to embrace some one, and exclaimed: "come, mother dear, a kiss! i am going to bed. kiss me good-night mother darling." sweet girl, noble young soul! you were indeed going to bed, but it was in the dust of the valley. sister mary bent down and kissed her fondly. her hot tears falling on the cold face roused agnes, and she opened her eyes. bidding all about her, o such a farewell! such a farewell till eternity, she crossed her hand peacefully over her breast and murmured: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee." the words had not left her lips ere she was in god's presence, a pure, beautiful seraph of light. angel agnes, farewell! sister mary, during the very short intercourse she had had with agnes arnold, had fallen in love with the sweet, good girl, and when she died she wept over her as an elder sister might have done. she was particular to see that the last wishes of agnes, in regard to her being buried in a separate grave beside young harkness, were carried out to the letter. no mourner save herself was at the funeral, for there were more sick people than well ones to attend to them. and even sister mary could not linger by the grave of her dear young friend as she would have liked to do. she was obliged, after seeing the coffin lowered into the sepulchre, to hasten back to her patients. agnes' last letter to her mother. never was there a more touching, more loving, more solemn epistle written from a daughter to a mother than that which agnes arnold, while dying, dictated to sister mary to be forwarded to her mother after her death. sister mary, in concluding her own letter, in which that of agnes was enclosed, writes: "i assure you again, mrs. arnold not merely myself, but no one else here who has come in contact with your noble and self-sacrificing daughter, will ever forget her, but will ever hold her memory most dear. no words would suffice to accurately describe the love and almost veneration with which we esteemed your sweet, departed daughter. she was so heroic, yet so quiet and modest; she was so prompt and decisive, yet so winning and amiable; she was so devoted to religion, yet never melancholy or austere. ah, no! she was like god's own bright blue sky and genial sunbeam. her very presence in the chamber of the sick appeared to have an instant and magnetic effect for the better. she was god's own dear child and handmaiden, and he has taken her home to himself. i only hope that when i come to die, my death may be so completely beatific as your daughter's was. "just before she passed into immortality she asked me to let her kiss me. 'now,' said she, 'if you ever see my dear mother, give her that kiss, and tell her she was the last one i thought of when i was dying.' and believe me, mrs. arnold, i shall endeavor to fulfil your daughter's tender request should it be the good will of god for me to escape from the pestilence which is raging around us. mr. harkness's gold watch i have placed with the express company, which will carry it to you for your disposal. "most affectionately, madam, i am ever yours, mary." agnes' letter, which, as we have said, was enclosed in the above, was worded as follows: shreveport, la., oct. 2d, 1873. my darling, ever beloved mother: you will notice that this letter is written by another hand than mine. the reason you will find further on. you will remember when i left you to come here i told you that i had resigned myself to the will of him in whose merciful service i enlisted. i have devoted myself to the work with my whole soul, my heart being thoroughly in the good cause. and i believe that i have been the humble means of saving several lives. i have not got the fever, but night before last, while nursing a child, i carelessly fell asleep--being very much wearied--and fell down stairs. thank heaven, i saved the little one's life. i struck the small of my back causing a fracture and some internal injury. the doctor has done all he could for me, but it will not avail, and i must go away from you, at least on this earth. but sweet, good, kind mother, i will meet you again above, in that better land where there is no sin, no pain, no anguish, but where all is light and love and immortality. my dear friend and nurse, sister mary, who writes this for me, will see that i am buried beside george, and mother, this is the great wish of my heart--that if possible, at some time you will bring our bodies both home and bury us in one grave. i forgive sophia the wrong she did me and george freely from my soul. sister mary has a kiss i gave her for you. pray do not grieve for me that i am thus passing away; but, in the future, always be comforted with the knowledge that i shall be waiting with papa and the others, at heaven's gate, to greet you home when you follow us from earth. i would have so much liked to see you, mother dear, before i died; but it has been ordained otherwise, and god does all things well. give my love to all my acquaintances and tell them i thought of all when dying; and my bible class scholars, i do not know what to ask you to say to them. try and tell them how deeply i love them, and how i wish to meet them all around the great white throne on high. and now, mother, you who are dearer to me than all other earthly treasures, to you i must say--good-by, till we meet again in heaven. ever your own loving agnes. [illustration: "dear little darling!" said anges, tenderly, pressing the infant against her bosom.] chita: a memory of last island by lafcadio hearn "but nature whistled with all her winds, did as she pleased, and went her way." --emerson to my friend dr. rodolfo matas of new orleans contents the legend of l'ile derniere out of the sea's strength the shadow of the tide the legend of l'ile derniere i. travelling south from new orleans to the islands, you pass through a strange land into a strange sea, by various winding waterways. you can journey to the gulf by lugger if you please; but the trip may be made much more rapidly and agreeably on some one of those light, narrow steamers, built especially for bayou-travel, which usually receive passengers at a point not far from the foot of old saint-louis street, hard by the sugar-landing, where there is ever a pushing and flocking of steam craft--all striving for place to rest their white breasts against the levee, side by side,--like great weary swans. but the miniature steamboat on which you engage passage to the gulf never lingers long in the mississippi: she crosses the river, slips into some canal-mouth, labors along the artificial channel awhile, and then leaves it with a scream of joy, to puff her free way down many a league of heavily shadowed bayou. perhaps thereafter she may bear you through the immense silence of drenched rice-fields, where the yellow-green level is broken at long intervals by the black silhouette of some irrigating machine;--but, whichever of the five different routes be pursued, you will find yourself more than once floating through sombre mazes of swamp-forest,--past assemblages of cypresses all hoary with the parasitic tillandsia, and grotesque as gatherings of fetich-gods. ever from river or from lakelet the steamer glides again into canal or bayou,--from bayou or canal once more into lake or bay; and sometimes the swamp-forest visibly thins away from these shores into wastes of reedy morass where, even of breathless nights, the quaggy soil trembles to a sound like thunder of breakers on a coast: the storm-roar of billions of reptile voices chanting in cadence,--rhythmically surging in stupendous crescendo and diminuendo,--a monstrous and appalling chorus of frogs! .... panting, screaming, scraping her bottom over the sand-bars,--all day the little steamer strives to reach the grand blaze of blue open water below the marsh-lands; and perhaps she may be fortunate enough to enter the gulf about the time of sunset. for the sake of passengers, she travels by day only; but there are other vessels which make the journey also by night--threading the bayou-labyrinths winter and summer: sometimes steering by the north star,--sometimes feeling the way with poles in the white season of fogs,--sometimes, again, steering by that star of evening which in our sky glows like another moon, and drops over the silent lakes as she passes a quivering trail of silver fire. shadows lengthen; and at last the woods dwindle away behind you into thin bluish lines;--land and water alike take more luminous color;--bayous open into broad passes;--lakes link themselves with sea-bays;--and the ocean-wind bursts upon you,--keen, cool, and full of light. for the first time the vessel begins to swing,--rocking to the great living pulse of the tides. and gazing from the deck around you, with no forest walls to break the view, it will seem to you that the low land must have once been rent asunder by the sea, and strewn about the gulf in fantastic tatters.... sometimes above a waste of wind-blown prairie-cane you see an oasis emerging,--a ridge or hillock heavily umbraged with the rounded foliage of evergreen oaks:--a cheniere. and from the shining flood also kindred green knolls arise,--pretty islets, each with its beach-girdle of dazzling sand and shells, yellow-white,--and all radiant with semi-tropical foliage, myrtle and palmetto, orange and magnolia. under their emerald shadows curious little villages of palmetto huts are drowsing, where dwell a swarthy population of orientals,--malay fishermen, who speak the spanish-creole of the philippines as well as their own tagal, and perpetuate in louisiana the catholic traditions of the indies. there are girls in those unfamiliar villages worthy to inspire any statuary,--beautiful with the beauty of ruddy bronze,--gracile as the palmettoes that sway above them.... further seaward you may also pass a chinese settlement: some queer camp of wooden dwellings clustering around a vast platform that stands above the water upon a thousand piles;--over the miniature wharf you can scarcely fail to observe a white sign-board painted with crimson ideographs. the great platform is used for drying fish in the sun; and the fantastic characters of the sign, literally translated, mean: "heap--shrimp--plenty." ... and finally all the land melts down into desolations of sea-marsh, whose stillness is seldom broken, except by the melancholy cry of long-legged birds, and in wild seasons by that sound which shakes all shores when the weird musician of the sea touches the bass keys of his mighty organ.... ii. beyond the sea-marshes a curious archipelago lies. if you travel by steamer to the sea-islands to-day, you are tolerably certain to enter the gulf by grande pass--skirting grande terre, the most familiar island of all, not so much because of its proximity as because of its great crumbling fort and its graceful pharos: the stationary white-light of barataria. otherwise the place is bleakly uninteresting: a wilderness of wind-swept grasses and sinewy weeds waving away from a thin beach ever speckled with drift and decaying things,--worm-riddled timbers, dead porpoises. eastward the russet level is broken by the columnar silhouette of the light house, and again, beyond it, by some puny scrub timber, above which rises the angular ruddy mass of the old brick fort, whose ditches swarm with crabs, and whose sluiceways are half choked by obsolete cannon-shot, now thickly covered with incrustation of oyster shells.... around all the gray circling of a shark-haunted sea... sometimes of autumn evenings there, when the hollow of heaven flames like the interior of a chalice, and waves and clouds are flying in one wild rout of broken gold,--you may see the tawny grasses all covered with something like husks,--wheat-colored husks,--large, flat, and disposed evenly along the lee-side of each swaying stalk, so as to present only their edges to the wind. but, if you approach, those pale husks all break open to display strange splendors of scarlet and seal-brown, with arabesque mottlings in white and black: they change into wondrous living blossoms, which detach themselves before your eyes and rise in air, and flutter away by thousands to settle down farther off, and turn into wheat-colored husks once more ... a whirling flower-drift of sleepy butterflies! southwest, across the pass, gleams beautiful grande isle: primitively a wilderness of palmetto (latanier);--then drained, diked, and cultivated by spanish sugar-planters; and now familiar chiefly as a bathing-resort. since the war the ocean reclaimed its own;--the cane-fields have degenerated into sandy plains, over which tramways wind to the smooth beach;--the plantation-residences have been converted into rustic hotels, and the negro-quarters remodelled into villages of cozy cottages for the reception of guests. but with its imposing groves of oak, its golden wealth of orange-trees, its odorous lanes of oleander. its broad grazing-meadows yellow-starred with wild camomile, grande isle remains the prettiest island of the gulf; and its loveliness is exceptional. for the bleakness of grand terre is reiterated by most of the other islands,--caillou, cassetete, calumet, wine island, the twin timbaliers, gull island, and the many islets haunted by the gray pelican,--all of which are little more than sand-bars covered with wiry grasses, prairie-cane, and scrub-timber. last island (l'ile derniere),--well worthy a long visit in other years, in spite of its remoteness, is now a ghastly desolation twenty-five miles long. lying nearly forty miles west of grande isle, it was nevertheless far more populated a generation ago: it was not only the most celebrated island of the group, but also the most fashionable watering-place of the aristocratic south;--to-day it is visited by fishermen only, at long intervals. its admirable beach in many respects resembled that of grande isle to-day; the accommodations also were much similar, although finer: a charming village of cottages facing the gulf near the western end. the hotel itself was a massive two-story construction of timber, containing many apartments, together with a large dining-room and dancing-hall. in rear of the hotel was a bayou, where passengers landed--"village bayou" it is still called by seamen;--but the deep channel which now cuts the island in two a little eastwardly did not exist while the village remained. the sea tore it out in one night--the same night when trees, fields, dwellings, all vanished into the gulf, leaving no vestige of former human habitation except a few of those strong brick props and foundations upon which the frame houses and cisterns had been raised. one living creature was found there after the cataclysm--a cow! but how that solitary cow survived the fury of a storm-flood that actually rent the island in twain has ever remained a mystery ... iii. on the gulf side of these islands you may observe that the trees--when there are any trees--all bend away from the sea; and, even of bright, hot days when the wind sleeps, there is something grotesquely pathetic in their look of agonized terror. a group of oaks at grande isle i remember as especially suggestive: five stooping silhouettes in line against the horizon, like fleeing women with streaming garments and wind-blown hair,--bowing grievously and thrusting out arms desperately northward as to save themselves from falling. and they are being pursued indeed;--for the sea is devouring the land. many and many a mile of ground has yielded to the tireless charging of ocean's cavalry: far out you can see, through a good glass, the porpoises at play where of old the sugar-cane shook out its million bannerets; and shark-fins now seam deep water above a site where pigeons used to coo. men build dikes; but the besieging tides bring up their battering-rams--whole forests of drift--huge trunks of water-oak and weighty cypress. forever the yellow mississippi strives to build; forever the sea struggles to destroy;--and amid their eternal strife the islands and the promontories change shape, more slowly, but not less fantastically, than the clouds of heaven. and worthy of study are those wan battle-grounds where the woods made their last brave stand against the irresistible invasion,--usually at some long point of sea-marsh, widely fringed with billowing sand. just where the waves curl beyond such a point you may discern a multitude of blackened, snaggy shapes protruding above the water,--some high enough to resemble ruined chimneys, others bearing a startling likeness to enormous skeleton-feet and skeleton-hands,--with crustaceous white growths clinging to them here and there like remnants of integument. these are bodies and limbs of drowned oaks,--so long drowned that the shell-scurf is inch-thick upon parts of them. farther in upon the beach immense trunks lie overthrown. some look like vast broken columns; some suggest colossal torsos imbedded, and seem to reach out mutilated stumps in despair from their deepening graves;--and beside these are others which have kept their feet with astounding obstinacy, although the barbarian tides have been charging them for twenty years, and gradually torn away the soil above and beneath their roots. the sand around,--soft beneath and thinly crusted upon the surface,--is everywhere pierced with holes made by a beautifully mottled and semi-diaphanous crab, with hairy legs, big staring eyes, and milk-white claws;--while in the green sedges beyond there is a perpetual rustling, as of some strong wind beating among reeds: a marvellous creeping of "fiddlers," which the inexperienced visitor might at first mistake for so many peculiar beetles, as they run about sideways, each with his huge single claw folded upon his body like a wing-case. year by year that rustling strip of green land grows narrower; the sand spreads and sinks, shuddering and wrinkling like a living brown skin; and the last standing corpses of the oaks, ever clinging with naked, dead feet to the sliding beach, lean more and more out of the perpendicular. as the sands subside, the stumps appear to creep; their intertwisted masses of snakish roots seem to crawl, to writhe,--like the reaching arms of cephalopods.... ... grande terre is going: the sea mines her fort, and will before many years carry the ramparts by storm. grande isle is going,--slowly but surely: the gulf has eaten three miles into her meadowed land. last island has gone! how it went i first heard from the lips of a veteran pilot, while we sat one evening together on the trunk of a drifted cypress which some high tide had pressed deeply into the grande isle beach. the day had been tropically warm; we had sought the shore for a breath of living air. sunset came, and with it the ponderous heat lifted,--a sudden breeze blew,--lightnings flickered in the darkening horizon,--wind and water began to strive together,--and soon all the low coast boomed. then my companion began his story; perhaps the coming of the storm inspired him to speak! and as i listened to him, listening also to the clamoring of the coast, there flashed back to me recollection of a singular breton fancy: that the voice of the sea is never one voice, but a tumult of many voices--voices of drowned men,--the muttering of multitudinous dead,--the moaning of innumerable ghosts, all rising, to rage against the living, at the great witch call of storms.... iv. the charm of a single summer day on these island shores is something impossible to express, never to be forgotten. rarely, in the paler zones, do earth and heaven take such luminosity: those will best understand me who have seen the splendor of a west indian sky. and yet there is a tenderness of tint, a caress of color, in these gulf-days which is not of the antilles,--a spirituality, as of eternal tropical spring. it must have been to even such a sky that xenophanes lifted up his eyes of old when he vowed the infinite blue was god;--it was indeed under such a sky that de soto named the vastest and grandest of southern havens espiritu santo,--the bay of the holy ghost. there is a something unutterable in this bright gulf-air that compels awe,--something vital, something holy, something pantheistic: and reverentially the mind asks itself if what the eye beholds is not the pneuma indeed, the infinite breath, the divine ghost, the great blue soul of the unknown. all, all is blue in the calm,--save the low land under your feet, which you almost forget, since it seems only as a tiny green flake afloat in the liquid eternity of day. then slowly, caressingly, irresistibly, the witchery of the infinite grows upon you: out of time and space you begin to dream with open eyes,--to drift into delicious oblivion of facts,--to forget the past, the present, the substantial,--to comprehend nothing but the existence of that infinite blue ghost as something into which you would wish to melt utterly away forever.... and this day-magic of azure endures sometimes for months together. cloudlessly the dawn reddens up through a violet east: there is no speck upon the blossoming of its mystical rose,--unless it be the silhouette of some passing gull, whirling his sickle-wings against the crimsoning. ever, as the sun floats higher, the flood shifts its color. sometimes smooth and gray, yet flickering with the morning gold, it is the vision of john,--the apocalyptic sea of glass mixed with fire;--again, with the growing breeze, it takes that incredible purple tint familiar mostly to painters of west indian scenery;--once more, under the blaze of noon, it changes to a waste of broken emerald. with evening, the horizon assumes tints of inexpressible sweetness,--pearl-lights, opaline colors of milk and fire; and in the west are topaz-glowings and wondrous flushings as of nacre. then, if the sea sleeps, it dreams of all these,--faintly, weirdly,--shadowing them even to the verge of heaven. beautiful, too, are those white phantasmagoria which, at the approach of equinoctial days, mark the coming of the winds. over the rim of the sea a bright cloud gently pushes up its head. it rises; and others rise with it, to right and left--slowly at first; then more swiftly. all are brilliantly white and flocculent, like loose new cotton. gradually they mount in enormous line high above the gulf, rolling and wreathing into an arch that expands and advances,--bending from horizon to horizon. a clear, cold breath accompanies its coming. reaching the zenith, it seems there to hang poised awhile,--a ghostly bridge arching the empyrean,--upreaching its measureless span from either underside of the world. then the colossal phantom begins to turn, as on a pivot of air,--always preserving its curvilinear symmetry, but moving its unseen ends beyond and below the sky-circle. and at last it floats away unbroken beyond the blue sweep of the world, with a wind following after. day after day, almost at the same hour, the white arc rises, wheels, and passes... ... never a glimpse of rock on these low shores;--only long sloping beaches and bars of smooth tawny sand. sand and sea teem with vitality;--over all the dunes there is a constant susurration, a blattering and swarming of crustacea;--through all the sea there is a ceaseless play of silver lightning,--flashing of myriad fish. sometimes the shallows are thickened with minute, transparent, crab-like organisms,--all colorless as gelatine. there are days also when countless medusae drift in--beautiful veined creatures that throb like hearts, with perpetual systole and diastole of their diaphanous envelops: some, of translucent azure or rose, seem in the flood the shadows or ghosts of huge campanulate flowers;--others have the semblance of strange living vegetables,--great milky tubers, just beginning to sprout. but woe to the human skin grazed by those shadowy sproutings and spectral stamens!--the touch of glowing iron is not more painful... within an hour or two after their appearance all these tremulous jellies vanish mysteriously as they came. perhaps, if a bold swimmer, you may venture out alone a long way--once! not twice!--even in company. as the water deepens beneath you, and you feel those ascending wave-currents of coldness arising which bespeak profundity, you will also begin to feel innumerable touches, as of groping fingers--touches of the bodies of fish, innumerable fish, fleeing towards shore. the farther you advance, the more thickly you will feel them come; and above you and around you, to right and left, others will leap and fall so swiftly as to daze the sight, like intercrossing fountain-jets of fluid silver. the gulls fly lower about you, circling with sinister squeaking cries;--perhaps for an instant your feet touch in the deep something heavy, swift, lithe, that rushes past with a swirling shock. then the fear of the abyss, the vast and voiceless nightmare of the sea, will come upon you; the silent panic of all those opaline millions that flee glimmering by will enter into you also... from what do they flee thus perpetually? is it from the giant sawfish or the ravening shark?--from the herds of the porpoises, or from the grande-ecaille,--that splendid monster whom no net may hold,--all helmed and armored in argent plate-mail?--or from the hideous devilfish of the gulf,--gigantic, flat-bodied, black, with immense side-fins ever outspread like the pinions of a bat,--the terror of luggermen, the uprooter of anchors? from all these, perhaps, and from other monsters likewise--goblin shapes evolved by nature as destroyers, as equilibrists, as counterchecks to that prodigious fecundity, which, unhindered, would thicken the deep into one measureless and waveless ferment of being... but when there are many bathers these perils are forgotten,--numbers give courage,--one can abandon one's self, without fear of the invisible, to the long, quivering, electrical caresses of the sea ... v. thirty years ago, last island lay steeped in the enormous light of even such magical days. july was dying;--for weeks no fleck of cloud had broken the heaven's blue dream of eternity; winds held their breath; slow waveless caressed the bland brown beach with a sound as of kisses and whispers. to one who found himself alone, beyond the limits of the village and beyond the hearing of its voices,--the vast silence, the vast light, seemed full of weirdness. and these hushes, these transparencies, do not always inspire a causeless apprehension: they are omens sometimes--omens of coming tempest. nature,--incomprehensible sphinx!--before her mightiest bursts of rage, ever puts forth her divinest witchery, makes more manifest her awful beauty ... but in that forgotten summer the witchery lasted many long days,--days born in rose-light, buried in gold. it was the height of the season. the long myrtle-shadowed village was thronged with its summer population;--the big hotel could hardly accommodate all its guests;--the bathing-houses were too few for the crowds who flocked to the water morning and evening. there were diversions for all,--hunting and fishing parties, yachting excursions, rides, music, games, promenades. carriage wheels whirled flickering along the beach, seaming its smoothness noiselessly, as if muffled. love wrote its dreams upon the sand... ... then one great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed to yawn over the world more deeply than ever before, a sudden change touched the quicksilver smoothness of the waters--the swaying shadow of a vast motion. first the whole sea-circle appeared to rise up bodily at the sky; the horizon-curve lifted to a straight line; the line darkened and approached,--a monstrous wrinkle, an immeasurable fold of green water, moving swift as a cloud-shadow pursued by sunlight. but it had looked formidable only by startling contrast with the previous placidity of the open: it was scarcely two feet high;--it curled slowly as it neared the beach, and combed itself out in sheets of woolly foam with a low, rich roll of whispered thunder. swift in pursuit another followed--a third--a feebler fourth; then the sea only swayed a little, and stilled again. minutes passed, and the immeasurable heaving recommenced--one, two, three, four ... seven long swells this time;--and the gulf smoothed itself once more. irregularly the phenomenon continued to repeat itself, each time with heavier billowing and briefer intervals of quiet--until at last the whole sea grew restless and shifted color and flickered green;--the swells became shorter and changed form. then from horizon to shore ran one uninterrupted heaving--one vast green swarming of snaky shapes, rolling in to hiss and flatten upon the sand. yet no single cirrus-speck revealed itself through all the violet heights: there was no wind!--you might have fancied the sea had been upheaved from beneath ... and indeed the fancy of a seismic origin for a windless surge would not appear in these latitudes to be utterly without foundation. on the fairest days a southeast breeze may bear you an odor singular enough to startle you from sleep,--a strong, sharp smell as of fish-oil; and gazing at the sea you might be still more startled at the sudden apparition of great oleaginous patches spreading over the water, sheeting over the swells. that is, if you had never heard of the mysterious submarine oil-wells, the volcanic fountains, unexplored, that well up with the eternal pulsing of the gulf-stream ... but the pleasure-seekers of last island knew there must have been a "great blow" somewhere that day. still the sea swelled; and a splendid surf made the evening bath delightful. then, just at sundown, a beautiful cloud-bridge grew up and arched the sky with a single span of cottony pink vapor, that changed and deepened color with the dying of the iridescent day. and the cloud-bridge approached, stretched, strained, and swung round at last to make way for the coming of the gale,--even as the light bridges that traverse the dreamy teche swing open when luggermen sound through their conch-shells the long, bellowing signal of approach. then the wind began to blow, with the passing of july. it blew from the northeast, clear, cool. it blew in enormous sighs, dying away at regular intervals, as if pausing to draw breath. all night it blew; and in each pause could be heard the answering moan of the rising surf,--as if the rhythm of the sea moulded itself after the rhythm of the air,--as if the waving of the water responded precisely to the waving of the wind,--a billow for every puff, a surge for every sigh. the august morning broke in a bright sky;--the breeze still came cool and clear from the northeast. the waves were running now at a sharp angle to the shore: they began to carry fleeces, an innumerable flock of vague green shapes, wind-driven to be despoiled of their ghostly wool. far as the eye could follow the line of the beach, all the slope was white with the great shearing of them. clouds came, flew as in a panic against the face of the sun, and passed. all that day and through the night and into the morning again the breeze continued from the north. east, blowing like an equinoctial gale ... then day by day the vast breath freshened steadily, and the waters heightened. a week later sea-bathing had become perilous: colossal breakers were herding in, like moving leviathan-backs, twice the height of a man. still the gale grew, and the billowing waxed mightier, and faster and faster overhead flew the tatters of torn cloud. the gray morning of the 9th wanly lighted a surf that appalled the best swimmers: the sea was one wild agony of foam, the gale was rending off the heads of the waves and veiling the horizon with a fog of salt spray. shadowless and gray the day remained; there were mad bursts of lashing rain. evening brought with it a sinister apparition, looming through a cloud-rent in the west--a scarlet sun in a green sky. his sanguine disk, enormously magnified, seemed barred like the body of a belted planet. a moment, and the crimson spectre vanished; and the moonless night came. then the wind grew weird. it ceased being a breath; it became a voice moaning across the world,--hooting,--uttering nightmare sounds,--whoo!--whoo!--whoo!--and with each stupendous owl-cry the mooing of the waters seemed to deepen, more and more abysmally, through all the hours of darkness. from the northwest the breakers of the bay began to roll high over the sandy slope, into the salines;--the village bayou broadened to a bellowing flood ... so the tumult swelled and the turmoil heightened until morning,--a morning of gray gloom and whistling rain. rain of bursting clouds and rain of wind-blown brine from the great spuming agony of the sea. the steamer star was due from st. mary's that fearful morning. could she come? no one really believed it,--no one. and nevertheless men struggled to the roaring beach to look for her, because hope is stronger than reason ... even today, in these creole islands, the advent of the steamer is the great event of the week. there are no telegraph lines, no telephones: the mail-packet is the only trustworthy medium of communication with the outer world, bringing friends, news, letters. the magic of steam has placed new orleans nearer to new york than to the timbaliers, nearer to washington than to wine island, nearer to chicago than to barataria bay. and even during the deepest sleep of waves and winds there will come betimes to sojourners in this unfamiliar archipelago a feeling of lonesomeness that is a fear, a feeling of isolation from the world of men,--totally unlike that sense of solitude which haunts one in the silence of mountain-heights, or amid the eternal tumult of lofty granitic coasts: a sense of helpless insecurity. the land seems but an undulation of the sea-bed: its highest ridges do not rise more than the height of a man above the salines on either side;--the salines themselves lie almost level with the level of the flood-tides;--the tides are variable, treacherous, mysterious. but when all around and above these ever-changing shores the twin vastnesses of heaven and sea begin to utter the tremendous revelation of themselves as infinite forces in contention, then indeed this sense of separation from humanity appalls ... perhaps it was such a feeling which forced men, on the tenth day of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six, to hope against hope for the coming of the star, and to strain their eyes towards far-off terrebonne. "it was a wind you could lie down on," said my friend the pilot. ... "great god!" shrieked a voice above the shouting of the storm,--"she is coming!" ... it was true. down the atchafalaya, and thence through strange mazes of bayou, lakelet, and pass, by a rear route familiar only to the best of pilots, the frail river-craft had toiled into caillou bay, running close to the main shore;--and now she was heading right for the island, with the wind aft, over the monstrous sea. on she came, swaying, rocking, plunging,--with a great whiteness wrapping her about like a cloud, and moving with her moving,--a tempest-whirl of spray;--ghost-white and like a ghost she came, for her smoke-stacks exhaled no visible smoke--the wind devoured it! the excitement on shore became wild;--men shouted themselves hoarse; women laughed and cried. every telescope and opera-glass was directed upon the coming apparition; all wondered how the pilot kept his feet; all marvelled at the madness of the captain. but captain abraham smith was not mad. a veteran american sailor, he had learned to know the great gulf as scholars know deep books by heart: he knew the birthplace of its tempests, the mystery of its tides, the omens of its hurricanes. while lying at brashear city he felt the storm had not yet reached its highest, vaguely foresaw a mighty peril, and resolved to wait no longer for a lull. "boys," he said, "we've got to take her out in spite of hell!" and they "took her out." through all the peril, his men stayed by him and obeyed him. by midmorning the wind had deepened to a roar,--lowering sometimes to a rumble, sometimes bursting upon the ears like a measureless and deafening crash. then the captain knew the star was running a race with death. "she'll win it," he muttered;--"she'll stand it ... perhaps they'll have need of me to-night." she won! with a sonorous steam-chant of triumph the brave little vessel rode at last into the bayou, and anchored hard by her accustomed resting-place, in full view of the hotel, though not near enough to shore to lower her gang-plank.... but she had sung her swan-song. gathering in from the northeast, the waters of the bay were already marbling over the salines and half across the island; and still the wind increased its paroxysmal power. cottages began to rock. some slid away from the solid props upon which they rested. a chimney fumbled. shutters were wrenched off; verandas demolished. light roofs lifted, dropped again, and flapped into ruin. trees bent their heads to the earth. and still the storm grew louder and blacker with every passing hour. the star rose with the rising of the waters, dragging her anchor. two more anchors were put out, and still she dragged--dragged in with the flood,--twisting, shuddering, careening in her agony. evening fell; the sand began to move with the wind, stinging faces like a continuous fire of fine shot; and frenzied blasts came to buffet the steamer forward, sideward. then one of her hog-chains parted with a clang like the boom of a big bell. then another! ... then the captain bade his men to cut away all her upper works, clean to the deck. overboard into the seething went her stacks, her pilot-house, her cabins,--and whirled away. and the naked hull of the star, still dragging her three anchors, labored on through the darkness, nearer and nearer to the immense silhouette of the hotel, whose hundred windows were now all aflame. the vast timber building seemed to defy the storm. the wind, roaring round its broad verandas,--hissing through every crevice with the sound and force of steam,--appeared to waste its rage. and in the half-lull between two terrible gusts there came to the captain's ears a sound that seemed strange in that night of multitudinous terrors ... a sound of music! vi. ... almost every evening throughout the season there had been dancing in the great hall;--there was dancing that night also. the population of the hotel had been augmented by the advent of families from other parts of the island, who found their summer cottages insecure places of shelter: there were nearly four hundred guests assembled. perhaps it was for this reason that the entertainment had been prepared upon a grander plan than usual, that it assumed the form of a fashionable ball. and all those pleasure seekers,--representing the wealth and beauty of the creole parishes,--whether from ascension or assumption, st. mary's or st. landry's, iberville or terrebonne, whether inhabitants of the multi-colored and many-balconied creole quarter of the quaint metropolis, or dwellers in the dreamy paradises of the teche,--mingled joyously, knowing each other, feeling in some sort akin--whether affiliated by blood, connaturalized by caste, or simply interassociated by traditional sympathies of class sentiment and class interest. perhaps in the more than ordinary merriment of that evening something of nervous exaltation might have been discerned,--something like a feverish resolve to oppose apprehension with gayety, to combat uneasiness by diversion. but the hours passed in mirthfulness; the first general feeling of depression began to weigh less and less upon the guests; they had found reason to confide in the solidity of the massive building; there were no positive terrors, no outspoken fears; and the new conviction of all had found expression in the words of the host himself,--"il n'y a rien de mieux a faire que de s'amuser!" of what avail to lament the prospective devastation of cane-fields,--to discuss the possible ruin of crops? better to seek solace in choregraphic harmonies, in the rhythm of gracious motion and of perfect melody, than hearken to the discords of the wild orchestra of storms;--wiser to admire the grace of parisian toilets, the eddy of trailing robes with its fairy-foam of lace, the ivorine loveliness of glossy shoulders and jewelled throats, the glimmering of satin-slippered feet,--than to watch the raging of the flood without, or the flying of the wrack ... so the music and the mirth went on: they made joy for themselves--those elegant guests;--they jested and sipped rich wines;--they pledged, and hoped, and loved, and promised, with never a thought of the morrow, on the night of the tenth of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. observant parents were there, planning for the future bliss of their nearest and dearest;--mothers and fathers of handsome lads, lithe and elegant as young pines, and fresh from the polish of foreign university training;--mothers and fathers of splendid girls whose simplest attitudes were witcheries. young cheeks flushed, young hearts fluttered with an emotion more puissant than the excitement of the dance;--young eyes betrayed the happy secret discreeter lips would have preserved. slave-servants circled through the aristocratic press, bearing dainties and wines, praying permission to pass in terms at once humble and officious,--always in the excellent french which well-trained house-servants were taught to use on such occasions. ... night wore on: still the shining floor palpitated to the feet of the dancers; still the piano-forte pealed, and still the violins sang,--and the sound of their singing shrilled through the darkness, in gasps of the gale, to the ears of captain smith, as he strove to keep his footing on the spray-drenched deck of the star. --"christ!" he muttered,--"a dance! if that wind whips round south, there'll be another dance! ... but i guess the star will stay." ... half an hour might have passed; still the lights flamed calmly, and the violins trilled, and the perfumed whirl went on ... and suddenly the wind veered! again the star reeled, and shuddered, and turned, and began to drag all her anchors. but she now dragged away from the great building and its lights,--away from the voluptuous thunder of the grand piano, even at that moment outpouring the great joy of weber's melody orchestrated by berlioz: l'invitation a la valse,--with its marvellous musical swing! --"waltzing!" cried the captain. "god help them!--god help us all now! ... the wind waltzes to-night, with the sea for his partner!" ... o the stupendous valse-tourbillon! o the mighty dancer! one--two--three! from northeast to east, from east to southeast, from southeast to south: then from the south he came, whirling the sea in his arms ... ... some one shrieked in the midst of the revels;--some girl who found her pretty slippers wet. what could it be? thin streams of water were spreading over the level planking,--curling about the feet of the dancers ... what could it be? all the land had begun to quake, even as, but a moment before, the polished floor was trembling to the pressure of circling steps;--all the building shook now; every beam uttered its groan. what could it be? ... there was a clamor, a panic, a rush to the windy night. infinite darkness above and beyond; but the lantern-beams danced far out over an unbroken circle of heaving and swirling black water. stealthily, swiftly, the measureless sea-flood was rising. --"messieurs--mesdames, ce n'est rien. nothing serious, ladies, i assure you ... mais nous en avons vu bien souvent, les inondations comme celle-ci; ca passe vite! the water will go down in a few hours, ladies;--it never rises higher than this; il n'y a pas le moindre danger, je vous dis! allons! il n'y a--my god! what is that?" ... for a moment there was a ghastly hush of voices. and through that hush there burst upon the ears of all a fearful and unfamiliar sound, as of a colossal cannonade rolling up from the south, with volleying lightnings. vastly and swiftly, nearer and nearer it came,--a ponderous and unbroken thunder-roll, terrible as the long muttering of an earthquake. the nearest mainland,--across mad caillou bay to the sea-marshes,--lay twelve miles north; west, by the gulf, the nearest solid ground was twenty miles distant. there were boats, yes!--but the stoutest swimmer might never reach them now! then rose a frightful cry,--the hoarse, hideous, indescribable cry of hopeless fear,--the despairing animal-cry man utters when suddenly brought face to face with nothingness, without preparation, without consolation, without possibility of respite ... sauve qui peut! some wrenched down the doors; some clung to the heavy banquet-tables, to the sofas, to the billiard-tables:--during one terrible instant,--against fruitless heroisms, against futile generosities,--raged all the frenzy of selfishness, all the brutalities of panic. and then--then came, thundering through the blackness, the giant swells, boom on boom! ... one crash!--the huge frame building rocks like a cradle, seesaws, crackles. what are human shrieks now?--the tornado is shrieking! another!--chandeliers splinter; lights are dashed out; a sweeping cataract hurls in: the immense hall rises,--oscillates,--twirls as upon a pivot,--crepitates,--crumbles into ruin. crash again!--the swirling wreck dissolves into the wallowing of another monster billow; and a hundred cottages overturn, spin in sudden eddies, quiver, disjoint, and melt into the seething. ... so the hurricane passed,--tearing off the heads of the prodigious waves, to hurl them a hundred feet in air,--heaping up the ocean against the land,--upturning the woods. bays and passes were swollen to abysses; rivers regorged; the sea-marshes were changed to raging wastes of water. before new orleans the flood of the mile-broad mississippi rose six feet above highest water-mark. one hundred and ten miles away, donaldsonville trembled at the towering tide of the lafourche. lakes strove to burst their boundaries. far-off river steamers tugged wildly at their cables,--shivering like tethered creatures that hear by night the approaching howl of destroyers. smoke-stacks were hurled overboard, pilot-houses torn away, cabins blown to fragments. and over roaring kaimbuck pass,--over the agony of caillou bay,--the billowing tide rushed unresisted from the gulf,--tearing and swallowing the land in its course,--ploughing out deep-sea channels where sleek herds had been grazing but a few hours before,--rending islands in twain,--and ever bearing with it, through the night, enormous vortex of wreck and vast wan drift of corpses ... but the star remained. and captain abraham smith, with a long, good rope about his waist, dashed again and again into that awful surging to snatch victims from death,--clutching at passing hands, heads, garments, in the cataract-sweep of the seas,--saving, aiding, cheering, though blinded by spray and battered by drifting wreck, until his strength failed in the unequal struggle at last, and his men drew him aboard senseless, with some beautiful half-drowned girl safe in his arms. but well-nigh twoscore souls had been rescued by him; and the star stayed on through it all. long years after, the weed-grown ribs of her graceful skeleton could still be seen, curving up from the sand-dunes of last island, in valiant witness of how well she stayed. vii. day breaks through the flying wrack, over the infinite heaving of the sea, over the low land made vast with desolation. it is a spectral dawn: a wan light, like the light of a dying sun. the wind has waned and veered; the flood sinks slowly back to its abysses--abandoning its plunder,--scattering its piteous waifs over bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, among the silences of the mango-swamps, over the long low reaches of sand-grasses and drowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles. from the shell-reefs of pointe-au-fer to the shallows of pelto bay the dead lie mingled with the high-heaped drift;--from their cypress groves the vultures rise to dispute a share of the feast with the shrieking frigate-birds and squeaking gulls. and as the tremendous tide withdraws its plunging waters, all the pirates of air follow the great white-gleaming retreat: a storm of billowing wings and screaming throats. and swift in the wake of gull and frigate-bird the wreckers come, the spoilers of the dead,--savage skimmers of the sea,--hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas-pinions in the face of storms; sicilian and corsican outlaws, manila-men from the marshes, deserters from many navies, lascars, marooners, refugees of a hundred nationalities,--fishers and shrimpers by name, smugglers by opportunity,--wild channel-finders from obscure bayous and unfamiliar chenieres, all skilled in the mysteries of these mysterious waters beyond the comprehension of the oldest licensed pilot ... there is plunder for all--birds and men. there are drowned sheep in multitude, heaped carcasses of kine. there are casks of claret and kegs of brandy and legions of bottles bobbing in the surf. there are billiard-tables overturned upon the sand;--there are sofas, pianos, footstools and music-stools, luxurious chairs, lounges of bamboo. there are chests of cedar, and toilet-tables of rosewood, and trunks of fine stamped leather stored with precious apparel. there are objets de luxe innumerable. there are children's playthings: french dolls in marvellous toilets, and toy carts, and wooden horses, and wooden spades, and brave little wooden ships that rode out the gale in which the great nautilus went down. there is money in notes and in coin--in purses, in pocketbooks, and in pockets: plenty of it! there are silks, satins, laces, and fine linen to be stripped from the bodies of the drowned,--and necklaces, bracelets, watches, finger-rings and fine chains, brooches and trinkets ... "chi bidizza!--oh! chi bedda mughieri! eccu, la bidizza!" that ball-dress was made in paris by--but you never heard of him, sicilian vicenzu ... "che bella sposina!" her betrothal ring will not come off, giuseppe; but the delicate bone snaps easily: your oyster-knife can sever the tendon ... "guardate! chi bedda picciota!" over her heart you will find it, valentino--the locket held by that fine swiss chain of woven hair--"caya manan!" and it is not your quadroon bondsmaid, sweet lady, who now disrobes you so roughly; those malay hands are less deft than hers,--but she slumbers very far away from you, and may not be aroused from her sleep. "na quita mo! dalaga!--na quita maganda!" ... juan, the fastenings of those diamond ear-drops are much too complicated for your peon fingers: tear them out!--"dispense, chulita!" ... ... suddenly a long, mighty silver trilling fills the ears of all: there is a wild hurrying and scurrying; swiftly, one after another, the overburdened luggers spread wings and flutter away. thrice the great cry rings rippling through the gray air, and over the green sea, and over the far-flooded shell-reefs, where the huge white flashes are,--sheet-lightning of breakers,--and over the weird wash of corpses coming in. it is the steam-call of the relief-boat, hastening to rescue the living, to gather in the dead. the tremendous tragedy is over! out of the sea's strength i. there are regions of louisiana coast whose aspect seems not of the present, but of the immemorial past--of that epoch when low flat reaches of primordial continent first rose into form above a silurian sea. to indulge this geologic dream, any fervid and breezeless day there, it is only necessary to ignore the evolutional protests of a few blue asters or a few composite flowers of the coryopsis sort, which contrive to display their rare flashes of color through the general waving of cat-heads, blood-weeds, wild cane, and marsh grasses. for, at a hasty glance, the general appearance of this marsh verdure is vague enough, as it ranges away towards the sand, to convey the idea of amphibious vegetation,--a primitive flora as yet undecided whether to retain marine habits and forms, or to assume terrestrial ones;--and the occasional inspection of surprising shapes might strengthen this fancy. queer flat-lying and many-branching things, which resemble sea-weeds in juiciness and color and consistency, crackle under your feet from time to time; the moist and weighty air seems heated rather from below than from above,--less by the sun than by the radiation of a cooling world; and the mists of morning or evening appear to simulate the vapory exhalation of volcanic forces,--latent, but only dozing, and uncomfortably close to the surface. and indeed geologists have actually averred that those rare elevations of the soil,--which, with their heavy coronets of evergreen foliage, not only look like islands, but are so called in the french nomenclature of the coast,--have been prominences created by ancient mud volcanoes. the family of a spanish fisherman, feliu viosca, once occupied and gave its name to such an islet, quite close to the gulf-shore,--the loftiest bit of land along fourteen miles of just such marshy coast as i have spoken of. landward, it dominated a desolation that wearied the eye to look at, a wilderness of reedy sloughs, patched at intervals with ranges of bitter-weed, tufts of elbow-bushes, and broad reaches of saw-grass, stretching away to a bluish-green line of woods that closed the horizon, and imperfectly drained in the driest season by a slimy little bayou that continually vomited foul water into the sea. the point had been much discussed by geologists; it proved a godsend to united states surveyors weary of attempting to take observations among quagmires, moccasins, and arborescent weeds from fifteen to twenty feet high. savage fishermen, at some unrecorded time, had heaped upon the eminence a hill of clam-shells,--refuse of a million feasts; earth again had been formed over these, perhaps by the blind agency of worms working through centuries unnumbered; and the new soil had given birth to a luxuriant vegetation. millennial oaks interknotted their roots below its surface, and vouchsafed protection to many a frailer growth of shrub or tree,--wild orange, water-willow, palmetto, locust, pomegranate, and many trailing tendrilled things, both green and gray. then,--perhaps about half a century ago,--a few white fishermen cleared a place for themselves in this grove, and built a few palmetto cottages, with boat-houses and a wharf, facing the bayou. later on this temporary fishing station became a permanent settlement: homes constructed of heavy timber and plaster mixed with the trailing moss of the oaks and cypresses took the places of the frail and fragrant huts of palmetto. still the population itself retained a floating character: it ebbed and came, according to season and circumstances, according to luck or loss in the tilling of the sea. viosca, the founder of the settlement, always remained; he always managed to do well. he owned several luggers and sloops, which were hired out upon excellent terms; he could make large and profitable contracts with new orleans fish-dealers; and he was vaguely suspected of possessing more occult resources. there were some confused stories current about his having once been a daring smuggler, and having only been reformed by the pleadings of his wife carmen,--a little brown woman who had followed him from barcelona to share his fortunes in the western world. on hot days, when the shade was full of thin sweet scents, the place had a tropical charm, a drowsy peace. nothing except the peculiar appearance of the line of oaks facing the gulf could have conveyed to the visitor any suggestion of days in which the trilling of crickets and the fluting of birds had ceased, of nights when the voices of the marsh had been hushed for fear. in one enormous rank the veteran trees stood shoulder to shoulder, but in the attitude of giants over mastered,--forced backward towards the marsh,--made to recoil by the might of the ghostly enemy with whom they had striven a thousand years,--the shrieker, the sky-sweeper, the awful sea-wind! never had he given them so terrible a wrestle as on the night of the tenth of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. all the waves of the excited gulf thronged in as if to see, and lifted up their voices, and pushed, and roared, until the cheniere was islanded by such a billowing as no white man's eyes had ever looked upon before. grandly the oaks bore themselves, but every fibre of their knotted thews was strained in the unequal contest, and two of the giants were overthrown, upturning, as they fell, roots coiled and huge as the serpent-limbs of titans. moved to its entrails, all the islet trembled, while the sea magnified its menace, and reached out whitely to the prostrate trees; but the rest of the oaks stood on, and strove in line, and saved the habitations defended by them ... ii. before a little waxen image of the mother and child,--an odd little virgin with an indian face, brought home by feliu as a gift after one of his mexican voyages,--carmen viosca had burned candles and prayed; sometimes telling her beads; sometimes murmuring the litanies she knew by heart; sometimes also reading from a prayer-book worn and greasy as a long-used pack of cards. it was particularly stained at one page, a page on which her tears had fallen many a lonely night--a page with a clumsy wood cut representing a celestial lamp, a symbolic radiance, shining through darkness, and on either side a kneeling angel with folded wings. and beneath this rudely wrought symbol of the perpetual calm appeared in big, coarse type the title of a prayer that has been offered up through many a century, doubtless, by wives of spanish mariners,--contra las tempestades. once she became very much frightened. after a partial lull the storm had suddenly redoubled its force: the ground shook; the house quivered and creaked; the wind brayed and screamed and pushed and scuffled at the door; and the water, which had been whipping in through every crevice, all at once rose over the threshold and flooded the dwelling. carmen dipped her finger in the water and tasted it. it was salt! and none of feliu's boats had yet come in;--doubtless they had been driven into some far-away bayous by the storm. the only boat at the settlement, the carmencita, had been almost wrecked by running upon a snag three days before;--there was at least a fortnight's work for the ship-carpenter of dead cypress point. and feliu was sleeping as if nothing unusual had happened--the heavy sleep of a sailor, heedless of commotions and voices. and his men, miguel and mateo, were at the other end of the cheniere. with a scream carmen aroused feliu. he raised himself upon his elbow, rubbed his eyes, and asked her, with exasperating calmness, "que tienes? que tienes?" (what ails thee?) --"oh, feliu! the sea is coming upon us!" she answered, in the same tongue. but she screamed out a word inspired by her fear: she did not cry, "se nos viene el mar encima!" but "se nos viene la altura!"--the name that conveys the terrible thought of depth swallowed up in height,--the height of the high sea. "no lo creo!" muttered feliu, looking at the floor; then in a quiet, deep voice he said, pointing to an oar in the corner of the room, "echame ese remo." she gave it to him. still reclining upon one elbow, feliu measured the depth of the water with his thumb nail upon the blade of the oar, and then bade carmen light his pipe for him. his calmness reassured her. for half an hour more, undismayed by the clamoring of the wind or the calling of the sea, feliu silently smoked his pipe and watched his oar. the water rose a little higher, and he made another mark;--then it climbed a little more, but not so rapidly; and he smiled at carmen as he made a third mark. "como creia!" he exclaimed, "no hay porque asustarse: el agua baja!" and as carmen would have continued to pray, he rebuked her fears, and bade her try to obtain some rest: "basta ya de plegarios, querida!--vete y duerme." his tone, though kindly, was imperative; and carmen, accustomed to obey him, laid herself down by his side, and soon, for very weariness, slept. it was a feverish sleep, nevertheless, shattered at brief intervals by terrible sounds, sounds magnified by her nervous condition--a sleep visited by dreams that mingled in a strange way with the impressions of the storm, and more than once made her heart stop, and start again at its own stopping. one of these fancies she never could forget--a dream about little concha,--conchita, her firstborn, who now slept far away in the old churchyard at barcelona. she had tried to become resigned,--not to think. but the child would come back night after night, though the earth lay heavy upon her--night after night, through long distances of time and space. oh! the fancied clinging of infant-lips!--the thrilling touch of little ghostly hands!--those phantom-caresses that torture mothers' hearts! ... night after night, through many a month of pain. then for a time the gentle presence ceased to haunt her,--seemed to have lain down to sleep forever under the high bright grass and yellow flowers. why did it return, that night of all nights, to kiss her, to cling to her, to nestle in her arms? for in her dream she thought herself still kneeling before the waxen image, while the terrors of the tempest were ever deepening about her,--raving of winds and booming of waters and a shaking of the land. and before her, even as she prayed her dream-prayer, the waxen virgin became tall as a woman, and taller,--rising to the roof and smiling as she grew. then carmen would have cried out for fear, but that something smothered her voice,--paralyzed her tongue. and the virgin silently stooped above her, and placed in her arms the child,--the brown child with the indian face. and the child whitened in her hands and changed,--seeming as it changed to send a sharp pain through her heart: an old pain linked somehow with memories of bright windy spanish hills, and summer scent of olive groves, and all the luminous past;--it looked into her face with the soft dark gaze, with the unforgotten smile of ... dead conchita! and carmen wished to thank; the smiling virgin for that priceless bliss, and lifted up her eyes, but the sickness of ghostly fear returned upon her when she looked; for now the mother seemed as a woman long dead, and the smile was the smile of fleshlessness, and the places of the eyes were voids and darknesses ... and the sea sent up so vast a roar that the dwelling rocked. carmen started from sleep to find her heart throbbing so that the couch shook with it. night was growing gray; the door had just been opened and slammed again. through the rain-whipped panes she discerned the passing shape of feliu, making for the beach--a broad and bearded silhouette, bending against the wind. still the waxen virgin smiled her mexican smile,--but now she was only seven inches high; and her bead-glass eyes seemed to twinkle with kindliness while the flame of the last expiring taper struggled for life in the earthen socket at her feet. iii. rain and a blind sky and a bursting sea feliu and his men, miguel and mateo, looked out upon the thundering and flashing of the monstrous tide. the wind had fallen, and the gray air was full of gulls. behind the cheniere, back to the cloudy line of low woods many miles away, stretched a wash of lead-colored water, with a green point piercing it here and there--elbow-bushes or wild cane tall enough to keep their heads above the flood. but the inundation was visibly decreasing;--with the passing of each hour more and more green patches and points had been showing themselves: by degrees the course of the bayou had become defined--two parallel winding lines of dwarf-timber and bushy shrubs traversing the water toward the distant cypress-swamps. before the cheniere all the shell-beach slope was piled with wreck--uptorn trees with the foliage still fresh upon them, splintered timbers of mysterious origin, and logs in multitude, scarred with gashes of the axe. feliu and his comrades had saved wood enough to build a little town,--working up to their waists in the surf, with ropes, poles, and boat-hooks. the whole sea was full of flotsam. voto a cristo!--what a wrecking there must have been! and to think the carmencita could not be taken out! they had seen other luggers making eastward during the morning--could recognize some by their sails, others by their gait,--exaggerated in their struggle with the pitching of the sea: the san pablo, the gasparina, the enriqueta, the agueda, the constanza. ugly water, yes!--but what a chance for wreckers! ... some great ship must have gone to pieces;--scores of casks were rolling in the trough,--casks of wine. perhaps it was the manila,--perhaps the nautilus! a dead cow floated near enough for mateo to throw his rope over one horn; and they all helped to get it out. it was a milch cow of some expensive breed; and the owner's brand had been burned upon the horns:--a monographic combination of the letters a and p. feliu said he knew that brand: old-man preaulx, of belle-isle, who kept a sort of dairy at last island during the summer season, used to mark all his cows that way. strange! but, as they worked on, they began to see stranger things,--white dead faces and dead hands, which did not look like the hands or the faces of drowned sailors: the ebb was beginning to run strongly, and these were passing out with it on the other side of the mouth of the bayou;--perhaps they had been washed into the marsh during the night, when the great rush of the sea came. then the three men left the water, and retired to higher ground to scan the furrowed gulf;--their practiced eyes began to search the courses of the sea-currents,--keen as the gaze of birds that watch the wake of the plough. and soon the casks and the drift were forgotten; for it seemed to them that the tide was heavy with human dead--passing out, processionally, to the great open. very far, where the huge pitching of the swells was diminished by distance into a mere fluttering of ripples, the water appeared as if sprinkled with them;--they vanished and became visible again at irregular intervals, here and there--floating most thickly eastward!--tossing, swaying patches of white or pink or blue or black each with its tiny speck of flesh-color showing as the sea lifted or lowered the body. nearer to shore there were few; but of these two were close enough to be almost recognizable: miguel first discerned them. they were rising and falling where the water was deepest--well out in front of the mouth of the bayou, beyond the flooded sand-bars, and moving toward the shell-reef westward. they were drifting almost side by side. one was that of a negro, apparently well attired, and wearing a white apron;--the other seemed to be a young colored girl, clad in a blue dress; she was floating upon her face; they could observe that she had nearly straight hair, braided and tied with a red ribbon. these were evidently house-servants,--slaves. but from whence? nothing could be learned until the luggers should return; and none of them was yet in sight. still feliu was not anxious as to the fate of his boats, manned by the best sailors of the coast. rarely are these louisiana fishermen lost in sudden storms; even when to other eyes the appearances are most pacific and the skies most splendidly blue, they divine some far-off danger, like the gulls; and like the gulls also, you see their light vessels fleeing landward. these men seem living barometers, exquisitely sensitive to all the invisible changes of atmospheric expansion and compression; they are not easily caught in those awful dead calms which suddenly paralyze the wings of a bark, and hold her helpless in their charmed circle, as in a nightmare, until the blackness overtakes her, and the long-sleeping sea leaps up foaming to devour her. --"carajo!" the word all at once bursts from feliu's mouth, with that peculiar guttural snarl of the "r" betokening strong excitement,--while he points to something rocking in the ebb, beyond the foaming of the shell-reef, under a circling of gulls. more dead? yes--but something too that lives and moves, like a quivering speck of gold; and mateo also perceives it, a gleam of bright hair,--and miguel likewise, after a moment's gazing. a living child;--a lifeless mother. pobrecita! no boat within reach, and only a mighty surf-wrestler could hope to swim thither and return! but already, without a word, brown feliu has stripped for the struggle;--another second, and he is shooting through the surf, head and hands tunnelling the foam hills.... one--two--three lines passed!--four!--that is where they first begin to crumble white from the summit,--five!--that he can ride fearlessly! ... then swiftly, easily, he advances, with a long, powerful breast-stroke,--keeping his bearded head well up to watch for drift,--seeming to slide with a swing from swell to swell,--ascending, sinking,--alternately presenting breast or shoulder to the wave; always diminishing more and more to the eyes of mateo and miguel,--till he becomes a moving speck, occasionally hard to follow through the confusion of heaping waters ... you are not afraid of the sharks, feliu!--no: they are afraid of you; right and left they slunk away from your coming that morning you swam for life in west-indian waters, with your knife in your teeth, while the balls of the cuban coast-guard were purring all around you. that day the swarming sea was warm,--warm like soup--and clear, with an emerald flash in every ripple,--not opaque and clamorous like the gulf today ... miguel and his comrade are anxious. ropes are unrolled and inter-knotted into a line. miguel remains on the beach; but mateo, bearing the end of the line, fights his way out,--swimming and wading by turns, to the further sandbar, where the water is shallow enough to stand in,--if you know how to jump when the breaker comes. but feliu, nearing the flooded shell-bank, watches the white flashings,--knows when the time comes to keep flat and take a long, long breath. one heavy volleying of foam,--darkness and hissing as of a steam-burst; a vibrant lifting up; a rush into light,--and again the volleying and the seething darkness. once more,--and the fight is won! he feels the upcoming chill of deeper water,--sees before him the green quaking of unbroken swells,--and far beyond him mateo leaping on the bar,--and beside him, almost within arm's reach, a great billiard-table swaying, and a dead woman clinging there, and ... the child. a moment more, and feliu has lifted himself beside the waifs ... how fast the dead woman clings, as if with the one power which is strong as death,--the desperate force of love! not in vain; for the frail creature bound to the mother's corpse with a silken scarf has still the strength to cry out:--"maman! maman!" but time is life now; and the tiny hands must be pulled away from the fair dead neck, and the scarf taken to bind the infant firmly to feliu's broad shoulders,--quickly, roughly; for the ebb will not wait ... and now feliu has a burden; but his style of swimming has totally changed;--he rises from the water like a triton, and his powerful arms seem to spin in circles, like the spokes of a flying wheel. for now is the wrestle indeed!--after each passing swell comes a prodigious pulling from beneath,--the sea clutching for its prey. but the reef is gained, is passed;--the wild horses of the deep seem to know the swimmer who has learned to ride them so well. and still the brown arms spin in an ever-nearing mist of spray; and the outer sand-bar is not far off,--and there is shouting mateo, leaping in the surf, swinging something about his head, as a vaquero swings his noose! ... sough! splash!--it struggles in the trough beside feliu, and the sinewy hand descends upon it. tiene!--tira, miguel! and their feet touch land again! ... she is very cold, the child, and very still, with eyes closed. --"esta muerta, feliu?" asks mateo. --"no!" the panting swimmer makes answer, emerging, while the waves reach whitely up the sand as in pursuit,--"no; vive! respira todavia!" behind him the deep lifts up its million hands, and thunders as in acclaim. iv. --"madre de dios!--mi sueno!" screamed carmen, abandoning her preparations for the morning meal, as feliu, nude, like a marine god, rushed in and held out to her a dripping and gasping baby-girl,--"mother of god! my dream!" but there was no time then to tell of dreams; the child might die. in one instant carmen's quick, deft hands had stripped the slender little body; and while mateo and feliu were finding dry clothing and stimulants, and miguel telling how it all happened--quickly, passionately, with furious gesture,--the kind and vigorous woman exerted all her skill to revive the flickering life. soon feliu came to aid her, while his men set to work completing the interrupted preparation of the breakfast. flannels were heated for the friction of the frail limbs; and brandy-and-water warmed, which carmen administered by the spoonful, skilfully as any physician,--until, at last, the little creature opened her eyes and began to sob. sobbing still, she was laid in carmen's warm feather-bed, well swathed in woollen wrappings. the immediate danger, at least, was over; and feliu smiled with pride and pleasure. then carmen first ventured to relate her dream; and his face became grave again. husband and wife gazed a moment into each other's eyes, feeling together the same strange thrill--that mysterious faint creeping, as of a wind passing, which is the awe of the unknowable. then they looked at the child, lying there, pink checked with the flush of the blood returning; and such a sudden tenderness touched them as they had known long years before, while together bending above the slumbering loveliness of lost conchita. --"que ojos!" murmured feliu, as he turned away,--feigning hunger ... (he was not hungry; but his sight had grown a little dim, as with a mist.) que ojos! they were singular eyes, large, dark, and wonderfully fringed. the child's hair was yellow--it was the flash of it that had saved her; yet her eyes and brows were beautifully black. she was comely, but with such a curious, delicate comeliness--totally unlike the robust beauty of concha ... at intervals she would moan a little between her sobs; and at last cried out, with a thin, shrill cry: "maman!--oh! maman!" then carmen lifted her from the bed to her lap, and caressed her, and rocked her gently to and fro, as she had done many a night for concha,--murmuring,--"yo sere tu madre, angel mio, dulzura mia;--sere tu madrecita, palomita mia!" (i will be thy mother, my angel, my sweet;--i will be thy little mother, my doveling.) and the long silk fringes of the child's eyes overlapped, shadowed her little cheeks; and she slept--just as conchita had slept long ago,--with her head on carmen's bosom. feliu re-appeared at the inner door: at a sign, he approached cautiously, without noise, and looked. --"she can talk," whispered carmen in spanish: "she called her mother"--ha llamado a su madre. --"y dios tambien la ha llamado," responded feliu, with rude pathos;--"and god also called her." --"but the virgin sent us the child, feliu,--sent us the child for concha's sake." he did not answer at once; he seemed to be thinking very deeply;--carmen anxiously scanned his impassive face. --"who knows?" he answered, at last;--"who knows? perhaps she has ceased to belong to any one else." one after another, feliu's luggers fluttered in,--bearing with them news of the immense calamity. and all the fishermen, in turn, looked at the child. not one had ever seen her before. v. ten days later, a lugger full of armed men entered the bayou, and moored at viosca's wharf. the visitors were, for the most part, country gentlemen,--residents of franklin and neighboring towns, or planters from the teche country,--forming one of the numerous expeditions organized for the purpose of finding the bodies of relatives or friends lost in the great hurricane, and of punishing the robbers of the dead. they had searched numberless nooks of the coast, had given sepulture to many corpses, had recovered a large amount of jewelry, and--as feliu afterward learned,--had summarily tried and executed several of the most abandoned class of wreckers found with ill-gotten valuables in their possession, and convicted of having mutilated the drowned. but they came to viosca's landing only to obtain information;--he was too well known and liked to be a subject for suspicion; and, moreover, he had one good friend in the crowd,--captain harris of new orleans, a veteran steamboat man and a market contractor, to whom he had disposed of many a cargo of fresh pompano, sheep's-head, and spanish-mackerel ... harris was the first to step to land;--some ten of the party followed him. nearly all had lost some relative or friend in the great catastrophe;--the gathering was serious, silent,--almost grim,--which formed about feliu. mateo, who had come to the country while a boy, spoke english better than the rest of the cheniere people;--he acted as interpreter whenever feliu found any difficulty in comprehending or answering questions; and he told them of the child rescued that wild morning, and of feliu's swim. his recital evoked a murmur of interest and excitement, followed by a confusion of questions. well, they could see for themselves, feliu said; but he hoped they would have a little patience;--the child was still weak;--it might be dangerous to startle her. "we'll arrange it just as you like," responded the captain;--"go ahead, feliu!" ... all proceeded to the house, under the great trees; feliu and captain harris leading the way. it was sultry and bright;--even the sea-breeze was warm; there were pleasant odors in the shade, and a soporific murmur made of leaf-speech and the hum of gnats. only the captain entered the house with feliu; the rest remained without--some taking seats on a rude plank bench under the oaks--others flinging themselves down upon the weeds--a few stood still, leaning upon their rifles. then carmen came out to them with gourds and a bucket of fresh water, which all were glad to drink. they waited many minutes. perhaps it was the cool peace of the place that made them all feel how hot and tired they were: conversation flagged; and the general languor finally betrayed itself in a silence so absolute that every leaf-whisper seemed to become separately audible. it was broken at last by the guttural voice of the old captain emerging from the cottage, leading the child by the hand, and followed by carmen and feliu. all who had been resting rose up and looked at the child. standing in a lighted space, with one tiny hand enveloped by the captain's great brown fist, she looked so lovely that a general exclamation of surprise went up. her bright hair, loose and steeped in the sun-flame, illuminated her like a halo; and her large dark eyes, gentle and melancholy as a deer's, watched the strange faces before her with shy curiosity. she wore the same dress in which feliu had found her--a soft white fabric of muslin, with trimmings of ribbon that had once been blue; and the now discolored silken scarf, which had twice done her such brave service, was thrown over her shoulders. carmen had washed and repaired the dress very creditably; but the tiny slim feet were bare,--the brine-soaked shoes she wore that fearful night had fallen into shreds at the first attempt to remove them. --"gentlemen," said captain harris,--"we can find no clew to the identity of this child. there is no mark upon her clothing; and she wore nothing in the shape of jewelry--except this string of coral beads. we are nearly all americans here; and she does not speak any english ... does any one here know anything about her?" carmen felt a great sinking at her heart: was her new-found darling to be taken so soon from her? but no answer came to the captain's query. no one of the expedition had ever seen that child before. the coral beads were passed from hand to hand; the scarf was minutely scrutinized without avail. somebody asked if the child could not talk german or italian. --"italiano? no!" said feliu, shaking his head.... one of his luggermen, gioachino sparicio, who, though a sicilian, could speak several italian idioms besides his own, had already essayed. --"she speaks something or other," answered the captain--"but no english. i couldn't make her understand me; and feliu, who talks nearly all the infernal languages spoken down this way, says he can't make her understand him. suppose some of you who know french talk to her a bit ... laroussel, why don't you try?" the young man addressed did not at first seem to notice the captain's suggestion. he was a tall, lithe fellow, with a dark, positive face: he had never removed his black gaze from the child since the moment of her appearance. her eyes, too, seemed to be all for him--to return his scrutiny with a sort of vague pleasure, a half savage confidence ... was it the first embryonic feeling of race-affinity quickening in the little brain?--some intuitive, inexplicable sense of kindred? she shrank from doctor hecker, who addressed her in german, shook her head at lawyer solari, who tried to make her answer in italian; and her look always went back plaintively to the dark, sinister face of laroussel,--laroussel who had calmly taken a human life, a wicked human life, only the evening before. --"laroussel, you're the only creole in this crowd," said the captain; "talk to her! talk gumbo to her! ... i've no doubt this child knows german very well, and italian too,"--he added, maliciously--"but not in the way you gentlemen pronounce it!" laroussel handed his rifle to a friend, crouched down before the little girl, and looked into her face, and smiled. her great sweet orbs shone into his one moment, seriously, as if searching; and then ... she returned his smile. it seemed to touch something latent within the man, something rare; for his whole expression changed; and there was a caress in his look and voice none of the men could have believed possible--as he exclaimed:---"fais moin bo, piti." she pouted up her pretty lips and kissed his black moustache. he spoke to her again:---"dis moin to nom, piti;--dis moin to nom, chere." then, for the first time, she spoke, answering in her argent treble: --"zouzoune." all held their breath. captain harris lifted his finger to his lips to command silence. --"zouzoune? zouzoune qui, chere?" --"zouzoune, a c'est moin, lili!" --"c'est pas tout to nom, lili;--dis moin, chere, to laut nom." --"mo pas connin laut nom." --"comment ye te pele to maman, piti?" --"maman,--maman 'dele." --"et comment ye te pele to papa, chere?" --"papa zulien." --"bon! et comment to maman te pele to papa?--dis ca a moin, chere?" the child looked down, put a finger in her mouth, thought a moment, and replied:---"li pele li, 'cheri'; li pele li, 'papoute.'" --"aie, aie!--c'est tout, ca?--to maman te jamain pele li daut' chose?" --"mo pas connin, moin." she began to play with some trinkets attached to his watch chain;--a very small gold compass especially impressed her fancy by the trembling and flashing of its tiny needle, and she murmured, coaxingly:---"mo oule ca! donnin ca a moin." he took all possible advantage of the situation, and replied at once:---"oui! mo va donnin toi ca si to di moin to laut nom." the splendid bribe evidently impressed her greatly; for tears rose to the brown eyes as she answered: --"mo pas capab di' ca;--mo pas capab di' laut nom ... mo oule; mo pas capab!" laroussel explained. the child's name was lili,--perhaps a contraction of eulalie; and her pet creole name zouzoune. he thought she must be the daughter of wealthy people; but she could not, for some reason or other, tell her family name. perhaps she could not pronounce it well, and was afraid of being laughed at: some of the old french names were very hard for creole children to pronounce, so long as the little ones were indulged in the habit of talking the patois; and after a certain age their mispronunciations would be made fun of in order to accustom them to abandon the idiom of the slave-nurses, and to speak only french. perhaps, again, she was really unable to recall the name: certain memories might have been blurred in the delicate brain by the shock of that terrible night. she said her mother's name was adele, and her father's julien; but these were very common names in louisiana,--and could afford scarcely any better clew than the innocent statement that her mother used to address her father as "dear" (cheri),--or with the creole diminutive "little papa" (papoute). then laroussel tried to reach a clew in other ways, without success. he asked her about where she lived,--what the place was like; and she told him about fig-trees in a court, and galleries, and banquettes, and spoke of a faubou',--without being able to name any street. he asked her what her father used to do, and was assured that he did everything--that there was nothing he could not do. divine absurdity of childish faith!--infinite artlessness of childish love! ... probably the little girl's parents had been residents of new orleans--dwellers of the old colonial quarter,--the faubourg, the faubou'. --"well, gentlemen," said captain harris, as laroussel abandoned his cross-examination in despair,--"all we can do now is to make inquiries. i suppose we'd better leave the child here. she is very weak yet, and in no condition to be taken to the city, right in the middle of the hot season; and nobody could care for her any better than she's being cared for here. then, again, seems to me that as feliu saved her life,--and that at the risk of his own,--he's got the prior claim, anyhow; and his wife is just crazy about the child--wants to adopt her. if we can find her relatives so much the better; but i say, gentlemen, let them come right here to feliu, themselves, and thank him as he ought to be thanked, by god! that's just what i think about it." carmen understood the little speech;--all the spanish charm of her youth had faded out years before; but in the one swift look of gratitude she turned upon the captain, it seemed to blossom again;--for that quick moment, she was beautiful. "the captain is quite right," observed dr. hecker: "it would be very dangerous to take the child away just now." there was no dissent. --"all correct, boys?" asked the captain ... "well, we've got to be going. by-by, zouzoune!" but zouzoune burst into tears. laroussel was going too! --"give her the thing, laroussel! she gave you a kiss, anyhow--more than she'd do for me," cried the captain. laroussel turned, detached the little compass from his watch chain, and gave it to her. she held up her pretty face for his farewell kiss ... vi. but it seemed fated that feliu's waif should never be identified;--diligent inquiry and printed announcements alike proved fruitless. sea and sand had either hidden or effaced all the records of the little world they had engulfed: the annihilation of whole families, the extinction of races, had, in more than one instance, rendered vain all efforts to recognize the dead. it required the subtle perception of long intimacy to name remains tumefied and discolored by corruption and exposure, mangled and gnawed by fishes, by reptiles, and by birds;--it demanded the great courage of love to look upon the eyeless faces found sweltering in the blackness of cypress-shadows, under the low palmettoes of the swamps,--where gorged buzzards started from sleep, or cottonmouths uncoiled, hissing, at the coming of the searchers. and sometimes all who had loved the lost were themselves among the missing. the full roll call of names could never be made out; extraordinary mistakes were committed. men whom the world deemed dead and buried came back, like ghosts,--to read their own epitaphs. ... almost at the same hour that laroussel was questioning the child in creole patois, another expedition, searching for bodies along the coast, discovered on the beach of a low islet famed as a haunt of pelicans, the corpse of a child. some locks of bright hair still adhering to the skull, a string of red beads, a white muslin dress, a handkerchief broidered with the initials "a.l.b.,"--were secured as clews; and the little body was interred where it had been found. and, several days before, captain hotard, of the relief-boat estelle brousseaux, had found, drifting in the open gulf (latitude 26 degrees 43 minutes; longitude 88 degrees 17 minutes),--the corpse of a fair-haired woman, clinging to a table. the body was disfigured beyond recognition: even the slender bones of the hands had been stripped by the nibs of the sea-birds-except one finger, the third of the left, which seemed to have been protected by a ring of gold, as by a charm. graven within the plain yellow circlet was a date,--"juillet--1851"; and the names,--"adele + julien,"--separated by a cross. the estelle carried coffins that day: most of them were already full; but there was one for adele. who was she?--who was her julien? ... when the estelle and many other vessels had discharged their ghastly cargoes;--when the bereaved of the land had assembled as hastily as they might for the du y of identification;--when memories were strained almost to madness in research of names, dates, incidents--for the evocation of dead words, resurrection of vanished days, recollection of dear promises,--then, in the confusion, it was believed and declared that the little corpse found on the pelican island was the daughter of the wearer of the wedding ring: adele la brierre, nee florane, wife of dr. julien la brierre, of new orleans, who was numbered among the missing. and they brought dead adele back,--up shadowy river windings, over linked brightnesses of lake and lakelet, through many a green glimmering bayou,--to the creole city, and laid her to rest somewhere in the old saint-louis cemetery. and upon the tablet recording her name were also graven the words- ..................... aussi a la memoire de son mari; julien raymond la brierre, ne a la paroisse st. landry, le 29 mai; mdcccxxviii; et de leur fille, eulalie, agee de 4 as et 5 mois,- qui tous perirent dans la grande tempete qui balaya l'ile derniere, le 10 aout, mdccclvi ..... + ..... priez pour eux! vii. yet six months afterward the face of julien la brierre was seen again upon the streets of new orleans. men started at the sight of him, as at a spectre standing in the sun. and nevertheless the apparition cast a shadow. people paused, approached, half extended a hand through old habit, suddenly checked themselves and passed on,--wondering they should have forgotten, asking themselves why they had so nearly made an absurd mistake. it was a february day,--one of those crystalline days of our snowless southern winter, when the air is clear and cool, and outlines sharpen in the light as if viewed through the focus of a diamond glass;--and in that brightness julien la brierre perused his own brief epitaph, and gazed upon the sculptured name of drowned adele. only half a year had passed since she was laid away in the high wall of tombs,--in that strange colonial columbarium where the dead slept in rows, behind squared marbles lettered in black or bronze. yet her resting-place,--in the highest range,--already seemed old. under our southern sun, the vegetation of cemeteries seems to spring into being spontaneously--to leap all suddenly into luxuriant life! microscopic mossy growths had begun to mottle the slab that closed her in;--over its face some singular creeper was crawling, planting tiny reptile-feet into the chiselled letters of the inscription; and from the moist soil below speckled euphorbias were growing up to her,--and morning glories,--and beautiful green tangled things of which he did not know the name. and the sight of the pretty lizards, puffing their crimson pouches in the sun, or undulating athwart epitaphs, and shifting their color when approached, from emerald to ashen-gray;--the caravans of the ants, journeying to and from tiny chinks in the masonry;--the bees gathering honey from the crimson blossoms of the crete-de-coq, whose radicles sought sustenance, perhaps from human dust, in the decay of generations:--all that rich life of graves summoned up fancies of resurrection, nature's resurrection-work--wondrous transformations of flesh, marvellous bans migration of souls! ... from some forgotten crevice of that tomb roof, which alone intervened between her and the vast light, a sturdy weed was growing. he knew that plant, as it quivered against the blue,--the chou-gras, as creole children call it: its dark berries form the mockingbird's favorite food ... might not its roots, exploring darkness, have found some unfamiliar nutriment within?--might it not be that something of the dead heart had risen to purple and emerald life--in the sap of translucent leaves, in the wine of the savage berries,--to blend with the blood of the wizard singer,--to lend a strange sweetness to the melody of his wooing? ... ... seldom, indeed, does it happen that a man in the prime of youth, in the possession of wealth, habituated to comforts and the elegances of life, discovers in one brief week how minute his true relation to the human aggregate,--how insignificant his part as one living atom of the social organism. seldom, at the age of twenty-eight, has one been made able to comprehend, through experience alone, that in the vast and complex stream of being he counts for less than a drop; and that, even as the blood loses and replaces its corpuscles, without a variance in the volume and vigor of its current, so are individual existences eliminated and replaced in the pulsing of a people's life, with never a pause in its mighty murmur. but all this, and much more, julien had learned in seven merciless days--seven successive and terrible shocks of experience. the enormous world had not missed him; and his place therein was not void--society had simply forgotten him. so long as he had moved among them, all he knew for friends had performed their petty altruistic roles,--had discharged their small human obligations,--had kept turned toward him the least selfish side of their natures,--had made with him a tolerably equitable exchange of ideas and of favors; and after his disappearance from their midst, they had duly mourned for his loss--to themselves! they had played out the final act in the unimportant drama of his life: it was really asking too much to demand a repetition ... impossible to deceive himself as to the feeling his unanticipated return had aroused:--feigned pity where he had looked for sympathetic welcome; dismay where he had expected surprised delight; and, oftener, airs of resignation, or disappointment ill disguised,--always insincerity, politely masked or coldly bare. he had come back to find strangers in his home, relatives at law concerning his estate, and himself regarded as an intruder among the living,--an unlucky guest, a revenant ... how hollow and selfish a world it seemed! and yet there was love in it; he had been loved in it, unselfishly, passionately, with the love of father and of mother, of wife and child ... all buried!--all lost forever! ... oh! would to god the story of that stone were not a lie!--would to kind god he also were dead! ... evening shadowed: the violet deepened and prickled itself with stars;--the sun passed below the west, leaving in his wake a momentary splendor of vermilion ... our southern day is not prolonged by gloaming. and julien's thoughts darkened with the darkening, and as swiftly. for while there was yet light to see, he read another name that he used to know--the name of ramirez ... nacio en cienfuegos, isla de cuba ... wherefore born?--for what eternal purpose, ramirez,--in the city of a hundred fires? he had blown out his brains before the sepulchre of his young wife ... it was a detached double vault, shaped like a huge chest, and much dilapidated already:--under the continuous burrowing of the crawfish it had sunk greatly on one side, tilting as if about to fall. out from its zigzag fissurings of brick and plaster, a sinister voice seemed to come:--"go thou and do likewise! ... earth groans with her burthen even now,--the burthen of man: she holds no place for thee!" viii. ... that voice pursued him into the darkness of his chilly room,--haunted him in the silence of his lodging. and then began within the man that ghostly struggle between courage and despair, between patient reason and mad revolt, between weakness and force, between darkness and light, which all sensitive and generous natures must wage in their own souls at least once--perhaps many times--in their lives. memory, in such moments, plays like an electric storm;--all involuntarily he found himself reviewing his life. incidents long forgotten came back with singular vividness: he saw the past as he had not seen it while it was the present;--remembrances of home, recollections of infancy, recurred to him with terrible intensity,--the artless pleasures and the trifling griefs, the little hurts and the tender pettings, the hopes and the anxieties of those who loved him, the smiles and tears of slaves ... and his first creole pony, a present from his father the day after he had proved himself able to recite his prayers correctly in french, without one mispronunciation--without saying crasse for grace,--and yellow michel, who taught him to swim and to fish and to paddle a pirogue;--and the bayou, with its wonder-world of turtles and birds and creeping things;--and his german tutor, who could not pronounce the j;--and the songs of the cane-fields,--strangely pleasing, full of quaverings and long plaintive notes, like the call of the cranes ... tou', tou' pays blanc! ... afterward camaniere had leased the place;--everything must have been changed; even the songs could not be the same. tou', tou' pays blare!--danie qui commande ... and then paris; and the university, with its wild under-life,--some debts, some follies; and the frequent fond letters from home to which he might have replied so much oftener;--paris, where talent is mediocrity; paris, with its thunders and its splendors and its seething of passion;--paris, supreme focus of human endeavor, with its madnesses of art, its frenzied striving to express the inexpressible, its spasmodic strainings to clutch the unattainable, its soarings of soul-fire to the heaven of the impossible ... what a rejoicing there was at his return!--how radiant and level the long road of the future seemed to open before him!--everywhere friends, prospects, felicitations. then his first serious love;--and the night of the ball at st. martinsville,--the vision of light! gracile as a palm, and robed at once so simply, so exquisitely in white, she had seemed to him the supreme realization of all possible dreams of beauty ... and his passionate jealousy; and the slap from laroussel; and the humiliating two-minute duel with rapiers in which he learned that he had found his master. the scar was deep. why had not laroussel killed him then? ... not evil-hearted, laroussel,--they used to salute each other afterward when they met; and laroussel's smile was kindly. why had he refrained from returning it? where was laroussel now? for the death of his generous father, who had sacrificed so much to reform him; for the death, only a short while after, of his all-forgiving mother, he had found one sweet woman to console him with her tender words, her loving lips, her delicious caress. she had given him zouzoune, the darling link between their lives,--zouzoune, who waited each evening with black eglantine at the gate to watch for his coming, and to cry through all the house like a bird, "papa, lape vini!--papa zulien ape vini!" ... and once that she had made him very angry by upsetting the ink over a mass of business papers, and he had slapped her (could he ever forgive himself?)--she had cried, through her sobs of astonishment and pain:--"to laimin moin?--to batte moin!" (thou lovest me?--thou beatest me!) next month she would have been five years old. to laimin moin?--to batte moin! ... a furious paroxysm of grief convulsed him, suffocated him; it seemed to him that something within must burst, must break. he flung himself down upon his bed, biting the coverings in order to stifle his outcry, to smother the sounds of his despair. what crime had he ever done, oh god! that he should be made to suffer thus?--was it for this he had been permitted to live? had been rescued from the sea and carried round all the world unscathed? why should he live to remember, to suffer, to agonize? was not ramirez wiser? how long the contest within him lasted, he never knew; but ere it was done, he had become, in more ways than one, a changed man. for the first,--though not indeed for the last time,--something of the deeper and nobler comprehension of human weakness and of human suffering had been revealed to him,--something of that larger knowledge without which the sense of duty can never be fully acquired, nor the understanding of unselfish goodness, nor the spirit of tenderness. the suicide is not a coward; he is an egotist. a ray of sunlight touched his wet pillow,--awoke him. he rushed to the window, flung the latticed shutters apart, and looked out. something beautiful and ghostly filled all the vistas,--frost-haze; and in some queer way the mist had momentarily caught and held the very color of the sky. an azure fog! through it the quaint and checkered street--as yet but half illumined by the sun,--took tones of impossible color; the view paled away through faint bluish tints into transparent purples;--all the shadows were indigo. how sweet the morning!--how well life seemed worth living! because the sun had shown his face through a fairy veil of frost! ... who was the ancient thinker?--was it hermes?--who said:-"the sun is laughter; for 'tis he who maketh joyous the thoughts of men, and gladdeneth the infinite world." ... the shadow of the tide. i. carmen found that her little pet had been taught how to pray; for each night and morning when the devout woman began to make her orisons, the child would kneel beside her, with little hands joined, and in a voice sweet and clear murmur something she had learned by heart. much as this pleased carmen, it seemed to her that the child's prayers could not be wholly valid unless uttered in spanish;--for spanish was heaven's own tongue,--la lengua de dios, el idioma de dios; and she resolved to teach her to say the salve maria and the padre nuestro in castilian--also, her own favorite prayer to the virgin, beginning with the words, "madre santisima, toda dulce y hermosa." . . . so conchita--for a new name had been given to her with that terrible sea christening--received her first lessons in spanish; and she proved a most intelligent pupil. before long she could prattle to feliu;--she would watch for his return of evenings, and announce his coming with "aqui viene mi papacito?"--she learned, too, from carmen, many little caresses of speech to greet him with. feliu's was not a joyous nature; he had his dark hours, his sombre days; yet it was rarely that he felt too sullen to yield to the little one's petting, when she would leap up to reach his neck and to coax his kiss, with--"dame un beso, papa!--asi;--y otro! otro! otro!" he grew to love her like his own;--was she not indeed his own, since he had won her from death? and none had yet come to dispute his claim. more and more, with the passing of weeks, months, seasons, she became a portion of his life--a part of all that he wrought for. at the first, he had had a half-formed hope that the little one might be reclaimed by relatives generous and rich enough to insist upon his acceptance of a handsome compensation; and that carmen could find some solace in a pleasant visit to barceloneta. but now he felt that no possible generosity could requite him for her loss; and with the unconscious selfishness of affection, he commenced to dread her identification as a great calamity. it was evident that she had been brought up nicely. she had pretty prim ways of drinking and eating, queer little fashions of sitting in company, and of addressing people. she had peculiar notions about colors in dress, about wearing her hair; and she seemed to have already imbibed a small stock of social prejudices not altogether in harmony with the republicanism of viosca's point. occasional swarthy visitors,--men of the manilla settlements,--she spoke of contemptuously as negues-marrons; and once she shocked carmen inexpressibly by stopping in the middle of her evening prayer, declaring that she wanted to say her prayers to a white virgin; carmen's senora de guadalupe was only a negra! then, for the first time, carmen spoke so crossly to the child as to frighten her. but the pious woman's heart smote her the next moment for that first harsh word;--and she caressed the motherless one, consoled her, cheered her, and at last explained to her--i know not how--something very wonderful about the little figurine, something that made chita's eyes big with awe. thereafter she always regarded the virgin of wax as an object mysterious and holy. and, one by one, most of chita's little eccentricities were gradually eliminated from her developing life and thought. more rapidly than ordinary children, because singularly intelligent, she learned to adapt herself to all the changes of her new environment,--retaining only that indescribable something which to an experienced eye tells of hereditary refinement of habit and of mind:--a natural grace, a thorough-bred ease and elegance of movement, a quickness and delicacy of perception. she became strong again and active--active enough to play a great deal on the beach, when the sun was not too fierce; and carmen made a canvas bonnet to shield her head and face. never had she been allowed to play so much in the sun before; and it seemed to do her good, though her little bare feet and hands became brown as copper. at first, it must be confessed, she worried her foster-mother a great deal by various queer misfortunes and extraordinary freaks;--getting bitten by crabs, falling into the bayou while in pursuit of "fiddlers," or losing herself at the conclusion of desperate efforts to run races at night with the moon, or to walk to the "end of the world." if she could only once get to the edge of the sky, she said, she "could climb up." she wanted to see the stars, which were the souls of good little children; and she knew that god would let her climb up. "just what i am afraid of!"--thought carmen to herself;--"he might let her climb up,--a little ghost!" but one day naughty chita received a terrible lesson,--a lasting lesson,--which taught her the value of obedience. she had been particularly cautioned not to venture into a certain part of the swamp in the rear of the grove, where the weeds were very tall; for carmen was afraid some snake might bite the child. but chita's bird-bright eye had discerned a gleam of white in that direction; and she wanted to know what it was. the white could only be seen from one point, behind the furthest house, where the ground was high. "never go there," said carmen; "there is a dead man there,--will bite you!" and yet, one day, while carmen was unusually busy, chita went there. in the early days of the settlement, a spanish fisherman had died; and his comrades had built him a little tomb with the surplus of the same bricks and other material brought down the bayou for the construction of viosca's cottages. but no one, except perhaps some wandering duck hunter, had approached the sepulchre for years. high weeds and grasses wrestled together all about it, and rendered it totally invisible from the surrounding level of the marsh. fiddlers swarmed away as chita advanced over the moist soil, each uplifting its single huge claw as it sidled off;--then frogs began to leap before her as she reached the thicker grass;--and long-legged brown insects sprang showering to right and left as she parted the tufts of the thickening verdure. as she went on, the bitter-weeds disappeared;--jointed grasses and sinewy dark plants of a taller growth rose above her head: she was almost deafened by the storm of insect shrilling, and the mosquitoes became very wicked. all at once something long and black and heavy wriggled almost from under her naked feet,--squirming so horribly that for a minute or two she could not move for fright. but it slunk away somewhere, and hid itself; the weeds it had shaken ceased to tremble in its wake; and her courage returned. she felt such an exquisite and fearful pleasure in the gratification of that naughty curiosity! then, quite unexpectedly--oh! what a start it gave her!--the solitary white object burst upon her view, leprous and ghastly as the yawn of a cotton-mouth. tombs ruin soon in louisiana;--the one chita looked upon seemed ready to topple down. there was a great ragged hole at one end, where wind and rain, and perhaps also the burrowing of crawfish and of worms, had loosened the bricks, and caused them to slide out of place. it seemed very black inside; but chita wanted to know what was there. she pushed her way through a gap in the thin and rotten line of pickets, and through some tall weeds with big coarse pink flowers;--then she crouched down on hands and knees before the black hole, and peered in. it was not so black inside as she had thought; for a sunbeam slanted down through a chink in the roof; and she could see! a brown head--without hair, without eyes, but with teeth, ever so many teeth!--seemed to laugh at her; and close to it sat a toad, the hugest she had ever seen; and the white skin of his throat kept puffing out and going in. and chita screamed and screamed, and fled in wild terror,--screaming all the way, till carmen ran out to meet her and carry her home. even when safe in her adopted mother's arms, she sobbed with fright. to the vivid fancy of the child there seemed to be some hideous relation between the staring reptile and the brown death's-head, with its empty eyes, and its nightmare-smile. the shock brought on a fever,--a fever that lasted several days, and left her very weak. but the experience taught her to obey, taught her that carmen knew best what was for her good. it also caused her to think a great deal. carmen had told her that the dead people never frightened good little girls who stayed at home. --"madrecita carmen," she asked, "is my mamma dead?" --"pobrecita! .... yes, my angel. god called her to him,--your darling mother." --"madrecita," she asked again,--her young eyes growing vast with horror,--"is my own mamma now like that?" ... she pointed toward the place of the white gleam, behind the great trees. --"no, no, no! my darling!" cried carmen, appalled herself by the ghastly question,--"your mamma is with the dear, good, loving god, who lives in the beautiful sky, above the clouds, my darling, beyond the sun!" but carmen's kind eyes were full of tears; and the child read their meaning. he who teareth off the mask of the flesh had looked into her face one unutterable moment:--she had seen the brutal truth, naked to the bone! yet there came to her a little thrill of consolation, caused by the words of the tender falsehood; for that which she had discerned by day could not explain to her that which she saw almost nightly in her slumber. the face, the voice, the form of her loving mother still lived somewhere,--could not have utterly passed away; since the sweet presence came to her in dreams, bending and smiling over her, caressing her, speaking to her,--sometimes gently chiding, but always chiding with a kiss. and then the child would laugh in her sleep, and prattle in creole,--talking to the luminous shadow, telling the dead mother all the little deeds and thoughts of the day.... why would god only let her come at night? ... her idea of god had been first defined by the sight of a quaint french picture of the creation,--an engraving which represented a shoreless sea under a black sky, and out of the blackness a solemn and bearded gray head emerging, and a cloudy hand through which stars glimmered. god was like old doctor de coulanges, who used to visit the house, and talk in a voice like a low roll of thunder.... at a later day, when chita had been told that god was "everywhere at the same time "--without and within, beneath and above all things,--this idea became somewhat changed. the awful bearded face, the huge shadowy hand, did not fade from her thought; but they became fantastically blended with the larger and vaguer notion of something that filled the world and reached to the stars,--something diaphanous and incomprehensible like the invisible air, omnipresent and everlasting like the high blue of heaven .... ii. ... she began to learn the life of the coast. with her acquisition of another tongue, there came to her also the understanding of many things relating to the world of the sea she memorized with novel delight much that was told her day by day concerning the nature surrounding her,--many secrets of the air, many of those signs of heaven which the dwellers in cities cannot comprehend because the atmosphere is thickened and made stagnant above them--cannot even watch because the horizon is hidden from their eyes by walls, and by weary avenues of trees with whitewashed trunks. she learned, by listening, by asking, by observing also, how to know the signs that foretell wild weather:--tremendous sunsets, scuddings and bridgings of cloud,--sharpening and darkening of the sea-line,--and the shriek of gulls flashing to land in level flight, out of a still transparent sky,--and halos about the moon. she learned where the sea-birds, with white bosoms and brown wings, made their hidden nests of sand,--and where the cranes waded for their prey,--and where the beautiful wild-ducks, plumaged in satiny lilac and silken green, found their food,--and where the best reeds grew to furnish stems for feliu's red-clay pipe,--and where the ruddy sea-beans were most often tossed upon the shore,--and how the gray pelicans fished all together, like men--moving in far-extending semicircles, beating the flood with their wings to drive the fish before them. and from carmen she learned the fables and the sayings of the sea,--the proverbs about its deafness, its avarice, its treachery, its terrific power,--especially one that haunted her for all time thereafter: si quieres aprender a orar, entra en el mar (if thou wouldst learn to pray, go to the sea). she learned why the sea is salt,--how "the tears of women made the waves of the sea,"--and how the sea has ii no friends,--and how the cat's eyes change with the tides. what had she lost of life by her swift translation from the dusty existence of cities to the open immensity of nature's freedom? what did she gain? doubtless she was saved from many of those little bitternesses and restraints and disappointments which all well-bred city children must suffer in the course of their training for the more or less factitious life of society:--obligations to remain very still with every nimble nerve quivering in dumb revolt;--the injustice of being found troublesome and being sent to bed early for the comfort of her elders;--the cruel necessity of straining her pretty eyes, for many long hours at a time, over grimy desks in gloomy school-rooms, though birds might twitter and bright winds flutter in the trees without;--the austere constrains and heavy drowsiness of warm churches, filled with the droning echoes of a voice preaching incomprehensible things;--the progressively augmenting weariness of lessons in deportment, in dancing, in music, in the impossible art of keeping her dresses unruffled and unsoiled. perhaps she never had any reason to regret all these. she went to sleep and awakened with the wild birds;--her life remained as unfettered by formalities as her fine feet by shoes. excepting carmen's old prayer-book,--in which she learned to read a little,--her childhood passed without books,--also without pictures, without dainties, without music, without theatrical amusements. but she saw and heard and felt much of that which, though old as the heavens and the earth, is yet eternally new and eternally young with the holiness of beauty,--eternally mystical and divine,--eternally weird: the unveiled magnificence of nature's moods,--the perpetual poem hymned by wind and surge,--the everlasting splendor of the sky. she saw the quivering pinkness of waters curled by the breath of the morning--under the deepening of the dawn--like a far fluttering and scattering of rose-leaves of fire;-saw the shoreless, cloudless, marvellous double-circling azure of perfect summer days--twin glories of infinite deeps inter-reflected, while the soul of the world lay still, suffused with a jewel-light, as of vaporized sapphire;-saw the sea shift color,--"change sheets,"--when the viewless wizard of the wind breathed upon its face, and made it green;-saw the immeasurable panics,--noiseless, scintillant,--which silver, summer after summer, curved leagues of beach with bodies of little fish--the yearly massacre of migrating populations, nations of sea-trout, driven from their element by terror;--and the winnowing of shark-fins,--and the rushing of porpoises,--and the rising of the grande-ecaille, like a pillar of flame,--and the diving and pitching and fighting of the frigates and the gulls,--and the armored hordes of crabs swarming out to clear the slope after the carnage and the gorging had been done;-saw the dreams of the sky,--scudding mockeries of ridged foam,--and shadowy stratification of capes and coasts and promontories long-drawn out,--and imageries, multicolored, of mountain frondage, and sierras whitening above sierras,--and phantom islands ringed around with lagoons of glory;-saw the toppling and smouldering of cloud-worlds after the enormous conflagration of sunsets,--incandescence ruining into darkness; and after it a moving and climbing of stars among the blacknesses,--like searching lamps;-saw the deep kindle countless ghostly candles as for mysterious night-festival,--and a luminous billowing under a black sky, and effervescences of fire, and the twirling and crawling of phosphoric foam;-saw the mesmerism of the moon;--saw the enchanted tides self-heaped in muttering obeisance before her. often she heard the music of the marsh through the night: an infinity of flutings and tinklings made by tiny amphibia,--like the low blowing of numberless little tin horns, the clanking of billions of little bells;--and, at intervals, profound tones, vibrant and heavy, as of a bass viol--the orchestra of the great frogs! and interweaving with it all, one continuous shrilling,--keen as the steel speech of a saw,--the stridulous telegraphy of crickets. but always,--always, dreaming or awake, she heard the huge blind sea chanting that mystic and eternal hymn, which none may hear without awe, which no musician can learn,-heard the hoary preacher,--el pregonador,--preaching the ancient word, the word "as a fire, and as a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces,"--the elohim--word of the sea! ... unknowingly she came to know the immemorial sympathy of the mind with the soul of the world,--the melancholy wrought by its moods of gray, the reverie responsive to its vagaries of mist, the exhilaration of its vast exultings--days of windy joy, hours of transfigured light. she felt,--even without knowing it,--the weight of the silences, the solemnities of sky and sea in these low regions where all things seem to dream--waters and grasses with their momentary wavings,--woods gray-webbed with mosses that drip and drool,--horizons with their delusions of vapor,--cranes meditating in their marshes,--kites floating in the high blue.... even the children were singularly quiet; and their play less noisy--though she could not have learned the difference--than the play of city children. hour after hour, the women sewed or wove in silence. and the brown men,--always barefooted, always wearing rough blue shirts,--seemed, when they lounged about the wharf on idle days, as if they had told each other long ago all they knew or could ever know, and had nothing more to say. they would stare at the flickering of the current, at the drifting of clouds and buzzard:--seldom looking at each other, and always turning their black eyes again, in a weary way, to sky or sea. even thus one sees the horses and the cattle of the coast, seeking the beach to escape the whizzing flies;--all watch the long waves rolling in, and sometimes turn their heads a moment to look at one another, but always look back to the waves again, as if wondering at a mystery.... how often she herself had wondered--wondered at the multiform changes of each swell as it came in--transformations of tint, of shape, of motion, that seemed to betoken a life infinitely more subtle than the strange cold life of lizards and of fishes,--and sinister, and spectral. then they all appeared to move in order,--according to one law or impulse;--each had its own voice, yet all sang one and the same everlasting song. vaguely, as she watched them and listened to them, there came to her the idea of a unity of will in their motion, a unity of menace in their utterance--the idea of one monstrous and complex life! the sea lived: it could crawl backward and forward; it could speak!--it only feigned deafness and sightlessness for some malevolent end. thenceforward she feared to find herself alone with it. was it not at her that it strove to rush, muttering, and showing its white teeth, ... just because it knew that she was all by herself? ... si quieres aprender a orar, entra en el mar! and concha had well learned to pray. but the sea seemed to her the one power which god could not make to obey him as he pleased. saying the creed one day, she repeated very slowly the opening words,--"creo en un dios, padre todopoderoso, criador de cielo y de la tierra,"--and paused and thought. creator of heaven and earth? "madrecita carmen," she asked,--"quien entonces hizo el mar?" (who then made the sea?). --"dios, mi querida," answered carmen.--"god, my darling.... all things were made by him" (todas las cosas fueron hechas por el). even the wicked sea! and he had said unto it: "thus far, and no farther." ... was that why it had not overtaken and devoured her when she ran back in fear from the sudden reaching out of its waves? thus far....? but there were times when it disobeyed--when it rushed further, shaking the world! was it because god was then asleep--could not hear, did not see, until too late? and the tumultuous ocean terrified her more and more: it filled her sleep with enormous nightmare;--it came upon her in dreams, mountain-shadowing,--holding her with its spell, smothering her power of outcry, heaping itself to the stars. carmen became alarmed;--she feared that the nervous and delicate child might die in one of those moaning dreams out of which she had to arouse her, night after night. but feliu, answering her anxiety with one of his favorite proverbs, suggested a heroic remedy:---"the world is like the sea: those who do not know how to swim in it are drowned;--and the sea is like the world," he added.... "chita must learn to swim!" and he found the time to teach her. each morning, at sunrise, he took her into the water. she was less terrified the first time than carmen thought she would be;--she seemed to feel confidence in feliu; although she screamed piteously before her first ducking at his hands. his teaching was not gentle. he would carry her out, perched upon his shoulder, until the water rose to his own neck; and there he would throw her from him, and let her struggle to reach him again as best she could. the first few mornings she had to be pulled out almost at once; but after that feliu showed her less mercy, and helped her only when he saw she was really in danger. he attempted no other instruction until she had learned that in order to save herself from being half choked by the salt water, she must not scream; and by the time she became habituated to these austere experiences, she had already learned by instinct alone how to keep herself afloat for a while, how to paddle a little with her hands. then he commenced to train her to use them,--to lift them well out and throw them forward as if reaching, to dip them as the blade of an oar is dipped at an angle, without loud splashing;--and he showed her also how to use her feet. she learned rapidly and astonishingly well. in less than two months feliu felt really proud at the progress made by his tiny pupil: it was a delight to watch her lifting her slender arms above the water in swift, easy curves, with the same fine grace that marked all her other natural motions. later on he taught her not to fear the sea even when it growled a little,--how to ride a swell, how to face a breaker, how to dive. she only needed practice thereafter; and carmen, who could also swim, finding the child's health improving marvellously under this new discipline, took good care that chita should practice whenever the mornings were not too cold, or the water too rough. with the first thrill of delight at finding herself able to glide over the water unassisted, the child's superstitious terror of the sea passed away. even for the adult there are few physical joys keener than the exultation of the swimmer;--how much greater the same glee as newly felt by an imaginative child,--a child, whose vivid fancy can lend unutterable value to the most insignificant trifles, can transform a weed-patch to an eden! ... of her own accord she would ask for her morning bath, as soon as she opened her eyes;--it even required some severity to prevent her from remaining in the water too long. the sea appeared to her as something that had become tame for her sake, something that loved her in a huge rough way; a tremendous playmate, whom she no longer feared to see come bounding and barking to lick her feet. and, little by little, she also learned the wonderful healing and caressing power of the monster, whose cool embrace at once dispelled all drowsiness, feverishness, weariness,--even after the sultriest nights when the air had seemed to burn, and the mosquitoes had filled the chamber with a sound as of water boiling in many kettles. and on mornings when the sea was in too wicked a humor to be played with, how she felt the loss of her loved sport, and prayed for calm! her delicate constitution changed;--the soft, pale flesh became firm and brown, the meagre limbs rounded into robust symmetry, the thin cheeks grew peachy with richer life; for the strength of the sea had entered into her; the sharp breath of the sea had renewed and brightened her young blood.... ... thou primordial sea, the awfulness of whose antiquity hath stricken all mythology dumb;--thou most wrinkled diving sea, the millions of whose years outnumber even the multitude of thy hoary motions;--thou omniform and most mysterious sea, mother of the monsters and the gods,--whence shine eternal youth? still do thy waters hold the infinite thrill of that spirit which brooded above their face in the beginning!--still is thy quickening breath an elixir unto them that flee to thee for life,--like the breath of young girls, like the breath of children, prescribed for the senescent by magicians of old,--prescribed unto weazened elders in the books of the wizards. iii ... eighteen hundred and sixty-seven;--midsummer in the pest-smitten city of new orleans. heat motionless and ponderous. the steel-blue of the sky bleached from the furnace-circle of the horizon;--the lukewarm river ran yellow and noiseless as a torrent of fluid wax. even sounds seemed blunted by the heaviness of the air;--the rumbling of wheels, the reverberation of footsteps, fell half-toned upon the ear, like sounds that visit a dozing brain. daily, almost at the same hour, the continuous sense of atmospheric oppression became thickened;--a packed herd of low-bellying clouds lumbered up from the gulf; crowded blackly against the sun; flickered, thundered, and burst in torrential rain--tepid, perpendicular--and vanished utterly away. then, more furiously than before, the sun flamed down;--roofs and pavements steamed; the streets seemed to smoke; the air grew suffocating with vapor; and the luminous city filled with a faint, sickly odor,--a stale smell, as of dead leaves suddenly disinterred from wet mould,--as of grasses decomposing after a flood. something saffron speckled the slimy water of the gutters; sulphur some called it; others feared even to give it a name! was it only the wind-blown pollen of some innocuous plant? i do not know; but to many it seemed as if the invisible destruction were scattering visible seed! ... such were the days; and each day the terror-stricken city offered up its hecatomb to death; and the faces of all the dead were yellow as flame! "decede--"; "decedee--"; "fallecio;"--"died." ... on the door-posts, the telegraph-poles, the pillars of verandas, the lamps,--over the government letter-boxes,--everywhere glimmered the white annunciations of death. all the city was spotted with them. and lime was poured into the gutters; and huge purifying fires were kindled after sunset. the nights began with a black heat;--there were hours when the acrid air seemed to ferment for stagnation, and to burn the bronchial tubing;--then, toward morning, it would grow chill with venomous vapors, with morbific dews,--till the sun came up to lift the torpid moisture, and to fill the buildings with oven-glow. and the interminable procession of mourners and hearses and carriages again began to circulate between the centres of life and of death;--and long trains and steamships rushed from the port, with heavy burden of fugitives. wealth might flee; yet even in flight there was peril. men, who might have been saved by the craft of experienced nurses at home, hurriedly departed in apparent health, unconsciously carrying in their blood the toxic principle of a malady unfamiliar to physicians of the west and north;--and they died upon their way, by the road-side, by the river-banks, in woods, in deserted stations, on the cots of quarantine hospitals. wiser those who sought refuge in the purity of the pine forests, or in those near gulf islands, whence the bright sea-breath kept ever sweeping back the expanding poison into the funereal swamps, into the misty lowlands. the watering-resorts became overcrowded;--then the fishing villages were thronged,--at least all which were easy to reach by steamboat or by lugger. and at last, even viosca's point,--remote and unfamiliar as it was,--had a stranger to shelter: a good old gentleman named edwards, rather broken down in health--who came as much for quiet as for sea-air, and who had been warmly recommended to feliu by captain harris. for some years he had been troubled by a disease of the heart. certainly the old invalid could not have found a more suitable place so far as rest and quiet were concerned. the season had early given such little promise that several men of the point betook themselves elsewhere; and the aged visitor had two or three vacant cabins from among which to select a dwelling-place. he chose to occupy the most remote of all, which carmen furnished for him with a cool moss bed and some necessary furniture,--including a big wooden rocking-chair. it seemed to him very comfortable thus. he took his meals with the family, spent most of the day in his own quarters, spoke very little, and lived so unobtrusively and inconspicuously that his presence in the settlement was felt scarcely more than that of some dumb creature,--some domestic animal,--some humble pet whose relation to the family is only fully comprehended after it has failed to appear for several days in its accustomed place of patient waiting,--and we know that it is dead. iv. persistently and furiously, at half-past two o'clock of an august morning, sparicio rang dr. la brierre's night-bell. he had fifty dollars in his pocket, and a letter to deliver. he was to earn another fifty dollars--deposited in feliu's hands,--by bringing the doctor to viosca's point. he had risked his life for that money,--and was terribly in earnest. julien descended in his under-clothing, and opened the letter by the light of the hall lamp. it enclosed a check for a larger fee than he had ever before received, and contained an urgent request that he would at once accompany sparicio to viosca's point,--as the sender was in hourly danger of death. the letter, penned in a long, quavering hand, was signed,--"henry edwards." his father's dear old friend! julien could not refuse to go,--though he feared it was a hopeless case. angina pectoris,--and a third attack at seventy years of age! would it even be possible to reach the sufferer's bedside in time? "due giorno,--con vento,"--said sparicio. still, he must go; and at once. it was friday morning;--might reach the point saturday night, with a good wind ... he roused his housekeeper, gave all needful instructions, prepared his little medicine-chest;--and long before the first rose-gold fire of day had flashed to the city spires, he was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in the tiny cabin of a fishing-sloop. ... for eleven years julien had devoted himself, heart and soul, to the exercise of that profession he had first studied rather as a polite accomplishment than as a future calling. in the unselfish pursuit of duty he had found the only possible consolation for his irreparable loss; and when the war came to sweep away his wealth, he entered the struggle valorously, not to strive against men, but to use his science against death. after the passing of that huge shock, which left all the imposing and splendid fabric of southern feudalism wrecked forever, his profession stood him in good stead;--he found himself not only able to supply those personal wants he cared to satisfy, but also to alleviate the misery of many whom he had known in days of opulence;--the princely misery that never doffed its smiling mask, though living in secret, from week to week, on bread and orange-leaf tea;--the misery that affected condescension in accepting an invitation to dine,--staring at the face of a watch (refused by the mont-de-piete) with eyes half blinded by starvation;--the misery which could afford but one robe for three marriageable daughters,--one plain dress to be worn in turn by each of them, on visiting days;--the pretty misery--young, brave, sweet,--asking for a "treat" of cakes too jocosely to have its asking answered,--laughing and coquetting with its well-fed wooers, and crying for hunger after they were gone. often and often, his heart had pleaded against his purse for such as these, and won its case in the silent courts of self. but ever mysteriously the gift came,--sometimes as if from the hand of a former slave; sometimes as from a remorseful creditor, ashamed to write his name. only yellow victorine knew; but the doctor's housekeeper never opened those sphinx-lips of hers, until years after the doctor's name had disappeared from the city directory... he had grown quite thin,--a little gray. the epidemic had burthened him with responsibilities too multifarious and ponderous for his slender strength to bear. the continual nervous strain of abnormally protracted duty, the perpetual interruption of sleep, had almost prostrated even his will. now he only hoped that, during this brief absence from the city, he might find renewed strength to do his terrible task. mosquitoes bit savagely; and the heat became thicker;--and there was yet no wind. sparicio and his hired boy carmelo had been walking backward and forward for hours overhead,--urging the vessel yard by yard, with long poles, through the slime of canals and bayous. with every heavy push, the weary boy would sigh out,--"santo antonio!--santo antonio!" sullen sparicio himself at last burst into vociferations of ill-humor:--"santo antonio?--ah! santissimu e santu diavulu! ... sacramentu paescite vegnu un asidente!--malidittu lu signuri!" all through the morning they walked and pushed, trudged and sighed and swore; and the minutes dragged by more wearily than the shuffling of their feet. "managgia cristo co tutta a croce!" ... "santissimu e santu diavulu!" ... but as they reached at last the first of the broad bright lakes, the heat lifted, the breeze leaped up, the loose sail flapped and filled; and, bending graciously as a skater, the old san marco began to shoot in a straight line over the blue flood. then, while the boy sat at the tiller, sparicio lighted his tiny charcoal furnace below, and prepared a simple meal,--delicious yellow macaroni, flavored with goats' cheese; some fried fish, that smelled appetizingly; and rich black coffee, of oriental fragrance and thickness. julien ate a little, and lay down to sleep again. this time his rest was undisturbed by the mosquitoes; and when he woke, in the cooling evening, he felt almost refreshed. the san marco was flying into barataria bay. already the lantern in the lighthouse tower had begun to glow like a little moon; and right on the rim of the sea, a vast and vermilion sun seemed to rest his chin. gray pelicans came flapping around the mast;--sea-birds sped hurtling by, their white bosoms rose-flushed by the western glow ... again sparicio's little furnace was at work,--more fish, more macaroni, more black coffee; also a square-shouldered bottle of gin made its appearance. julien ate less sparingly at this second meal; and smoked a long time on deck with sparicio, who suddenly became very good-humored, and chatted volubly in bad spanish, and in much worse english. then while the boy took a few hours' sleep, the doctor helped delightedly in maneuvering the little vessel. he had been a good yachtsman in other years; and sparicio declared he would make a good fisherman. by midnight the san marco began to run with a long, swinging gait;--she had reached deep water. julien slept soundly; the steady rocking of the sloop seemed to soothe his nerves. --"after all," he thought to himself, as he rose from his little bunk next morning,--"something like this is just what i needed." ... the pleasant scent of hot coffee greeted him;--carmelo was handing him the tin cup containing it, down through the hatchway. after drinking it he felt really hungry;--he ate more macaroni than he had ever eaten before. then, while sparicio slept, he aided carmelo; and during the middle of the day he rested again. he had not had so much uninterrupted repose for many a week. he fancied he could feel himself getting strong. at supper-time it seemed to him he could not get enough to eat,--although there was plenty for everybody. all day long there had been exactly the same wave-crease distorting the white shadow of the san marco's sail upon the blue water;--all day long they had been skimming over the liquid level of a world so jewel-blue that the low green ribbon-strips of marsh land, the far-off fleeing lines of pine-yellow sand beach, seemed flaws or breaks in the perfected color of the universe;--all day long had the cloudless sky revealed through all its exquisite transparency that inexpressible tenderness which no painter and no poet can ever reimage,--that unutterable sweetness which no art of man may ever shadow forth, and which none may ever comprehend,--though we feel it to be in some strange way akin to the luminous and unspeakable charm that makes us wonder at the eyes of a woman when she loves. evening came; and the great dominant celestial tone deepened;--the circling horizon filled with ghostly tints,--spectral greens and grays, and pearl-lights and fish-colors ... carmelo, as he crouched at the tiller, was singing, in a low, clear alto, some tristful little melody. over the sea, behind them, lay, black-stretching, a long low arm of island-shore;--before them flamed the splendor of sun-death; they were sailing into a mighty glory,--into a vast and awful light of gold. shading his vision with his fingers, sparicio pointed to the long lean limb of land from which they were fleeing, and said to la brierre:---"look-a, doct-a! last-a islan'!" julien knew it;--he only nodded his head in reply, and looked the other way,--into the glory of god. then, wishing to divert the fisherman's attention to another theme, he asked what was carmelo singing. sparicio at once shouted to the lad:---"ha! ... ho! carmelo!--santu diavulu! ... sing-a loud-a! doct-a lik-a! sing-a! sing!" .... "he sing-a nicee,"--added the boatman, with his peculiar dark smile. and then carmelo sang, loud and clearly, the song he had been singing before,--one of those artless mediterranean ballads, full of caressing vowel-sounds, and young passion, and melancholy beauty:- "m'ama ancor, belta fulgente, come tu m'amasti allor;- ascoltar non dei gente, solo interroga il tuo cor." ... --"he sing-a nicee,--mucha bueno!" murmured the fisherman. and then, suddenly,--with a rich and splendid basso that seemed to thrill every fibre of the planking,--sparicio joined in the song:- "m'ama pur d'amore eterno, ne deilitto sembri a te; t'assicuro che l'inferno una favola sol e." ... all the roughness of the man was gone! to julien's startled fancy, the fishers had ceased to be;--lo! carmelo was a princely page; sparicio, a king! how perfectly their voices married together!--they sang with passion, with power, with truth, with that wondrous natural art which is the birthright of the rudest italian soul. and the stars throbbed out in the heaven; and the glory died in the west; and the night opened its heart; and the splendor of the eternities fell all about them. still they sang; and the san marco sped on through the soft gloom, ever slightly swerved by the steady blowing of the southeast wind in her sail;--always wearing the same crimpling-frill of wave-spray about her prow,--always accompanied by the same smooth-backed swells,--always spinning out behind her the same long trail of interwoven foam. and julien looked up. ever the night thrilled more and more with silent twinklings;--more and more multitudinously lights pointed in the eternities;--the evening star quivered like a great drop of liquid white fire ready to fall;--vega flamed as a pharos lighting the courses ethereal,--to guide the sailing of the suns, and the swarming of fleets of worlds. then the vast sweetness of that violet night entered into his blood,--filled him with that awful joy, so near akin to sadness, which the sense of the infinite brings,--when one feels the poetry of the most ancient and most excellent of poets, and then is smitten at once with the contrast-thought of the sickliness and selfishness of man,--of the blindness and brutality of cities, whereinto the divine blue light never purely comes, and the sanctification of the silences never descends ... furious cities, walled away from heaven ... oh! if one could only sail on thus always, always through such a night--through such a star-sprinkled violet light, and hear sparicio and carmelo sing, even though it were the same melody always, always the same song! ... "scuza, doct-a!--look-a out!" julien bent down, as the big boom, loosened, swung over his head. the san marco was rounding into shore,--heading for her home. sparicio lifted a huge conch-shell from the deck, put it to his lips, filled his deep lungs, and flung out into the night--thrice--a profound, mellifluent, booming horn-tone. a minute passed. then, ghostly faint, as an echo from very far away, a triple blowing responded... and a long purple mass loomed and swelled into sight, heightened, approached--land and trees black-shadowing, and lights that swung ... the san marco glided into a bayou,--under a high wharfing of timbers, where a bearded fisherman waited, and a woman. sparicio flung up a rope. the bearded man caught it by the lantern-light, and tethered the san marco to her place. then he asked, in a deep voice: --"has traido al doctor?" --"si, si!" answered sparicio... "y el viejo?" --"aye! pobre!" responded feliu,--"hace tres dias que esta muerto." henry edwards was dead! he had died very suddenly, without a cry or a word, while resting in his rocking-chair,--the very day after sparicio had sailed. they had made him a grave in the marsh,--among the high weeds, not far from the ruined tomb of the spanish fisherman. but sparicio had fairly earned his hundred dollars. v. so there was nothing to do at viosca's point except to rest. feliu and all his men were going to barataria in the morning on business;--the doctor could accompany them there, and take the grand island steamer monday for new orleans. with this intention julien retired,--not sorry for being able to stretch himself at full length on the good bed prepared for him, in one of the unoccupied cabins. but he woke before day with a feeling of intense prostration, a violent headache, and such an aversion for the mere idea of food that feliu's invitation to breakfast at five o'clock gave him an internal qualm. perhaps a touch of malaria. in any case he felt it would be both dangerous and useless to return to town unwell; and feliu, observing his condition, himself advised against the journey. wednesday he would have another opportunity to leave; and in the meanwhile carmen would take good care of him ... the boats departed, and julien slept again. the sun was high when he rose up and dressed himself, feeling no better. he would have liked to walk about the place, but felt nervously afraid of the sun. he did not remember having ever felt so broken down before. he pulled a rocking-chair to the window, tried to smoke a cigar. it commenced to make him feel still sicker, and he flung it away. it seemed to him the cabin was swaying, as the san marco swayed when she first reached the deep water. a light rustling sound approached,--a sound of quick feet treading the grass: then a shadow slanted over the threshold. in the glow of the open doorway stood a young girl,--gracile, tall,--with singularly splendid eyes,--brown eyes peeping at him from beneath a golden riot of loose hair. --"m'sieu-le-docteur, maman d'mande si vous n'avez besoin d'que'que chose?" ... she spoke the rude french of the fishing villages, where the language lives chiefly as a baragouin, mingled often with words and forms belonging to many other tongues. she wore a loose-falling dress of some light stuff, steel-gray in color;--boys' shoes were on her feet. he did not reply;--and her large eyes grew larger for wonder at the strange fixed gaze of the physician, whose face had visibly bleached,--blanched to corpse-pallor. silent seconds passed; and still the eyes stared--flamed as if the life of the man had centralized and focussed within them. his voice had risen to a cry in his throat, quivered and swelled one passionate instant, and failed--as in a dream when one strives to call, and yet can only moan ... she! her unforgotten eyes, her brows, her lips!--the oval of her face!--the dawn-light of her hair! ... adele's own poise,--her own grace!--even the very turn of her neck, even the bird-tone of her speech! ... had the grave sent forth a shadow to haunt him?--could the perfidious sea have yielded up its dead? for one terrible fraction of a minute, memories, doubts, fears, mad fancies, went pulsing through his brain with a rush like the rhythmic throbbing of an electric stream;--then the shock passed, the reason spoke:--"fool!--count the long years since you first saw her thus!--count the years that have gone since you looked upon her last! and time has never halted, silly heart!--neither has death stood still!" ... "plait-il?"--the clear voice of the young girl asked. she thought he had made some response she could not distinctly hear. mastering himself an instant, as the heart faltered back to its duty, and the color remounted to his lips, he answered her in french:-"pardon me!--i did not hear ... you gave me such a start!" ... but even then another extraordinary fancy flashed through his thought;--and with the tutoiement of a parent to a child, with an irresistible outburst of such tenderness as almost frightened her, he cried: "oh! merciful god!--how like her! ... tell me, darling, your name; ... tell me who you are?" (dis-moi qui tu es, mignonne;--dis-moi ton nom.) ... who was it had asked her the same question, in another idiom ever so long ago? the man with the black eyes and nose like an eagle's beak,--the one who gave her the compass. not this man--no! she answered, with the timid gravity of surprise:---"chita viosca" he still watched her face, and repeated the name slowly,--reiterated it in a tone of wonderment:--"chita viosca?--chita viosca!" --"c'est a dire ..." she said, looking down at her feet,--"concha--conchita." his strange solemnity made her smile,--the smile of shyness that knows not what else to do. but it was the smile of dead adele. --"thanks, my child," he exclaimed of a sudden,--in a quick, hoarse, changed tone. (he felt that his emotion would break loose in some wild way, if he looked upon her longer.) "i would like to see your mother this evening; but i now feel too ill to go out. i am going to try to rest a little." --"nothing i can bring you?" she asked,--"some fresh milk?" --"nothing now, dear: if i need anything later, i will tell your mother when she comes." --"mamma does not understand french very well." --"no importa, conchita;--le hablare en espanol." --"bien, entonces!" she responded, with the same exquisite smile. "adios, senor!" ... but as she turned in going, his piercing eye discerned a little brown speck below the pretty lobe of her right ear,--just in the peachy curve between neck and cheek.... his own little zouzoune had a birthmark like that!--he remembered the faint pink trace left by his fingers above and below it the day he had slapped her for overturning his ink bottle ... "to laimin moin?--to batte moin!" "chita!--chita!" she did not hear ... after all, what a mistake he might have made! were not nature's coincidences more wonderful than fiction? better to wait,--to question the mother first, and thus make sure. still--there were so many coincidences! the face, the smile, the eyes, the voice, the whole charm;--then that mark,--and the fair hair. zouzoune had always resembled adele so strangely! that golden hair was a scandinavian bequest to the florane family;--the tall daughter of a norwegian sea captain had once become the wife of a florane. viosca?--who ever knew a viosca with such hair? yet again, these spanish emigrants sometimes married blonde german girls ... might be a case of atavism, too. who was this viosca? if that was his wife,--the little brown carmen,--whence chita's sunny hair? ... and this was part of that same desolate shore whither the last island dead had been drifted by that tremendous surge! on a clear day, with a good glass, one might discern from here the long blue streak of that ghastly coast ... somewhere--between here and there ... merciful god! ... ... but again! that bivouac-night before the fight at chancellorsville, laroussel had begun to tell him such a singular story ... chance had brought them,--the old enemies,--together; made them dear friends in the face of death. how little he had comprehended the man!--what a brave, true, simple soul went up that day to the lord of battles! ... what was it--that story about the little creole girl saved from last island,--that story which was never finished? ... eh! what a pain! evidently he had worked too much, slept too little. a decided case of nervous prostration. he must lie down, and try to sleep. these pains in the head and back were becoming unbearable. nothing but rest could avail him now. he stretched himself under the mosquito curtain. it was very still, breathless, hot! the venomous insects were thick;--they filled the room with a continuous ebullient sound, as if invisible kettles were boiling overhead. a sign of storm.... still, it was strange!--he could not perspire ... then it seemed to him that laroussel was bending over him--laroussel in his cavalry uniform. "bon jour, camarade!--nous allons avoir un bien mauvais temps, mon pauvre julien." how! bad weather?--"comment un mauvais temps?" ... he looked in laroussel's face. there was something so singular in his smile. ah! yes,--he remembered now: it was the wound! ... "un vilain temps!" whispered laroussel. then he was gone ... whither? --"cheri!" ... the whisper roused him with a fearful start ... adele's whisper! so she was wont to rouse him sometimes in the old sweet nights,--to crave some little attention for ailing eulalie,--to make some little confidence she had forgotten to utter during the happy evening ... no, no! it was only the trees. the sky was clouding over. the wind was rising ... how his heart beat! how his temples pulsed! why, this was fever! such pains in the back and head! still his skin was dry,--dry as parchment,--burning. he rose up; and a bursting weight of pain at the base of the skull made him reel like a drunken man. he staggered to the little mirror nailed upon the wall, and looked. how his eyes glowed;--and there was blood in his mouth! he felt his pulse spasmodic, terribly rapid. could it possibly--? ... no: this must be some pernicious malarial fever! the creole does not easily fall a prey to the great tropical malady,--unless after a long absence in other climates. true! he had been four years in the army! but this was 1867 ... he hesitated a moment; then,--opening his medicine chest, he measured out and swallowed thirty grains of quinine. then he lay down again. his head pained more and more;--it seemed as if the cervical vertebrae were filled with fluid iron. and still his skin remained dry as if tanned. then the anguish grew so intense as to force a groan with almost every aspiration ... nausea,--and the stinging bitterness of quinine rising in his throat;--dizziness, and a brutal wrenching within his stomach. everything began to look pink;--the light was rose-colored. it darkened more,--kindled with deepening tint. something kept sparkling and spinning before his sight, like a firework ... then a burst of blood mixed with chemical bitterness filled his mouth; the light became scarlet as claret ... this--this was ... not malaria ... vi. ... carmen knew what it was; but the brave little woman was not afraid of it. many a time before she had met it face to face, in havanese summers; she knew how to wrestle with it; she had torn feliu's life away from its yellow clutch, after one of those long struggles that strain even the strength of love. now she feared mostly for chita. she had ordered the girl under no circumstances to approach the cabin. julien felt that blankets had been heaped upon him,--that some gentle hand was bathing his scorching face with vinegar and water. vaguely also there came to him the idea that it was night. he saw the shadow-shape of a woman moving against the red light upon the wall;--he saw there was a lamp burning. then the delirium seized him: he moaned, sobbed, cried like a child,--talked wildly at intervals in french, in english, in spanish. --"mentira!--you could not be her mother ... still, if you were--and she must not come in here,--jamais! ... carmen, did you know adele,--adele florane? so like her,--so like,--god only knows how like! ... perhaps i think i know;--but i do not--do not know justly, fully--how like! ... si! si!--es el vomito!--yo lo conozco, carmen! ... she must not die twice ... i died twice ... i am going to die again. she only once. till the heavens be no more she will not rise ... moi, au contraire, il faut que je me leve toujours! they need me so much;--the slate is always full; the bell will never stop. they will ring that bell for me when i am dead ... so will i rise again!--resurgam! ... how could i save him?--could not save myself. it was a bad case,--at seventy years! ... there! qui ca?" ... he saw laroussel again,--reaching out a hand to him through a whirl of red smoke. he tried to grasp it, and could not ... "n'importe, mon ami," said laroussel,--"tu vas la voir bientot." who was he to see soon?--"qui done, laroussel?" but laroussel did not answer. through the red mist he seemed to smile;--then passed. for some hours carmen had trusted she could save her patient,--desperate as the case appeared to be. his was one of those rapid and violent attacks, such as often despatch their victims in a single day. in the cuban hospitals she had seen many and many terrible examples: strong young men,--soldiers fresh from spain,--carried panting to the fever wards at sunrise; carried to the cemeteries at sunset. even troopers riddled with revolutionary bullets had lingered longer ... still, she had believed she might save julien's life: the burning forehead once began to bead, the burning hands grew moist. but now the wind was moaning;--the air had become lighter, thinner, cooler. a stone was gathering in the east; and to the fever-stricken man the change meant death ... impossible to bring the priest of the caminada now; and there was no other within a day's sail. she could only pray; she had lost all hope in her own power to save. still the sick man raved; but he talked to himself at longer intervals, and with longer pauses between his words;--his voice was growing more feeble, his speech more incoherent. his thought vacillated and distorted, like flame in a wind. weirdly the past became confounded with the present; impressions of sight and of sound interlinked in fastastic affinity,--the face of chita viosca, the murmur of the rising storm. then flickers of spectral lightning passed through his eyes, through his brain, with every throb of the burning arteries; then utter darkness came,--a darkness that surged and moaned, as the circumfluence of a shadowed sea. and through and over the moaning pealed one multitudinous human cry, one hideous interblending of shoutings and shriekings ... a woman's hand was locked in his own ... "tighter," he muttered, "tighter still, darling! hold as long as you can!" it was the tenth night of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six ... --"cheri!" again the mysterious whisper startled him to consciousness,--the dim knowledge of a room filled with ruby colored light,--and the sharp odor of vinegar. the house swung round slowly;--the crimson flame of the lamp lengthened and broadened by turns;--then everything turned dizzily fast,--whirled as if spinning in a vortex ... nausea unutterable; and a frightful anguish as of teeth devouring him within,--tearing more and more furiously at his breast. then one atrocious wrenching, rending, burning,--and the gush of blood burst from lips and nostrils in a smothering deluge. again the vision of lightnings, the swaying, and the darkness of long ago. "quick!--quick!--hold fast to the table, adele!--never let go!" ... ... up,--up,--up!--what! higher yet? up to the red sky! red--black-red ... heated iron when its vermilion dies. so, too, the frightful flood! and noiseless. noiseless because heavy, clammy,--thick, warm, sickening--blood? well might the land quake for the weight of such a tide!--why did adele speak spanish? who prayed for him? ... --"alma de cristo santisima santificame! "sangre de cristo, embriagame! "o buen jesus, oye me!" ... out of the darkness into--such a light! an azure haze! ah!--the delicious frost! ... all the streets were filled with the sweet blue mist ... voiceless the city and white;--crooked and weed grown its narrow ways! ... old streets of tombs, these ... eh! how odd a custom!--a night-bell at every door. yes, of course!--a night-bell!--the dead are physicians of souls: they may be summoned only by night,--called up from the darkness and silence ... yet she?--might he not dare to ring for her even by day? ........ strange he had deemed it day!--why, it was black, starless ... and it was growing queerly cold ...... how should he ever find her now? it was so black ... so cold! ... --"cheri!" all the dwelling quivered with the mighty whisper. outside, the great oaks were trembling to their roots;--all the shore shook and blanched before the calling of the sea. and carmen, kneeling at the feet of the dead, cried out, alone in the night:---"o jesus misericordioso!--tened compasion de el!" generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 58862-h.htm or 58862-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58862/58862-h/58862-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58862/58862-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b21935142_0004 project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58859 volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58860 volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58861 transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. iv. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, 116, high-street. 1805. * * * * * contents of volume iv. _page_ _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in 1797_ 1 _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in 1798_ 63 _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in 1799_ 89 _an account of sporadic cases of yellow fever, as they appeared in philadelphia in 1800_ 101 _an account of sporadic cases of yellow fever, as they appeared in philadelphia in 1801_ 109 _an account of the measles, as they appeared in philadelphia in 1801_ 115 _an account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in 1802_ 121 _an account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in 1803_ 131 _an account of sporadic cases of yellow fever, as they appeared in 1804_ 145 _an account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in 1805_ 151 _an inquiry into the various sources of the usual forms of the summer and autumnal disease in the united states, and the means of preventing them_ 161 _facts, intended to prove the yellow fever not to be contagious_ 221 _defence of blood-letting, as a remedy in certain diseases_ 273 _an inquiry into the comparative states of medicine in philadelphia, between the years 1760 and 1766, and 1805_ 363 * * * * * an account of the bilious remitting and intermitting _yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in 1797. the winter of 1797 was in general healthy. during the spring, which was cold and wet, no diseases of any consequence occurred. the spring vegetables were late in coming to maturity, and there were every where in the neighbourhood of philadelphia scanty crops of hay. in june and july there fell but little rain. dysenteries, choleras, scarlatina, and mumps, appeared in the suburbs in the latter month. on the 8th of july i visited mr. frisk, and on the 25th of the same month i visited mr. charles burrel in the yellow fever, in consultation with dr. physick. they both recovered by the use of plentiful depleting remedies. the weather from the 2d to the 9th of august was rainy. on the 1st of this month i was called to visit mr. nathaniel lewis, in a malignant bilious fever. on the 3d i visited mr. elisha hall, with the same disease. he had been ill several days before i saw him. both these gentlemen died on the 6th of the month. they were both very yellow after death. mr. hall had a black vomiting on the day he died. the news of the death of these two citizens, with unequivocal symptoms of yellow fever, excited a general alarm in the city. attempts were made to trace it to importation, but a little investigation soon proved that it was derived from the foul air of a ship which had just arrived from marseilles, and which discharged her cargo at pinestreet wharf, near the stores occupied by mr. lewis and mr. hall. many other persons about the same time were affected with the fever from the same cause, in water and penn-streets. about the middle of the month, a ship from hamburgh communicated the disease, by means of her foul air, to the village of kensington. it prevailed, moreover, in many instances in the suburbs, and in kensington, from putrid exhalations from gutters and marshy grounds, at a distance from the delaware, and from the foul ships which have been mentioned. proofs of the truth of each of these assertions were afterwards laid before the public. the disease was confined chiefly to the district of southwark and the village of kensington, for several weeks. in september and october, many cases occurred in the city, but most of them were easily traced to the above sources. the following account of the weather, during the months of august, september, and october was obtained from mr. thomas pryor. it is different from the weather in 1793. it is of consequence to attend to this fact, inasmuch as it shows that an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere can exist under different circumstances of the weather. it likewise accounts for the variety in the symptoms of the fever in different years and countries. such is the influence of season and climate upon the symptoms of this fever, that it led dr. m'kitterick to suppose that the yellow fever of charleston, so accurately described by dr. lining, in the second volume of the physical and literary essays of edinburgh, was a different disease from the yellow fever of the west-indies[1]. [1] de febre indiæ-occidentalis maligna flava, p. 12. meteorological observations, _made in philadelphia_. august, 1797. +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ |d.|ther.|barom.| winds and weather. | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ | 1|73|75|30 0|s. e. e. rain in the forenoon and afternoon. | | 2|72|76|30 0|n. e. by e. cloudy, with rain in the afternoon| | | | | | and night. wind e. by n. | | 3|72|78|30 6|e. 1/2 n. rain in the morning, and all day and| | | | | | night. | | 4|72|78|30 4|e. rained hard all day and at night. | | 5|74|79|29 84|wind light, s. w. cloudy. rain this morning. | | | | | | the air extremely damp; wind shifted | | | | | | to n. w. this evening heavy showers, | | | | | | with thunder. | | 6|73|76|30 86|w. n. w. cloudy. | | 7|70|76|30 4|n. w. close day. rain in the evening and | | | | | | all night. wind to e. | | 8|72|76|29 95|e. rain this morning. | | 9|72|76|29 86|s. w. cloudy morning. | |10|69|73|30 16|n. w. clear. | |11|70|74|30 25|n. w. clear. rain all night. | |12|71|74|30 5|s. w. cloudy. rain in the morning. cloudy | | | | | | all day. rain at night. | |13|73|75|29 87|s. w. cloudy. rain all day. | |14|70|74|29 9|n. w. clear fine morning. | |15|56|60|30 15|n. w. clear fine morning. | |16|60|64|30 24|n. w. clear fine morning. | |17|60|65|30 24|n. w. air damp. | |18|68|75|30 4|s. w. cloudy. rain, with thunder at night: | | | | | | a fine shower. | |19|72|78|29 7|n. w. clear. cloudy in the evening, with | | | | | | thunder. | |20|70|77|29 8|w. n. w. fine clear morning. | |21|74|76|29 9|n. w. clear to e. | |22|68|76| |e. small shower this morning. hard shower | | | | | | at 11, a. m. wind n. e. | |23|71|76|29 92|e. cloudy. at noon calm. | |24|71|75|29 95|calm morning and clear. | |25|70|75|30 5|n. e. clear. rain in the afternoon, with | | | | | | thunder. | |26|70|75|30 5|s. e. rain in the morning. rained hard in the | | | | | | night, with thunder, n. w. | |27|68|76|29 9|n. w. fine clear morning. | |28|64|75|29 96|n. w. clear. | |29|59|70|30 0|e. clear. | |30|70|76|30 1|e. by s. rain in the morning. | |31|68|74|30 14|s. e. cloudy. damp air and sultry. | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ september, 1797. +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ |d.|ther.|barom.| winds and weather. | +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ | 1|73|80|30 6|s. w. cloudy. damp air. rain in the morning | | 2|79|80|29 9|n. w. clear. cloudy in the evening, with | | | | | | lightning to the southward. | | 3|68|74|30 0|n. by w. cloudy. clear in the afternoon and | | | | | | night. | | 4|66|74|30 7|w. n. w. clear fine morning. | | 5|58|73|30 1|n. w. clear. cloudy in the evening. | | 6|58|72|30 13|fresh at e. clear. rain in the evening. | | 7|56|76|30 28|e. clear. cloudy in the evening. | | 8|54|65|30 1|n. e. clear and cool morning. flying clouds at| | | | | | noon. | | 9|56|65|30 1|e. n. e. clear. | |10|58|63|30 26|n. e. clear fine morning. wind fresh at n. e. | | | | | | all day. | |11|53|64|30 13|n. to e. with flying clouds. | |12|51|62|30 6|w. n. w. clear cool morning. | |13|56|67|30 3|s. w. cloudy. clear in the afternoon. | |14|64|70|29 98|s. w. clear. | |15|66|73|29 85|s. w. rain in the morning. cloudy in the | | | | | | afternoon. | |16|62|70|29 95|n. w. clear. | |17|56|67|30 0|n. w. clear. | |18|58|63|29 88|e. cloudy. rained all day, and thunder. | | | | |29 62| rained very heavy at night. | |19|55|63|29 75|w. n. w. clear fine morning. | |20|47|63|30 8|w. n. w. clear fine morning. new moon | | | | | | at 9 50 morning. | |21|46|60|30 0|n. e. clear fine morning; to s. e. in the | | | | | | evening. cloudy at night. | |22|56|65|30 4|n. w. rain in the morning. rain at night. | |23|56|66|30 0|n. n. e. cloudy. | |24|52|66|29 9|e. by s. clear fine morning. cloudy at night | | | | |29 78| | |25|56|68|29 37|w. n. w. clear fine morning; clear all day. | |26|58|68|29 95|e. in the morning flying clouds. | |27|48|63|30 2|n. w. clear fine morning; clear all day. | |28|48|63|30 2|w. n. w. clear fine morning; clear all day. | |29|54|63|30 15|e. clear fine morning. | |30|60|65|30 26|e. fresh. cloudy morning. rain in the night | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ october, 1797. +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ |d.|ther.|barom.| winds and weather. | +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ | 1|55|65|30 16|n. e. rain this morning, and great, part of | | | | | | the day. | | 2|55|66|30 0|n. w. clear. | | 3|60|70|29 9|s. e. clear. air damp. | | 4|60|70|29 5|w. n. w. rain this morning. | | 5|46|60|30 0|w. n. w. to s. by w. in the evening. clear | | | | | | all day. white frost this morning. | | 6|55|65|30 0|s. w. clear fine morning. white frost. | | 7|56|76|30 0|s. w. cloudy. rain in the night. | | 8|56|70|30 29|s. cloudy this morning; air damp. wind | | | | | | shifted to w. n. w. blows fresh. | | 9|50|60|29 85|w. n. w. clear morning. fresh at n. w. | | | | | | in the evening. | |10|40|58|30 1|w. n. w. clear. frost this morning. | |11|38|56|30 2|w. n. w. cloudy. | |12|34|52|30 38|w. n. w. clear. ice this morning. | |13|35|55|30 5|n. clear fine morning. ice this morning. | |14|40|60|30 28|n. e. cloudy. | |15|50|65|30 16|w. n. w. clear. | |16|36|56|30 2|w. n. w. clear fine morning. | |17|37|56|30 18|w. n. w. clear fine morning. | |18|47|60|29 86|w. n. w. clear fine weather. | |19|48|60|30 6|n. w. clear fine day. | |20|42|55|30 8|n. e. cloudy. rain in the afternoon and | | | | | | night. blows fresh at n. e. | |21|42|50|29 92|n. e. blows fresh (with a little rain). | | | | | | thunder in the night, with rain. | |22|44|56|29 57|n. w. rain in the morning. | |23|44|56|29 95|s. w. clear fine morning. | |24|42|54|30 5|n. e. cloudy. a great deal of rain in the | | | | | | night. | |25|40|52|30 15|n. e. clear fine morning. | |26|36|48|30 29|w. n. w. clear. | |27|34|46|30 23|fresh at s. w. clear. | |28|40|52|29 95|w. n. w. cloudy. | |29|34|46|29 82|w. cloudy. | |30|32|42|29 93|n. w. clear. hard frost this morning. | |31|38|48|30 18|w. s. w. cloudy part of this day; clear the | | | | | | remainder. | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ in addition to the register of the weather it may not be improper to add, that moschetoes were more numerous during the prevalence of the fever than in 1793. an unusual number of ants and cockroaches were likewise observed; and it was said that the martins and swallows disappeared, for a while, from the city and its neighbourhood. a disease prevailed among the cats some weeks before the yellow fever appeared in the city. it excited a belief in an unwholesome state of the atmosphere, and apprehensions of a sickly fall. it generally proved fatal to them. after the first week in september there were no diseases to be seen but yellow fever. in that part of the town which is between walnut and vine-streets it was uncommonly healthy. a similar retreat of inferior diseases has been observed to take place during the prevalence of the plague in london, holland, and germany, according to the histories of that disease by sydenham, diemerbroeck, sennertus, and hildanus. it appears, from the register of the weather, that it rained during the greatest part of the day on the 1st of october. the effects of this rain upon the disease shall be mentioned hereafter. on the 10th the weather became cool, and on the nights of the 12th and 13th of the month there was a frost accompanied with ice, which appeared to give a sudden and complete check to the disease. the reader will probably expect an account of the effects of this distressing epidemic upon the public mind. the terror of the citizens for a while was very great. rumours of an opposite and contradictory nature of the increase and mortality of the fever were in constant circulation. a stoppage was put to business, and it was computed that about two thirds of the inhabitants left the city. the legislature of the state early passed a law, granting 10,000 dollars for the relief of the sufferers by the fever. the citizens in and out of town, as also many of the citizens of our sister states, contributed more than that sum for the same charitable purpose. this money was issued by a committee appointed by the governor of the state. an hospital for the reception of the poor was established on the east side of the river schuylkill, and amply provided with every thing necessary for the accommodation of the sick. tents were likewise pitched on the east side of schuylkill, to which all those people were invited who were exposed to the danger of taking the disease, and who had not means to provide a more comfortable retreat for themselves in the country. i am sorry to add that the moral effects of the fever upon the minds of our citizens were confined chiefly to these acts of benevolence. many of the publications in the newspapers upon its existence, mode of cure, and origin partook of a virulent spirit, which ill accorded with the distresses of the city. it was a cause of lamentation likewise to many serious people, that the citizens in general were less disposed, than in 1793, to acknowledge the agency of a divine hand in their afflictions. in some a levity of mind appeared upon this solemn occasion. a worthy bookseller gave me a melancholy proof of this assertion, by informing me, that he had never been asked for playing cards so often, in the same time, as he had been during the prevalence of the fever. philadelphia was not the only place in the united states which suffered by the yellow fever. it prevailed, at the same time, at providence, in rhode-island, at norfolk, in virginia, at baltimore, and in many of the country towns of new-england, new-jersey, and pennsylvania. the influenza followed the yellow fever, as it did in the year 1793. it made its appearance in the latter end of october, and affected chiefly those citizens who had been out of town. the predisposing causes of the yellow fever, in the year 1797, were the same as in the year 1793. strangers were as usual most subject to it. the heat of the body in such persons, in the west-indies, has been found to be between three and four degrees above that of the temperature of the natives. this fact is taken notice of by dr. m'kitterick, and to this he ascribes, in part, the predisposition of new comers to the yellow fever. in addition to the common exciting causes of this disease formerly enumerated, i have only to add, that it was induced in one of my patients by smoking a segar. he had not been accustomed to the use of tobacco. i saw no new premonitory symptoms of this fever except a tooth-ach. it occurred in dr. physick, dr. caldwell, and in my pupil, mr. bellenger. in miss elliot there was such a soreness in her teeth, that she could hardly close her mouth on the day in which she was attacked by the fever. neither of these persons had taken mercury to obviate the disease. i shall now deliver a short account of the symptoms of the yellow fever, as they appeared in several of the different systems of the body. i. there was but little difference in the state of the pulse in this epidemic from what has been recorded in the fevers of 1793 and 1794. i perceived a pulse, in several cases, which felt like a soft quill which had been _shattered_ by being trodden upon. it occurred in dr. jones and dr. dobell, and in several other persons who had been worn down by great fatigue, and it was, in every instance, followed by a fatal issue of the fever. in dr. jones this state of the pulse was accompanied with such a difficulty of breathing, that every breath he drew, on the day of his attack, he informed me, was the effort of a sigh. he died on the 17th of september, and on the sixth day of his fever. the action of the arteries was, as usual, very irregular in many cases. in some there was a distressing throbbing of the vessels in the brain, and in one of my patients a similar sensation in the bowels, but without pain. many people had issues of blood from their blisters in this fever. i saw nothing new in the effects of the fever upon the liver, lungs, brain, nor upon the stomach and bowels. ii. the excretions were distinguished by no unusual marks. i met with no recoveries where there were not black stools. they excoriated the rectum in dr. way. it was a happy circumstance where morbid bilious matter came away in the beginning of the disease. but it frequently resisted the most powerful cathartics until the 5th or 7th day of the fever, at which time it appeared rather to yield to the disorganization of the liver than to medicine. where sufficient blood-letting had been previously used, the patient frequently recovered, even after the black discharges from the bowels took place in a late stage of the disease. dr. coxe informed me, that he attended a child of seventeen months old which had _white_ stools for several days. towards the close of its disease it had black stools, and soon afterwards died. several of my patients discharged worms during the fever. in one instance they were discharged from the mouth. a preternatural frequency in making pale water attended the first attack of the disease in mr. joseph fisher. a discharge of an unusual quantity of urine preceded, a few hours, the death of the daughter of mrs. read. in two of my patients there was a total suppression of urine. in one of them it continued five days without exciting any pain. there was no disposition to sweat after the first and second days of the fever. even in those states of the fever, in which the intermissions were most complete, there was seldom any moisture, or even softness on the skin. this was so characteristic of malignity in the bilious fever, that where i found the opposite state of the skin, towards the close of a paroxysm, i did not hesitate to encourage my patient, by assuring him that his fever was of a mild nature, and would most probably be safe in its issue. iii. i saw no unusual marks of the disease in the nervous system. the mind was seldom affected by delirium after the loss of blood. there was a disposition to shed tears in two of my patients. one of them wept during the whole time of a paroxysm of the fever. in one case i observed an uncommon dulness of apprehension, with no other mark of a diseased state of the mind. it was in a man whose faculties, in ordinary health, acted with celerity and vigour. dr. caldwell informed me of a singular change which took place in the operations of his mind during his recovery from the fever. his imagination carried him back to an early period of his life, and engaged him, for a day or two, in playing with a bow and arrow, and in amusements of which he had been fond when a boy. a similar change occurred in the mind of my former pupil, dr. fisher, during his convalescence from the yellow fever in 1793. he amused himself for two days in looking over the pictures of a family bible which lay in his room, and declared that he found the same kind of pleasure in this employment that he did when a child. however uninteresting these facts may now appear, the time will come when they may probably furnish useful hints for completing the physiology and pathology of the mind. where blood-letting had not been used, patients frequently died of convulsions. iv. the senses of seeing and feeling were impaired in several cases. mrs. bradford's vision was so weak that she hardly knew her friends at her bed-side. i had great pleasure in observing this alarming symptom suddenly yield to the loss of four ounces of blood. several persons who died of this fever did not, from the beginning to the end of the disease, feel any pain. i shall hereafter endeavour to explain the cause of this insensible state of the nerves. the appetite for food was unimpaired for three days in mr. andrew brown, at a time when his pulse indicated a high grade of the fever. i heard of several persons who ate with avidity just before they died. v. glandular swellings were very uncommon in this fever. i should have ascribed their absence to the copious use of depleting remedies in my practice, had i not been informed that morbid affections of the lymphatic glands were unknown in the city hospital, where blood-letting was seldom used, and where the patients, in many instances, died before they had time to take medicine of any kind. vi. the skin was cool, dry, smooth, and even shining in some cases. yellowness was not universal. those small red spots, which have been compared to moscheto bites, occurred in several of my patients. dr. john duffield, who acted as house surgeon and apothecary at the city hospital, informed me that he saw vibices on the skin in many cases, and that they were all more or less sore to the touch. vii. the blood was dissolved in a few cases. that appearance of the blood, which has been compared to the washings of flesh, was very common. it was more or less sizy towards the close of the disease in most cases. i have suspected, from this circumstance, that this mark of ordinary morbid action or inflammation was in part the effect of the mercury acting upon the blood-vessels. it is well known that sizy blood generally accompanies a salivation. if this conjecture be well founded, it will not militate against the use of mercury in malignant fevers, for it shows that this valuable medicine possesses a power of changing an extraordinary and dangerous degree of morbid action in the blood-vessels to that which is more common and safe. i have seldom seen a yellow fever terminate fatally after the appearance of sizy blood. dr. stewart informed me, that in those cases in which the serum of the blood had a yellow colour, it imparted a saline taste only to his tongue. he was the more struck with this fact, as he perceived a strong bitter state upon his skin, in a severe attack of the yellow fever in 1793. i proceed next to take notice of the type of the fever. in many cases, it appeared in the form of a remitting and intermitting fever. the quotidian and tertian forms were most common. in mr. robert wharton, it appeared in the form of a quartan. but it frequently assumed the character which is given of the same fever in charleston, by dr. lining. it came on without chills, and continued without any remission for three days, after which the patient believed himself to be well, and sometimes rose from his bed, and applied to business. on the fourth or fifth day, the fever returned, and unless copious evacuations had been used in the early stage of the disease, it generally proved fatal. sometimes the powers of the system were depressed below the return of active fever, and the patient sunk away by an easy death, without pain, heat, or a quick pulse. i have been much puzzled to distinguish a crisis of the fever on the third or fourth day, from the insidious appearance which has been described. it deceived me in 1793. it may be known by a preternatural coolness in the skin, and languor in the pulse, by an inability to sit up long without fatigue or faintness, by a dull eye, and by great depression of mind, or such a flow of spirits as sometimes to produce a declaration from the patient that "he feels too well." where these symptoms appear, the patient should be informed of his danger, and urged to the continuance of such remedies as are proper for him. the following states or forms were observable in the fever: 1. in a few cases, the miasmata produced death in four and twenty hours, with convulsions, coma, or apoplexy. 2. there were _open_ cases, in which the pulse was full and tense as in a pleurisy or rheumatism, from the beginning to the end of the fever. they were generally attended with a good deal of pain. 3. there were _depressed_ or _locked_ cases, in which there were a sense of great debility, but little or no pain, a depressed and slow pulse, a cool skin, cold hands and feet, and obstructed excretions. 4. there were _divided_ or _mixed_ cases, in which the pulse was active until the 4th day, after which it became depressed. all the other symptoms of the locked state of the fever accompanied this depressed state of the pulse. 5. there were cases in which the pulse imparted a perception like that of a soft and _shattered_ quill. i have before mentioned that this state of the pulse occurred in dr. jones and dr. dobell. i felt it but once, and on the day of his attack, in the latter gentleman, and expressed my opinion of his extreme danger to one of my pupils upon my return from visiting him. i did not meet with a case which terminated favourably, where i perceived this _shattered_ pulse. a disposition to sweat occurred in this state of the fever. 6. there were what dr. caldwell happily called _walking_ cases. the patients here were flushed or pale, had a full or tense pulse, but complained of no pain, had a good appetite, and walked about their rooms or houses, as if they were but little indisposed, until a day or two, and, in some instances, until a few hours before they died. we speak of a _dumb_ gout and _dumb_ rheumatism; with equal propriety, the epithet might be applied to this form of yellow fever in its early stage. the impression of the remote cause of the fever, in these cases, was beyond sensation, for, upon removing a part of it by bleeding or purging, the patients complained of pain, and the excitement of the muscles passed so completely into the blood-vessels and alimentary canal, as to convert the fever into a common and more natural form. these cases were always dangerous, and, when neglected, generally terminated in death. mr. brown's fever came on in this insidious shape. it was cured by the loss of upwards of 100 ounces of blood, and a plentiful salivation. 7. there was the _intermitting_ form in this fever. this, like the last, often deceived the patient, by leading him to suppose his disease was of a common or trifling nature. it prevented mr. richard smith from applying for medical aid in an attack of the fever for several days, by which means it made such an impression upon his viscera, that depleting remedies were in vain used to cure him. he died in the prime of life, beloved and lamented by a numerous circle of relations and friends. 8. there was a form of this fever in which it resembled the mild remittent of common seasons. it was distinguished from it chiefly by the black colour of the intestinal evacuations. 9. there were cases of this fever so light, that patients were said to be neither _sick_ nor _well_; or, in other words, they were sick and well half a dozen times in a day. such persons walked about, and transacted their ordinary business, but complained of dulness, and, occasionally, of shooting pains in their heads. sometimes the stomach was affected with sickness, and the bowels with diarrh[oe]a or costiveness. all of them complained of night sweats. the pulse was quicker than natural, but seldom had that convulsive action which constitutes fever. purges always brought away black stools from such patients, and this circumstance served to establish its relationship to the prevailing epidemic. now and then, by neglect or improper treatment, it assumed a higher and more dangerous grade of the fever, and became fatal, but it more commonly yielded to nature, or to a single dose of purging physic. 10. there were a few cases in which the skin was affected with universal yellowness, but without more pain or indisposition than usually occurs in the jaundice. they were very frequent in the year 1793, and generally prevail in the autumn, in all places subject to bilious fever. 11. there were _chronic_ cases of this fever. it is from the want of observation that physicians limit the duration of the yellow fever to certain days. i have seen many instances in which it has been protracted into what is called by authors a slow nervous fever. the wife of captain peter bell died with a black vomiting after an illness of nearly one month. dr. pinckard, formerly one of the physicians of the british army in the west-indies, in a late visit to this city informed me, that he had often seen the yellow fever put on a chronic form in the west-india islands. in delivering this detail of the various forms of the yellow fever, i am aware that i oppose the opinions of many of my medical brethren, who ascribe to it a certain uniform character, which is removed beyond the influence of climate, habit, predisposition, and the different strength and combinations of remote and exciting causes. this uniformity in the symptoms of this fever is said to exist in the west-indies, and every deviation from it in the united states is called by another name. the following communication, which i received from dr. pinckard, will show that this disease is as different in its forms in the west-indies as it is in this country. "the yellow fever, as it appeared among the troops in guiana and the west-india islands, in the years 1796 and 1797, exhibited such perpetual instability, and varied so incessantly in its character, that i could not discover any one symptom to be decidedly diagnostic; and hence i have been led into an opinion that the yellow fever, so called, is not a distinct or specific disease, but merely an aggravated degree of the common remittent or bilious fever of hot climates, rendered irregular in form, and augmented in malignity, from appearing in subjects unaccustomed to the climate. _philadelphia, january 12th, 1798._" many other authorities equally respectable with dr. pinckard's, among whom are pringle, huck, and hunter, might be adduced in support of the unity of bilious fever. but to multiply them further would be an act of homage to the weakness of human reason, and an acknowledgment of the infant state of our knowledge in medicine. as well might we suppose nature to be an artist, and that diseases were shaped by her like a piece of statuary, or a suit of clothes, by means of a chissel, or pair of scissars, as admit every different form and grade of morbid action in the system to be a distinct disease. notwithstanding the fever put on the eleven forms which have been described, the moderate cases were few, compared with those of a malignant and dangerous nature. it was upon this account that the mortality was greater in the same number of patients, who were treated with the same remedies, than it was in the years 1793 and 1794. the disease, moreover, partook of a more malignant character than the two epidemics that have been mentioned. the yellow fever in norfolk, drs. taylor and hansford informed me, in a letter i received from them, was much more malignant and fatal, under equal circumstances, than it was in 1795. there were evident marks of the disease attacking more persons three days before, and three days after the _full_ and _change_ of the moon, and of more deaths occurring at those periods than at any other time. the same thing has been remarked in the plague by diemerbroeck, in the fevers of bengal by dr. balfour, and in those of demarara by dr. pinckard. during the prevalence of the fever i attended the following persons who had been affected by the epidemic of 1793, viz. dr. physick, thomas leaming, thomas canby, samuel bradford, and george loxley, also mrs. eggar, who had a violent attack of it in the year 1794. samuel bradford was likewise affected by it in 1794. during my intercourse with the sick, i felt the miasmata of the fever operate upon my system in the most sensible manner. it produced languor, a pain in my head, and sickness at my stomach. a sighing attended me occasionally, for upwards of two weeks. this symptom left me suddenly, and was succeeded by a hoarseness, and, at times, with such a feebleness in my voice as to make speaking painful to me. having observed this affection of the trachea to be a precursor of the fever in several cases, it kept me under daily apprehensions of being confined by it. it gradually went off after the first of october. i ascribed my recovery from it, and a sudden diminution of the effects of the miasmata upon my system, to a change produced in the atmosphere by the rain which fell on that day. the peculiar matter emitted by the breath or perspiration of persons affected by this fever, induced a sneezing in dr. dobell, every time he went into a sick room. ambrose parey says the same thing occurred to him, upon entering the room of patients confined by the plague. the gutters emitted, in many places, a sulphureous smell during the prevalence of the fever. upon rubbing my hands together i could at any time excite a similar smell in them. i have taken notice of this effect of the matters which produced the disease upon the body, in the year 1794. in order to prevent an attack of the fever, i carefully avoided all its exciting causes. i reduced my diet, and lived sparingly upon tea, coffee, milk, and the common fruits and garden vegetables of the season, with a small quantity of salted meat, and smoked herring. my drinks were milk and water, weak claret and water, and weak porter and water. i sheltered myself as much as possible from the rays of the sun, and from the action of the evening air, and accommodated my dress to the changes in the temperature of the atmosphere. by similar means, i have reason to believe, many hundred people escaped the disease, who were constantly exposed to it. the number of deaths by the fever, in the months of august, september, and october, amounted to between ten and eleven hundred. in the list of the dead were nine practitioners of physic, several of whom were gentlemen of the most respectable characters. this number will be thought considerable when it is added, that not more than three or four and twenty physicians attended patients in the disease. of the survivors of that number, eight were affected with the fever. this extraordinary mortality and sickness among the physicians must be ascribed to their uncommon fatigue in attending upon the sick, and to their inability to command their time and labours, so as to avoid the exciting causes of the fever. among the medical gentlemen whose deaths have been mentioned, was my excellent friend, dr. nicholas way. i shall carry to my grave an affectionate remembrance of him. we passed our youth together in the study of medicine, and lived to the time of his death in the habits of the tenderest friendship. in the year 1794, he removed from wilmington, in the delaware state, to philadelphia, where his talents and manners soon introduced him into extensive business. his independent fortune furnished his friends with arguments to advise him to retire from the city, upon the first appearance of the fever. but his humanity prevailed over the dictates of interest and the love of life. he was active and intelligent in suggesting and executing plans to arrest the progress of the disease, and to lessen the distresses of the poor. on the 27th of august, he was seized, after a ride from the country in the evening air, with a chilly fit and fever. i saw him the next day, and advised the usual depleting remedies. he submitted to my prescriptions with reluctance, and in a sparing manner, from an opinion that his fever was nothing but a common remittent. to enforce obedience to my advice, i called upon dr. griffitts to visit him with me. our combined exertions to overcome his prejudices against our remedies were ineffectual. at two o'clock in the afternoon, on the sixth day of his disease, with an aching heart i saw the sweat of death upon his forehead, and felt his cold arm without a pulse. he spoke to me with difficulty: upon my rising from his bed-side to leave him, his eyes filled with tears, and his countenance spoke a language which i am unable to describe. i promised to return in a short time, with a view of attending the last scene of his life. immediately after i left his room, he wept aloud. i returned hastily to him, and found him in convulsions. he died a few hours afterwards. had i met with no other affliction in the autumn of 1797 than that which i experienced from this affecting scene, it would have been a severe one; but it was a part only of what i suffered from the death of other friends, and from the malice of enemies. i beg the reader's pardon for this digression. it shall be the last time and place in which any notice shall be taken of my sorrows and persecutions in the course of these volumes. soon after the citizens returned from the country, the governor of the state, mr. mifflin, addressed a letter to the college of physicians of philadelphia, requesting to know the origin, progress, and nature of the fever which had recently afflicted the city, and the means of preventing its return. he addressed a similar letter to me, to be communicated to such gentlemen of the faculty of medicine, as were not members of the college of physicians. the college, in a memorial to the legislature of the state, asserted that the fever had been imported in two ships, the one from havannah, the other from port au prince, and recommended, as the most effectual means of preventing its recurrence, a more rigid quarantine law. the gentlemen of the faculty of medicine, thirteen in number, in two letters to the governor of the state, the one in their private capacity, and the other after they had associated themselves into an "academy of medicine," asserted that the fever had originated from the putrid exhalations from the gutters and streets of the city, and from ponds and marshy grounds in its neighbourhood; also from the foul air of two ships, the one from marseilles and the other from hamburgh. they enumerated all the common sources of malignant fevers, and recommended the removal of them from the city, as the most effectual method of preventing the return of the fever. these sources of fever, and the various means of destroying them, shall be mentioned in another place. i proceed now to say a few words upon the treatment which was used in this fever. it was, in general, the same as that which was pursued in the fevers of 1793 and 1794. i began the cure, in most cases, by _bleeding_, when i was called on the first day of the disease, and was happy in observing its usual salutary effects in its early stage. on the second day, it frequently failed of doing service, and on the subsequent days of the fever, i believe, it often did harm; more especially if no other depleting remedy had preceded it. the violent action of the blood-vessels in this disease, when left to itself for two or three days, fills and suffocates the viscera with such an immense mass of blood, as to leave a quantity in the vessels so small, as barely to keep up the actions of life. by abstracting but a few ounces of this circulating blood, we precipitate death. in those cases where a doubt is entertained of such an engorgement of stagnating blood having taken place, it will always be safest to take but three or four ounces at a time, and to repeat it four or five times a day. by this mode of bleeding, we give the viscera an opportunity of emptying their superfluous blood into the vessels, and thereby prevent their collapsing, from the sudden abstraction of the stimulus which remained in them. i confine this observation upon bleeding, after the first stage of the disease, only to the epidemic of 1797. it was frequently effectual when used for the first time after the first and second days, in the fevers of 1793 and 1794, and it is often useful in the advanced stage of the common bilious fever. the different and contradictory accounts of the effects of bleeding in the yellow fever, in the west-indies, probably originate in its being used in different stages of the disease. dr. jackson, of the british army, in his late visit to philadelphia, informed me, that he had cured nineteen out of twenty of all the soldiers whom he attended, by copious bleeding, provided it was performed within six hours after the attack of the fever. beyond that period, it mitigated its force, but seldom cured. the quantity of blood drawn by the doctor, in this early stage of the disease, was always from twenty to thirty ounces. i have said the yellow fever of 1797 was more malignant than the fevers of 1793 and 1794. its resemblance to the yellow fever in the west-indies, in not yielding to bleeding after the first day, is a proof of this assertion. i was struck, during my attendance upon this fever, in observing the analogy between its _mixed_ form and the malignant state of the small-pox. the fever, in both, continues for three or four days without any remission. they both have a second stage, in which death usually takes place, if the diseases be left to themselves. by means of copious bleeding in their first, they are generally deprived of their malignity and mortality in their second stage. this remark, so trite in the small-pox, has been less attended to in the yellow fever. the bleeding in the first stage of this disease does not, it is true, destroy it altogether, any more than it destroys an eruption in the second stage of the small-pox, but it weakens it in such a manner that the patient passes through its second stage without pain or danger, and with no other aid from medicine than what is commonly derived from good nursing, proper aliment, and a little gently opening physic. it is common with those practitioners who object to bleeding in the yellow fever, to admit it occasionally in _robust_ habits. this rule leads to great error in practice. from the weak action of predisposing, or exciting causes, the disease often exists in a feeble state in such habits, while from the protracted or violent operation of the same causes, it appears in great force in persons of delicate constitutions. a physician, therefore, in prescribing for a patient in this fever, should forget the natural strength of his muscles, and accommodate the loss of blood wholly to the morbid strength of his disease. the quantity of blood drawn in this fever was always proportioned to its violence. i cured many by a single bleeding. a few required the loss of upwards of a hundred ounces of blood to cure them. the persons from whom that large quantity of blood was taken, were, messieurs andrew brown, horace hall, george cummins, j. ramsay, and george eyre. but i was not singular in the liberal and frequent use of the lancet. the following physicians drew the quantities of blood annexed to their respective names from the following persons, viz. dr. dewees 176 ounces from dr. physick, dr. griffitts 110 mr. s. thomson, dr. stewart 106 mrs. m'phail, dr. cooper 150 mr. david evans, dr. gillespie 103 himself. all the above named persons had a rapid and easy recovery, and now enjoy good health. i lost but one patient who had been the subject of early and copious bleeding. his death was evidently induced by a supper of beef-stakes and porter, after he had exhibited the most promising signs of convalescence. of purging. from the great difficulty that was found in discharging bile from the bowels, by the common modes of administering purges, dr. griffitts suggested to me the propriety of giving large doses of calomel, without jalap or any other purging medicine, in order to loosen the bile from its close connection with the gall-bladder and duodenum, during the first day of the disease. this method of discharging acrid bile was found useful. i observed the same relief from large evacuations of f[oe]tid bile, in the epidemic of 1797, that i have remarked in the fever of 1793. mr. bryce has taken notice of the same salutary effects from similar evacuations, in the yellow fever on board the busbridge indiaman, in the year 1792. his words are: "it was observable, that the more dark-coloured and f[oe]tid such discharges were, the more early and certainly did the symptoms disappear. their good effects were so instantaneous, that i have often seen a man carried up on deck, perfectly delirious with subsultus tendinum, and in a state of the greatest apparent debility, who, after one or two copious evacuations of this kind, has returned of himself, and astonished at his newly acquired strength[2]." very different are the effects of tonic remedies, when given to remove this apparent debility. the clown who supposes the crooked appearance of a stick, when thrust into a pail of water, to be real, does not err more against the laws of light, than that physician errs against a law of the animal economy, who mistakes the debility which arises from oppression for an exhausted state of the system, and attempts to remove it by stimulating medicines. [2] annals of medicine, p. 123. after unlocking the bowels, by means of calomel and jalap, in the beginning of the fever, i found no difficulty afterwards in keeping them gently open by more lenient purges. in addition to those which i have mentioned in the account of the fever of 1793, i yielded to the advice of dr. griffitts, by adopting the soluble tartar, and gave small doses of it daily in many cases. it seldom offended the stomach, and generally operated, without griping, in the most plentiful manner. however powerful bleeding and purging were in the cure of this fever, they often required the aid of a _salivation_ to assist them in subduing it. besides the usual methods of introducing mercury into the system, dr. stewart accelerated its action, by obliging his patients to wear socks filled with mercurial ointment; and dr. gillespie aimed at the same thing, by injecting the ointment, in a suitable vehicle, into the bowels, in the form of glysters. the following fact, communicated to me by dr. stewart, will show the safety of large doses of calomel in this fever. mrs. m'phail took 60 grains of calomel, by mistake, at a dose, after having taken three or four doses, of 20 grains each, on the same day. she took, in all, 356 grains in six days, and yet, says the doctor, "such was the state of her stomach and intestines, that that large quantity was retained without producing the least griping, or more stools than she had when she took three grains every two hours." i observed the mercury to affect the mouth and throat in the following ways. 1. it sometimes produced a swelling only in the throat, resembling a common inflammatory angina. 2. it sometimes produced ulcers upon the lips, cheeks, and tongue, without any discharge from the salivary glands. 3. it sometimes produced swellings and ulcers in the gums, and loosened the teeth without inducing a salivation. 4. there were instances in which the mercury induced a rigidity in the masseter muscles of the jaw, by which means the mouth was kept constantly open, or so much closed, as to render it difficult for the patient to take food, and impossible for him to masticate it. 5. it sometimes affected the salivary glands only, producing from them a copious secretion and excretion of saliva. but, 6. it more frequently acted upon all the above parts, and it was then it produced most speedily its salutary effects. 7. the discharge of the saliva frequently took place only during the remission or intermission of the fever, and ceased with each return of its paroxysms. 8. the salivation did not take place, in some cases, until the solution of the fever. this was more especially the case in those forms of the fever in which there were no remissions or intermissions. 9. it ceased in most cases with the fever, but it sometimes continued for six weeks or two months after the complete recovery of the patient. 10. the mercury rarely dislodged the teeth. not a single instance occurred of a patient losing a tooth in the city hospital, where the physicians, dr. j. duffield informed me, relied chiefly upon a salivation for a cure of the fever. 11. sometimes the mercury produced a discharge of blood with the saliva. dr. coulter, of baltimore, gave me an account, in a letter dated the 17th of september, 1797, of a boy in whom a hæmorrhage from the salivary glands, excited by calomel, was succeeded by a plentiful flow of saliva, which saved his patient. i saw no inconvenience from the mixture of blood with saliva in any of my patients. it occurred in dr. caldwell, mr. bradford, mr. brown, and several others. it has been said that mercury does no service unless it purges or salivates. i am disposed to believe that it may act as a counter stimulus to that of the miasmata of the yellow fever, and thus be useful without producing any evacuation from the bowels or mouth. it more certainly acts in this way, provided blood-letting has preceded its exhibition. i have supposed the stimulus from the remote cause of the yellow fever to be equal in force to five, and that of mercury to three. to enable the mercury to produce its action upon the system, it is necessary to reduce the febrile action, by bleeding, to two and a half, or below it, so that the stimulus of the mercury shall transcend it. the safety of mercury, when introduced into the system, has three advantages as a stimulus over that of the matter which produces the fever. 1. it excites an action in the system preternatural only in _force_. it does not derange the _natural_ order of actions. 2. it determines the actions chiefly to external parts of the body. and, 3. it fixes them, when it affects the mouth and throat, upon parts which are capable of bearing great inflammation and effusion without any danger to life. the stimulus which produces the yellow fever acts in ways the reverse of those which have been mentioned. it produces violent _irregular_ or _wrong_ actions. it determines them to internal parts of the body, and it fixes them upon viscera which bear, with difficulty and danger, the usual effects of disease. a late french writer, dr. fabre, ascribed to diseases a centrifugal, and a centripetal direction. from what has been said it would seem, the former belongs to mercury, and the latter to the yellow fever. considering the great prejudices against blood-letting, i have wished to combat this fever with mercury alone. but, for reasons formerly given, i have been afraid to trust to it without the assistance of the lancet. the character of the fever, moreover, like that which the poet has ascribed to achilles, is of "so swift, irritable, inexorable, and cruel" a nature, that it would be unsafe to rely exclusively upon a medicine which is not only of less efficacy than bleeding, but often slow and uncertain in its operation, _more especially_ upon the throat and mouth. let not the reader be offended at my attempts to reason. i am aware of the evils which the weak and perverted exercise of this power of the mind has introduced into medicine. but let us act with the same consistency upon this subject that we do in other things. we do not consign a child to its cradle for life, because it falls in its first unsuccessful efforts to use its legs. in like manner we must not abandon reason, because, in our first efforts to use it, we have been deceived. a single just principle in our science will lead to more truth, in one year, than whole volumes of uncombined facts will do in a century. i lost but two patients in this epidemic in whom the mercury excited a salivation. one of them died from the want of nursing; the other by the late application of the remedy. of emetics. it was said a practitioner, who was opposed to bleeding and mercury, cured this fever by means of strong emetics. i gave one to a man who refused to be bled. it operated freely, and brought on a plentiful sweat. the next day he arose from his bed, and went to his work. on the fourth day he sent for me again. my son visited him, and found him without a pulse. he died the next day. i heard of two other persons who took emetics in the beginning of the fever, without the advice of a physician, both of whom died. dr. pinckard informed me, that their effects were generally hurtful in the violent grades of the yellow fever in the west-indies. the same information has since been given to me by dr. jackson. in the second and third grades of the bilious fever they appear not only to be safe, but useful. of diet and drinks. the advantages of a weak vegetable diet were very great in this fever. i found but little difficulty, in most cases, in having my prohibition of animal food complied with before the crisis of the fever, but there was often such a sudden excitement of the appetite for it, immediately afterwards, that it was difficult to restrain it. i have mentioned the case of a young man, who was upon the recovery, who died in consequence of supping upon beef-stakes. many other instances of the mortality of this fever from a similar cause, i believe, occurred in our epidemic, which were concealed from our physicians. i am not singular in ascribing the death of convalescents to the too early use of animal food. dr. poissonnier has the following important remark upon this subject. "the physicians of brest have observed, that the relapses in the malignant fever, which prevailed in their naval hospitals, were as much the effect of a fault in the diet of the sick as of the contagious air to which they were exposed, and that as many patients perished from this cause as from the original fever. for this reason light soups, with leguminous vegetables in them, panada, rice seasoned with cinnamon, fresh eggs, &c. are all that they should be permitted to eat. the use of flesh should be forbidden for many days after the entire cure of the disorder[3]." [3] maladies de gens de mer, vol. i. p. 345. dr. huxham has furnished another evidence of the danger from the premature use of animal food, in his history of a malignant fever which prevailed at plymouth, in the year 1740. "if any one (says the doctor) made use of a flesh or fish diet, before he had been very well purged, and his recovery confirmed, he infallibly indulged himself herein at the utmost danger of his life[4]." [4] epidemics, vol. ii. p. 67. in addition to the mild articles of diet, mentioned by dr. poissonnier, i found bread and milk, with a little water, sugar, and the pulp of a roasted apple mixed with it, very acceptable to my patients during their convalescence. oysters were equally innocent and agreeable. ripe grapes were devoured by them with avidity, in every stage of the fever. the season had been favourable to the perfection of this pleasant fruit, and all the gardens in the city and neighbourhood in which it was cultivated were gratuitously opened by the citizens for the benefit of the sick. the drinks were, cold water, toast and water, balm tea, water in which jellies of different kinds had been dissolved, lemonade, apple water, barley and rice water, and, in cases where the stomach was affected with sickness or puking, weak porter and water, and cold camomile tea. in the convalescent stage of the fever, and in such of its remissions or intermissions as were accompanied with great languor in the pulse, wine-whey, porter and water, and brandy and water, were taken with advantage. cold water applied to the body, cool and fresh air, and cleanliness, produced their usual good effects in this fever. in the external use of cold water, care was taken to confine it to such cases as were accompanied with preternatural heat, and to forbid it in the cold fit of the fever, and in those cases which were attended with cold hands and feet, and where the disease showed a disposition to terminate, in its first stage, by a profuse perspiration. it has lately given me great pleasure to find the same practice, in the external use of cold water in fevers, recommended by dr. currie of liverpool, in his medical reports of the effects of water, cold and warm, as a remedy in febrile diseases. of the benefit of fresh air in this fever, dr. dawson of tortola has lately furnished me with a striking instance. he informed me, that by removing patients from the low grounds on that island, where the fever is generated, to a neighbouring mountain, they generally recovered in a few days. finding a disagreeable smell to arise from vinegar sprinkled upon the floor, after it had emitted all its acid vapour, i directed the floors of sick rooms to be sprinkled only with water. i found the vapour which arose from it to be grateful to my patients. a citizen of philadelphia, whose whole family recovered from the fever, thought he perceived evident advantages from tubs of fresh water being kept constantly in the sick rooms. of tonic remedies. there were now and then remissions and intermissions of the fever, accompanied with such signs of danger from debility, as to render the exhibition of a few drops of laudanum, a little wine-whey, a glass of brandy and water, and, in some instances, a cup of weak chicken-broth, highly necessary and useful. in addition to these cordial drinks, i directed the feet to be placed in a tub of warm water, which was introduced under the bed-clothes, so that the patient was not weakened by being raised from a horizontal posture. all these remedies were laid aside upon the return of a paroxysm of fever. i did not prescribe bark in a single case of this disease. an infusion of the quassia root was substituted in its room, in several instances, with advantage. _blisters_ were applied as usual, but, from the insensibility of the skin, they were less effectual than applications of mustard to the arms and legs. it is a circumstance worthy of notice, that while the stomach, bowels, and even the large blood-vessels are sometimes in a highly excited state, and overcharged, as it were, with life, the whole surface of the body is in a state of the greatest torpor. to attempt to excite it by internal remedies is like adding fuel to a chimney already on fire. the excitement of the blood-vessels, and the circulation of the blood, can only be equalized by the application of stimulants to the skin. these, to be effectual, should be of the most powerful kind. caustics might probably be used in such cases with advantage. i am led to this opinion by a fact communicated to me by dr. stewart. a lighted candle, which had been left on the bed of a woman whom he was attending in the apparent last stage of the yellow fever, fell upon her breast. she was too insensible to feel, or too weak to remove it. before her nurse came into her room, it had made a deep and extensive impression upon her flesh. from that time she revived, and in the course of a few days recovered. as a tonic remedy in this fever, dr. jackson has spoken to me in high terms of the good effects of riding in a carriage. patients, he informed me, who were moved with difficulty, after riding a few miles were able to sit up, and, when they returned from their excursions, were frequently able to walk to their beds. much has been said, of late years, in favour of the application of warm olive oil to the body in the plague, and a wish has been expressed, by some people, that its efficacy might be tried in the yellow fever. upon examining the account of this remedy, as published by mr. baldwin, three things suggest themselves to our notice. 1. that the oil is effectual only in the _forming_ state of the disease; 2. that the friction which is used with it contributes to excite the torpid vessels of the skin; and 3. that it acts chiefly by depleting from the pores of the body. from the unity of the remedy of depletion, it is probable purging or bleeding might be substituted to the expensive parade of the sweat induced by the warm oil, and the smoke of odoriferous vegetables. but i must not conceal here, that there are facts which favour an idea, that oil produces a sedative action upon the blood-vessels, through the medium of the skin. bontius says it is used in this manner in the east-indies, for the cure of malignant fevers, after the previous use of bleeding and purging. it seems to have been a remedy well known among the jews; hence we find the apostle james advises its being applied to the body, in addition to the prayers of the elders of the church[5]. it is thus in other cases, the blessings of heaven are conveyed to men through the use of natural means. [5] chapter v. verse 14. during the existence of the premonitory symptoms, and before patients were confined to their rooms, a gentle purge, or the loss of a few ounces of blood, in many hundred instances, prevented the formation of the fever. i did not meet with a single exception to this remark. fevers are the affliction chiefly of poor people. to prevent or to cure them, remedies must be cheap, and capable of being applied with but little attendance. from the affinity established by the creator between evil and its antidotes, in other parts of his works, i am disposed to believe no remedy will ever be effectual in any general disease, that is not cheap, and that cannot easily be made universal. it is to be lamented that the greatest part of all the deaths which occur, are from diseases that are under the power of medicine. to prevent their fatal issue, it would seem to be agreeable to the order of heaven in other things, that they should be attacked in their forming state. weeds, vermin, public oppression, and private vice, are easily eradicated and destroyed, if opposed by their proper remedies, as soon as they show themselves. the principal obstacle to the successful use of the antidotes of malignant fevers, in their early stage, arises from physicians refusing to declare when they appear in a city, and from their practice of calling their mild forms by other names than that of a mortal epidemic. i shall now say a few words upon the success of the depleting practice in this epidemic. from the more malignant state of the fever, and from the fears and prejudices that were excited against bleeding and mercury by means of the newspapers, the success of those remedies was much less than in the years 1793 and 1794. hundreds refused to submit to them at the _time_, and in the _manner_, that were necessary to render them effectual. from the publications of a number of physicians, who used the lancet and mercury in their greatest extent, it appears that they lost but one in ten of all they attended. it was said of several practitioners who were opposed to copious bleeding, that they lost a much smaller proportion of their patients with the prevailing fever. upon inquiry, it appeared they had lost many more. to conceal their want of success, they said their patients had died of other diseases. this mode of deceiving the public began in 1793. the men who used it did not recollect, that it is less in favour of a physician's skill to lose patients in pleurisies, colics, hæmorrhages, contusions, and common remittents, than in a malignant yellow fever. dr. sayre attended fifteen patients in the disease, all of whom recovered by the plentiful use of the depleting remedies. his place of residence being remote from those parts of the city in which the fever prevailed most, prevented his being called to a greater number of cases. a french physician, who bled and purged _moderately_, candidly acknowledged that he saved but three out of four of his patients. in the city hospital, where bleeding was sparingly used, and where the physicians depended chiefly upon a salivation, more than one half died of all the patients who were admitted. it is an act of justice to the physicians of the hospital to add, that many, perhaps most of their patients, were admitted _after_ the first day of the disease. i cannot conclude this comparative view of the success of the different modes of treating the yellow fever, without taking notice, that the stimulating mode, as recommended by dr. kuhn and dr. stevens, in the year 1793, was deserted by every physician in the city. dr. stevens acknowledged the disease to require a different treatment from that which it required in the west-indies; dr. kuhn adopted the lancet and mercury in his practice; and several other physicians, who had written against those remedies, or who had doubted of their safety and efficacy, in 1793, used them with confidence, and in the most liberal manner, in 1797. in the histories i have given of the yellow fevers of 1793 and 1794, i have scattered here and there a few observations upon their degrees of danger, and the signs of their favourable or unfavourable issue. i shall close the present history, by collecting those observations into one view, and adding to them such other signs as have occurred to me in observing this epidemic. signs of moderate danger, and a favourable issue of the yellow fever. 1. a chilly fit accompanying the attack of the fever. the longer this chill continues, the more favourable the disease. 2. the recurrence of chills every day, or twice a day, or every other day, with the return of the exacerbations of the fever. a coldness of the whole body, at the above periods, without chills, a coldness with a profuse sweat, cold feet and hands, with febrile heat in other parts of the body, and a profuse sweat without chills or coldness, are all less favourable symptoms than a regular chilly fit, but they indicate less danger than their total absence during the course of the fever. 3. a puking of _green_ or _yellow_ bile on the first day of the disease is favourable. a discharge of black bile, if it occur on the _first_ day of the fever, is not unfavourable. 4. a discharge of green and yellow stools. it is more favourable if the stools are of a dark or black colour, and of a f[oe]tid and acrid nature, on the first or second day of the fever. 5. a softness and moisture on the skin in the beginning of the fever. 6. a sense of pain in the head, or a sudden translation of pain from internal to external parts of the body, particularly to the back. an increase of pain after bleeding. 7. a sore mouth. 8. a moist white, or a yellow tongue. 9. an early disposition to spit freely, whether excited by nature or the use of mercury. 10. blood becoming sizy, after having exhibited the usual marks of great morbid action in the blood-vessels. 11. great and exquisite sensibility in the sense of feeling coming on near the close of the fever. 12. acute pains in the back and limbs. 13. the appearance of an inflammatory spot on a finger or toe, dr. h. m'clen says, is favourable. it appears, the doctor says, as if the cause of the fever had escaped by explosion. signs of great danger, and of an unfavourable issue of the yellow fever are, 1. an attack of the fever, suddenly succeeding great terror, anger, or the intemperate use of venery, or strong drink. 2. the first paroxysm coming on without any premonitory symptoms, or a chilly fit. 3. a coldness over the whole body without chills for two or three days. 4. a sleepiness on the first and second days of the fever. 5. uncommon paleness of the face not induced by blood-letting. 6. constant or violent vomiting, without any discharge of bile. 7. obstinate costiveness, or a discharge of natural, or white stools; also quick, watery stools after taking drink. 8. a diarrh[oe]a towards the close of the fever. i lost two patients, in 1797, with this symptom, who had exhibited, a few days before, signs of a recovery. dr. pinckard informed me, that it was generally attended with a fatal issue in the yellow fever of the west-indies. diemerbroeck declares, that "scarcely one in a hundred recovered, with this symptom, from the plague[6]." [6] lib. i. cap. 15. 9. a suppression of urine. it is most alarming when it is without pain. 10. a discharge of dark-coloured and bloody urine. 11. a cold, cool, dry, smooth, or shining skin. 12. the appearance of a yellow colour in the face on the first or second day of the fever. 13. the absence of pain, or a sudden cessation of it, with the common symptoms of great danger. 14. a disposition to faint upon a little motion, and fainting after losing but a few ounces of blood. 15. a watery, glassy, or brilliant eye. a red eye on the fourth or fifth day of the disease. it is more alarming if it become so after having been previously yellow. 16. imperfect vision, and blindness in the close of the disease. 17. deafness. 18. a preternatural appetite, more especially in the last stage of the fever. 19. a slow, intermitting, and shattered pulse. 20. great restlessness, delirium, and long continued coma. 21. a discharge of coffee-coloured or black matter from the stomach, after the fourth day of the fever. 22. a smooth red tongue, covered with a lead-coloured crust, while its edges are of a bright red. 23. a dull vacant face, expressive of distress. 24. great insensibility to common occurrences, and an indifference about the issue of the disease. 25. uncommon serenity of mind, accompanied with an unusually placid countenance. i shall conclude this head by the following remarks: 1. the violence, danger, and probable issue of this fever, seem to be in proportion to the duration and force of the predisposing and exciting causes. however steady the former are in bringing on debility, and the latter in acting as irritants upon accumulated excitability, yet a knowledge of their duration and force is always useful, not only in forming an opinion of the probable issue of the fever, but in regulating the force of remedies. 2. the signs of danger vary in different years, from the influence of the weather upon the disease. 3. notwithstanding the signs of the favourable and unfavourable issue of the fever are in general uniform, when the cure of the disease is committed to nature, or to tonic medicines, yet they are far from being so when the treatment of the fever is taken out of the hands of nature, and attempted by the use of depleting remedies. we often see patients recover with nearly all the unfavourable symptoms that have been mentioned, and we sometimes see them die, with all those that are favourable. the words of morellus, therefore, which he has applied to the plague, are equally true when applied to the yellow fever. "in the plague, our senses deceive us. reason deceives us. the aphorisms of hippocrates deceive us[7]." an important lesson may be learned from these facts, and that is, never to give a patient over. on the contrary, it is our duty in this, as well as in all other acute diseases, to dispute every inch of ground with death. by means of this practice, which is warranted by science, as well as dictated by humanity, the grave has often been deprived for a while of its prey, and a prelude thereby exhibited of that approaching and delightful time foretold by ancient prophets, when the power of medicine over diseases shall be such, as to render old age the only outlet of human life. [7] de feb. pestilent. cap. v. "acutorum morborum incertæ admodum, ac fallaces sunt prædictiones." hippocrates. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1798. the yellow fever of the year 1797 was succeeded by scarlatina, catarrhs, and bilious pleurisies, in the months of november and december of the same year. the weather favoured the generation of the latter diseases. it became suddenly cold about the middle of november. on the 5th of december, the navigation of the delaware was obstructed. there was a thaw on the 13th and 14th of this month, but not sufficient to open the river. in the month of january, 1798, the fevers discovered an uncommon determination to the brain. four cases of the hydrocephalic state of fever occurred under my care during this month, all of which yielded to depleting remedies. the subjects of this state of fever were mr. robert lewis, and the daughters of messrs. john brooks, andrew ellicott, and david maffat. the weather was variable during the months of february and march. the navigation of the delaware was not completely opened until the latter end of february. the diseases of these two months were catarrhs and bilious pleurisies. the former were confined chiefly to children, and were cured by gentle pukes, purges of calomel, and blood-letting. the last remedy was employed twice in a child of isaac pisso, of six weeks old, and once in a child of thomas billington, of three weeks old, with success. on the 7th of april, i visited mr. pollock, lately from the state of georgia, in consultation with dr. physick, in a yellow fever. he died the evening after i saw him, on the third day of his disease. there was a snow storm on the 16th of april, and the weather was afterwards very cold. such leaves and blossoms as had appeared, were injured by it. on the 1st of may, the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer rose to 84°. the weather, during the latter part of this month, and in june, was very dry. on the 6th of june, dr. cooper lost a patient in the yellow fever, near the corner of twelfth and walnut-streets. mark miller died with the same state of fever on the 2d of july. about a dozen cases of a similar nature occurred, under the care of different practitioners, between the 2d and 20th of this month, and all of them in parts of the city remote from water-street. on the 19th of july, the weather was so cool as to render winter clothes comfortable. a severe hail storm had occurred, a few days before, in the neighbourhood of wilmington, in the delaware state. on the 21st of the month, the ship deborah arrived from one of the west-india islands, and discharged her cargo in the city. she was moored afterwards at kensington, where the foul air which was emitted from her hold produced several cases of yellow fever, near the shores of that village. in august the disease appeared in nearly every part of the city, and particularly in places where there was the greatest exhalation from foul gutters and common sewers. in describing the disease, as it appeared this year, i shall take notice of its symptoms as they appeared in the blood-vessels, alimentary canal, the tongue, the nervous system, in the eyes, the lymphatic system, and the blood. the subjects which furnished the materials for this history were not only private patients, but the poor in the city hospital, who were committed to the care of dr. physick and myself, by the board of health. i. the pulse was, in many cases, less active in the beginning of this fever than in former years. it was seldom preternaturally slow. it resembled the pulse which occurs in the first stage of the common jail fever. hæmorrhages were common about the fourth and fifth days, and generally from the gums, throat, or stomach. ii. the whole alimentary canal was much affected in most cases. costiveness and a vomiting were general. the alvine discharges were occasionally green, dark-coloured, black, and natural. the black vomiting was more common this year than in former years, in all the forms of the fever. it was sometimes suspended for several days before death, and hopes were entertained of a recovery of patients in whom it had appeared. in a boy, at the city hospital, it ceased ten days before he died. it was sometimes succeeded by delirium or coma, but it more commonly left the patient free of pain, and in the possession of all the faculties of his mind. iii. the tongue was by no means an index of the state of the fever, as in the years 1793 and 1797. i saw several deaths, attended with a black vomiting, in which the tongue retained a natural appearance. this phenomenon at first deceived me. i ascribed it to such a concentration of the disease in the stomach and other vital parts, as to prevent its diffusing itself through the external parts of the system. we observe the effects of the same cause in a natural state of the skin, and in a natural appearance of the urine, in the most malignant forms of this fever. iv. in the nervous system, the disease appeared with several new symptoms. a relation of peter field attempted to bite his attendants in the delirium of his fever, just before he died. i attended a young woman at mrs. easby's, who started every time i touched her pulse. loud talking, or a question suddenly proposed to her, produced the same convulsive motion. she retained her reason during the whole of her illness, and was cured by bleeding and a salivation. hiccup was a common symptom. i saw but two patients recover who had it. in one of them, dr. hedges, it came on after the sixth day of the fever, and continued, without any other symptom of disease, for four or five days. i lost a patient who complained of no pain but in the calves of his legs. dr. physick lost a girl, in the city hospital, who complained only of pains in her toes. her stomach discovered, after death, strong marks of inflammation. many people passed through every stage of the disease, without uttering a complaint of pain of any kind. an uncommon stiffness in the limbs preceded death a few hours, in several cases. this stiffness ceased, in one of dr. physick's patients, immediately after death, but returned as soon as he became cold. an obstinate wakefulness continued through the whole of the disease in dr. leib. it was common during the convalescence, in many cases. the whole body was affected, in many cases, with a morbid sensibility, or what has been called supersensation, so that patients complained of pain upon being touched, when they were moved in their beds. this extreme sensibility was general in parts to which blisters had been applied. it continued through every stage of the disease. dr. physick informed me, that he observed it in a man two hours before he died. in this man there was an absence of pulse, and a coldness of his extremities. upon touching his wrist, he cried out, as if he felt great pain. v. a redness in the eyes was a general symptom. i saw few recoveries where this redness was not removed. a discharge of matter from one ear relieved mr. j. c. warren from a distressing pulsation of the arteries in his head. vi. glandular swellings occurred in several instances. two cases of them came under my notice. they both terminated favourably. vii. the blood had its usual appearances in this disease. in the yellow fever which prevailed at the same time in boston, dr. rand says the blood was sizy in but one out of a hundred cases. the forms of the fever were nearly similar to those which have been described in the year 1797. i saw several cases in which the disease appeared in the form of a tertian fever. in one of them it terminated in death. the system, in many cases, was prostrated below the point of inflammatory re-action. these were called, by some practitioners, typhous fevers. it was the most dangerous and fatal form of the disease. its frequent occurrence gave occasion to a remark, that our epidemic resembled the yellow fever of the west-indies, much more than the fevers of 1793 and 1797. i attended two patients in whom the disease was protracted nearly to the 30th day. they both recovered. dr. francis sayre informed me, that he saw a child, in which the morbid affection of the wind-pipe, called cynanche trachealis, appeared with all the usual symptoms of yellow fever. i attended one case in which the force of the disease was weakened, in its first stage, by a profuse hæmorrhage from the bowels. this hæmorrhage was followed by a bloody diarrh[oe]a, which continued for four or five weeks. persons of all ages and colours were affected by this fever. i saw a case of it in a child of six months old. in the blacks, it was attended with less violence and mortality than in white people. it affected many persons who had previously had it. the disease was excited by the same causes which excited it in former years. i observed a number of people to be affected by the fever, who lived in solitude in their houses, without doing any business. the system, in these persons, was predisposed to the disease, by the debility induced by ceasing to labour at their former occupations. it was excited in a young man by a fractured leg. he died five days afterwards, with a black vomiting. i observed, in several instances, an interval of four and five days between the debility induced upon the system by a predisposing, and the action of an exciting cause. dr. clark says, he has seen an interval of several weeks between the operation of those causes, in the yellow fever of dominique. these facts are worthy of notice, as they lead to a protracted use of the means of obviating an attack of the disease. during my attendance upon the sick, i twice perceived in my system the premonitory signs of the epidemic. its complete formation was prevented each time by rest, a moderate dose of physic, and a plentiful sweat. i shall now take notice of the different manner in which patients died of this fever. the detail may be useful, by unfolding new principles in the animal economy, as well as new facts in the history of the disease. 1. the disease terminated in death, in some instances, by means of convulsions. 2. by delirium, which prompted to exertions and actions similar to those which take place in madness. 3. by profuse hæmorrhages from the gums. this occurred in two patients of dr. stewart. 4. by an incessant vomiting and hiccup. 5. by extreme pain in the calves of the legs and toes, which, by destroying the excitement of the system, destroyed life. 6. by a total absence of pain. in this way it put an end to the life of mr. henry hill. 7. by a disposition to easy, and apparently natural sleep. i have reason to believe that mr. hill encouraged this disposition to sleep, a few hours before he died, under the influence of a belief that he would be refreshed by it. diemerbroeck says the plague often killed in the same way. 8. the mind was in many cases torpid, where no delirium attended, and death was submitted to with a degree of insensibility, which was often mistaken for fortitude and resignation. i shall now mention the morbid appearances exhibited by the bodies of persons who died of this fever, as communicated to me by my friend, dr. physick; being the result of numerous dissections made by him at the city hospital. in all of them the stomach was inflamed. the matter which constitutes what is called the _black vomit_, was found in the stomachs of several patients who had not discharged it at any time by vomiting. in some stomachs, he found lines which seemed to separate the living from their dead parts. those parts, though dead, were not always in a mortified state. they were distinguished from the living parts by a peculiar paleness, and by discovering a weak texture upon being pressed between the fingers. he observed the greatest marks of inflammation in the stomachs of several persons in whom there had been no vomiting, during the whole course of the disease. the brain, in a few instances, discovered marks of inflammation. water was now and then found in its ventricles, but always of its natural colour, even in those persons whose skins were yellow. the liver suffered but little in this disease. it may serve to increase our knowledge of the influence of local circumstances upon epidemics to remark, that this viscus, which was rarely diseased in the fever of philadelphia in 1798, discovered marks of great inflammation in the bodies which were examined by dr. rand and dr. warren, in the town of boston, where the yellow fever prevailed at the same time it did in philadelphia. the weather was hot and dry in august and september, during the prevalence of this fever. its influence upon animal and vegetable life are worthy of notice. moschetoes abounded, as usual in sickly seasons; grasshoppers covered the ground in many places; cabbages and other garden vegetables, and even fields of clover, were devoured by them. peaches ripened this year three weeks sooner than in ordinary summers, and apples rotted much sooner than usual after being gathered in the autumn. many fruit-trees blossomed in october, and a second crop of small apples and cherries were seen in november, on the west side of schuylkill, near the city. meteors were observed in several places. on the 29th of september there was a white frost. its effects upon the fever were obvious and general. it declined, in every part of the city, to such a degree as to induce many people to return from the country. in the beginning of october the weather again became warm, and the disease revived. it was observable, that all great changes in the weather from heat to cold that were short of frost, or of cold to heat, increased the mortality of the fever. it spread most rapidly in moist weather. the origin of this fever was from the exhalations of gutters, docks, cellars, common sewers, ponds of stagnating water, and from the foul air of the ship formerly mentioned. the fever prevailed at the same time in the town of chester, in pennsylvania; in wilmington, in the state of delaware; in new-york; in new-london, in connecticut; in windsor, in vermont; and in boston; in all which places its origin was traced to domestic sources. i shall now deliver a short account of the remedies employed in the cure of this disease. i have said that the pulse was less active in this fever than in the fevers of former years. it was seldom, however, so feeble as to forbid bleeding. in dr. mease it called for the loss of 162 ounces of blood, and in mr. j. c. warren for the loss of 200, by successive bleedings, before it was subdued. but such cases were not common. in most of them, the pulse flagged after two or three bleedings. but there were cases in which the lancet was forbidden altogether. in these, the system appeared to be prostrated, by the force of the miasmata, below the point of re-action. this state of the disease manifested itself in a weak, quick, and frequent pulse, languid eye, sighing, great inquietude, or great insensibility. however unsafe bleeding was on the first day of this fever, when it appeared with those symptoms, nature often performed that operation upon herself from the gums, on the fourth or fifth day. i saw several pounds of blood discharged on those days, and in that way, with the happiest effects. it appeared to take place after the revival of the blood-vessels from their prostrated state. from a conviction that the system was depressed only in these cases, and finding that it did not rise upon blood-letting, i resolved to try the effects of emetics, in exciting and equalizing the action of the blood-vessels. the experience i had had of the inefficacy of this remedy in 1793, and of its ill effects in one instance in 1797, led me to exhibit it with a trembling hand. i gave it for the first time to a son of richard renshaw. i had bled him but once, and had in vain tried to bring on a salivation. on the fifth day of his disease, his pulse became languid and slow, his skin cool, a hæmorrhage had taken place from his gums, and he discovered a restlessness and anxiety which i had often seen a few hours before death. he took four grains of tartar emetic, with twenty grains of calomel, at two doses. they operated powerfully, upwards and downwards, and brought away a large quantity of bile. the effects of this medicine were such as i wished. the next day he was out of danger. i prescribed the same medicine in many other cases with the same success. to several of my patients i gave two emetics in the course of the disease. some of them discharged bile resembling in viscidity the white of an egg. but i saw one case in which great relief was obtained from the operation of an emetic, where no bile was discharged. in the exhibition of this remedy, i was regulated by the pulse. if i found it languid on the first day of the fever, i gave it before any other medicine. when it was full and tense, i deferred it until i had reduced the pulse to the emetic point by bleeding and purges. i observed, with great pleasure, that mercury affected the mouth more speedily and certainly where an emetic had been administered, than in other cases, probably from awakening, by its stimulus, the sensibility of the stomach; for such was its torpor, that in one case ten grains of tartar emetic, and in another thirty grains, did not operate upon it, so as to excite even the slightest degree of nausea. in many cases, an emetic, given in the forming state of the disease, seemed to effect an immediate cure. purges produced the same salutary effects that they did in former years. i always combined calomel with them in the first stage of the disease. a salivation was found to be the most certain remedy of any that was used in this fever. i did not lose a single patient, in whom the mercury acted upon the salivary glands. it was difficult to excite it in many cases, from the mercury being rejected by the stomach, from its passing off by the bowels, or from its stimulus being exceeded by the morbid action in the blood-vessels. bleeding rendered the action of the mercury upon the mouth more speedy and more certain, but i saw several cases in which a salivation was excited in the most malignant forms of the fever, where no blood had been drawn. it will not be difficult to explain the reason of this fact if we recur to what was said formerly of the prostration of the system in this fever. in its worst forms, there is often a total absence, or a feeble degree of action in the blood-vessels, from an excess of the stimulus of the remote cause of the fever. here the mercury meets with no resistance in its tendency to the mouth. bleeding in this case would probably do harm, by taking off a part of the pressure upon the system, and thereby produce a re-action in the vessels, that might predominate over the action of the mercury. the disease here does that for us by its force, which, in other cases, we effect by depleting remedies. where the mercury showed a disposition to pass too rapidly through the bowels, i observed no inconvenience from combining it with opium, in my attempts to excite a salivation. the calomel was constantly aided by mercurial ointment, applied by friction to different parts of the body. now and then a salivation continued for weeks and months after the crisis of this fever, to the great distress of the patient, and injury of the credit of mercury as a remedy in this disease. dr. physick has discovered, that in these cases the salivation is kept up by carious teeth or bone, and that it is to be cured only by removing them. from the impracticability of exciting a salivation in all cases, i attempted the cure of this fever, after bleeding, by means of copious sweats. they succeeded in several instances where no other remedy promised or afforded any relief. they were excited by wrapping the patient in a blanket, with half a dozen hot bricks wetted with vinegar, and applied to different parts of the body. the sweating was continued for six hours, and repeated daily for four or five days. in those cases where the fever put on the form of an intermittent, i gave bark after bleeding and purging with advantage. i gave it likewise in all those cases where the fever put on the type of the slow chronic fever. laudanum was acceptable and useful in many cases of pain, wakefulness, vomiting, and diarrh[oe]a, after the use of depleting remedies. i applied _blisters_ in the usual way in this fever, but i think with less effect than in the yellow fevers of former years. to relieve a vomiting, which was very distressing in many cases about the fourth and fifth days, i gave a julep, composed of the salt of tartar and laudanum. i also gave dr. hosack's anti-emetic medicine, composed of equal parts of lime-water and milk. i do not know that it saved any lives, but i am sure it gave ease by removing a painful symptom, and thus, where it did not cure, lessened the sufferings of the sick. the diet and drinks were the same in this fever as they were in the fevers formerly described. cool air, cold water, and cleanliness produced their usual salutary effects in this fever. i shall now deliver a short account of the symptoms which indicated a favourable and an unfavourable issue of the disease. it has been said[8], that the signs of danger vary in this fever, from the influence of the weather. the autumn of 1798 confirmed, in many instances, the truth of this remark. [8] history of the fever in 1797. i saw no instance of death where a bleeding occurred from the gums on the fourth or fifth day, provided depleting remedies had been used from the beginning of the disease. few recovered who had this symptom in 1793. i saw three recoveries after convulsions in the year 1798. all died who were convulsed in 1793 and 1797. a dry, hoarse, and sore throat was followed by death in every case in which it occurred in my practice. in the fever of 1793 a sore throat was a favourable sign. it was one of the circumstances which determined me to use a salivation in that fever. the absence of pain was always a bad sign. small, but frequent stools, and the continuance of a redness in the eyes after the ample use of depleting remedies, were likewise bad signs. an appetite for food on the fourth or fifth day of the fever, without a remission or cessation of the fever, was always unfavourable. a want of delicacy, in exposing parts of the body which are usually covered, was a bad symptom. i saw but one recovery where it took place. boccacio says the same symptom occurred in the plague in italy. "it suspended (he tells us) all modesty, so that young women, of great rank and delicacy, submitted to be attended, dressed, and even cleansed by male nurses." i have remarked, in another place, that but two of my patients recovered who had the hiccup. a dry tongue was a bad sign. i saw but one recovery where it occurred, and none where the tongue was black. a moist and natural tongue, where symptoms of violence or malignity appeared in other parts of the body, was always followed by a fatal issue of the disease. a desire to ride out, or to go home, in persons who were absent from their families, was, in every instance where it took place, a fatal symptom. these desires arose from an insensibility to pain, or a false idea of the state of the disease. it existed to such a degree in some of the patients in the city hospital, that they often left their beds, and dressed themselves, in order to go home. all these patients died, and some of them in the act of putting on their clothes. from the history that has been given of the symptoms, treatment, and prognosis of this fever, we see how imperfect all treatises upon epidemics must be, which are not connected with climate and season. as well might a traveller describe a foreign climate, by the state of the weather, or by the productions of the earth, during a single autumn, as a physician adopt a uniform opinion of the history, treatment, and prognosis of a fever, from its phenomena in any one country, or during a single season. there were three modes of practice used in this epidemic. the first consisted in the exhibition of purges of castor oil, salts, and manna, and cooling glysters, and in the use of the warm bath. these remedies were prescribed chiefly by the french physicians. the second consisted in the use of mercury alone, in such doses, and in such a manner, as to excite a salivation. this mode was used chiefly by an itinerant and popular quack. the third mode consisted in using all the remedies which i have mentioned in the account of the treatment of this fever, and accommodating them to the state of the disease. this mode of practice was followed by most of the american physicians. the first mode of practice was the least successful. it succeeded only in such cases as would probably have cured themselves. the second mode succeeded in mild cases, and now and then in that malignant state of the fever, in which the action of the blood-vessels was so much prostrated by the force of the miasmata, as to permit the mercury to pass over them, and thus to act upon the salivary glands in the course of four or five days. the last mode was by far the most successful. it is worthy of notice, that the business and reputation of the physicians, during this epidemic, were in the inverse ratio of their success. the number of deaths by it amounted to between three and four thousand, among whom were three physicians, and two students of medicine. its mortality was nearly as great as it was in 1793, and yet the number of people who were affected by it was four times as great in 1793 as it was in 1798, for, in the latter year, the city was deserted by nearly all its inhabitants. the cause of this disproportion of deaths to the number who were sick, was owing to the liberal and general use of the lancet in 1793, and to the publications in 1797 having excited general fears and prejudices against it in 1798. such was the influence of these publications, that many persons who had recovered from this fever in the two former years, by the use of depleting remedies, deserted the physicians who had prescribed them, and put themselves under the care of physicians of opposite modes of practice. most of them died. two of them had been my patients, one of whom had recovered of a third attack of the fever under my care. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1799. the diseases which succeeded the fever of 1798, in november and december, were highly inflammatory. a catarrh was nearly universal. several cases of sore throat, and one of erysipelas, came under my care in the month of november. the weather in december was extremely cold. it was equally so in the beginning of january, 1799, accompanied with several falls of snow. about the middle of the month, the weather moderated so much, so as to open the navigation of the delaware. i met with two cases of malignant colic in the latter part of this month, and one of yellow fever. the last was swen warner. dr. physick, who attended him with me, informed me that he had, nearly at the same time, attended two other persons with the same disease. the weather was very cold, and bilious pleurisies were common, during the latter part of the month of february. march was equally cold. the newspapers contained accounts of the winter having been uncommonly severe in canada, and in several european countries. the first two weeks in april were still cold. the delaware, which had been frozen a second time during the winter, was crossed near its origin, on the ice, on the 15th day of this month. the diseases, though fewer than in the winter, were bilious and inflammatory. during this month, i was called to a case of yellow fever, which yielded to copious bleeding, and other depleting medicines. may was colder than is usual in that month, but very healthy. in the first week of june, several cases of highly bilious fever came under my care. in one of them, all the usual symptoms of the highest grade of that fever occurred. on the 13th of the month, dr. physick informed me, that he had lost a patient with that disease. on the 23d of the same month, joseph ashmead, a young merchant, died of it. several other cases of the disease occurred between the 20th and 29th days of the month, in different parts of the city. about this time, i was informed that the inhabitants of keys's-alley had predicted a return of the yellow fever, from the trees before their doors emitting a smell, exactly the same which they perceived just before the breaking out of that disease in 1793. in july, the city was alarmed, by dr. griffitts, with an account of several cases of the fever in penn-street, near the water. the strictness with which the quarantine law had been executed, for a while rendered this account incredible with many people, and exposed the doctor to a good deal of obloquy. at length a vessel was discovered, that had arrived from one of the west-india islands on the 14th of may, and one day before the quarantine law was put into operation, from which the disease was said to be derived. upon investigating the state of this vessel, it appeared that she had arrived with a healthy crew, and that no person had been sick on board of her during her voyage. in the latter part of july and in the beginning of august, the disease gradually disappeared from every part of the city. this circumstance deserves attention, as it shows the disease did not spread by contagion. about this time we were informed by the newspapers, that dogs, geese, and other poultry, also that wild pigeons were sickly in many parts of the country, and that fish on the susquehannah, and oysters in the delaware bay, were so unpleasant, that the inhabitants declined eating them. at the same time, flies were found dead in great numbers, in the unhealthy parts of the city. the weather was dry in august and september. there was no second crop of grass. the gardens yielded a scanty supply of vegetables, and of an inferior size and quality. cherries were smaller than usual, and pear and apple-trees dropped their fruits prematurely, in large quantities. the peaches, which arrived at maturity, were small and ill-tasted. the grain was in general abundant, and of a good quality. a fly, of an unusual kind, covered the potatoe fields, and devoured, in some instances, the leaves of the potatoe. this fly has lately been used with success in our country, instead of the fly imported from spain. it is equal to it in every respect. like the spanish fly, it sometimes induces strangury. about the middle of august the disease revived, and appeared in different parts of the city. a publication from the academy of medicine, in which they declared the seeds of the disease to spread from the atmosphere only, produced a sudden flight of the inhabitants. in no year, since the prevalence of the fever, was the desertion of the city so general. i shall now add a short account of the symptoms and treatment of this epidemic. the arterial system was in most cases active. i met with a tense pulse in a patient after the appearance of the black vomiting. delirium was less frequent in adults than in former years. in children there was a great determination of the disease to the brain. i observed no new symptoms in the stomach and bowels. one of the worst cases of the fever which i saw was accompanied with colic. a girl of thomas shortall, who recovered, discharged 9 worms during her fever. it appeared in mr. thomas roan, one of my pupils, in the form of a dysentery. a stiffness, such as follows death, occurred in several patients in the city hospital before death. miss shortall had an eruption of pimples on her breast, such as i have described in the short account i gave of the yellow fever of 1762 in this city, in my account of the disease in 1793. the blood exhibited its usual appearances in the yellow fever. it was seldom sizy till towards the close of the disease. the tongue was generally whitish. sometimes it was of a red colour, and had a polished appearance. i saw no case of a black tongue, and but few that were yellow before the seventh day of the disease. the type of this disease was nearly the same as described in 1797. it now and then appeared in the form of a quartan, in which state it generally proved fatal. it appeared with rheumatic pains in one of my patients. it blended itself with gout and small-pox. its union with the latter disease was evident in two patients in the city hospital, in each of whom the stools were such as were discharged in the most malignant state of the fever. the remedies for this fever were bleeding, vomits, purges, sweats, and a salivation and blisters. there were few cases that did not indicate bleeding. it was performed, when proper, in the usual way, and with its usual good effects. it was indicated as much when the disease appeared in the bowels as in the blood-vessels. mr. roan, in whom it was accompanied with symptoms of dysentery, lost nearly 200 ounces of blood by twenty-two bleedings. i found the same benefit from emetics, in this fever, that i did in the fever of 1798. they were never administered except on the first day, before violent action had taken place in the system, or after it was moderated by one or two bleedings. purges of calomel and jalap, also castor oil, salts, and injections were prescribed with their usual advantages. in those cases where the system was prostrated below the point of re-action, i began the cure by sweating. blankets, with hot bricks wetted with vinegar, and the hot bath, as mentioned formerly, when practicable, were used for this purpose. the latter produced, in a boy of 14 years of age, who came into the city hospital without a pulse, and with a cold skin, in a few hours, a general warmth and an active pulse. the determination of the disease to the pores was evinced in one of my patients, by her sweating under the use of the above-mentioned remedies, for the first time in her life. a moisture upon her skin had never before been induced, she informed me, even by the warmest day in summer. the advantages of a salivation were as great as in former years. from the efficacy of bleeding, purges, emetics, and sweating, i had the pleasure of seeing many recoveries before the mercury had time to affect the mouth. in no one case did i rest the cure exclusively upon any one of these remedies. the more numerous the outlets were to convey off superfluous fluids and excitement from the body, the more safe and certain were the recoveries. a vein, the gall-bladder, the bowels, the pores, and the salivary glands were all opened, in succession, in part, or together, according to circumstances, so as to give the disease every possible chance of passing out of the body without injuring or destroying any of its vital parts. blisters were applied with advantage. the vomiting and sickness which attend this fever were relieved, in many instances, by a blister to the stomach. in those cases in which the fever was protracted to the chronic state, bark, wine, laudanum, and æther produced the most salutary effects. i think i saw life recalled, in several cases in which it appeared to be departing, by frequent and liberal doses of the last of those medicines. the bark was given, with safety and advantage, after the seventh day, when the fever assumed the form of an intermittent. the following symptoms were generally favourable, viz. a bleeding from the mouth and gums, and a disposition to weep, when spoken to in any stage of the fever. a hoarseness and sore throat indicated a fatal issue of the disease, as it did in 1798. dr. physick remarked, that all those persons who sighed after waking suddenly, before they were able to speak, died. the recurrence of a redness of the eyes, after it had disappeared, or of but one eye, was generally followed by death. i saw but one recovery with a red face. i saw several persons, a few hours before death, in whom the countenance, tongue, voice, and pulse were perfectly natural. they complained of no pain, and discovered no distress nor solicitude of mind. their danger was only to be known by the circumstances which had preceded this apparently healthy and tranquil state of the system. they had all passed through extreme suffering, and some of them had puked black matter. the success of the mode of practice i have described was the same as in former years, in private families; but in the city hospital, which was again placed under the care of dr. physick and myself, there was a very different issue to it, from causes that are too obvious to be mentioned. there were two opinions given to the public upon the subject of the origin of this fever; the one by the academy of medicine, the other by the college of physicians. the former declared it to be generated in the city, from putrid domestic exhalations, because they saw it only in their vicinity, and discovered no channel by which it could have been derived from a foreign country; the latter asserted it to be "imported, because it had been imported in former years." an account of sporadic cases of _yellow fever_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in 1800. the weather in the month of january was less cold than is common in that month. catarrhs, the cynanche trachealis, and bilious pleurisies were prevalent in every part of it. a few cases of yellow fever occurred likewise during this month. several cases of erysipelas appeared in february. the month of march was unusually healthy. the weather was warm in april, and the city as healthy as in march. it was equally so in may and june. the spring fruits appeared early in the latter month, in large quantities, and were of an excellent quality. locusts were universal in june. they had not appeared since the year 1783. a record from the journal of the swedish missionaries was published at this time, which described their appearance in 1715, in which year it was said to be very healthy. on the 14th of june there was a severe thunder gust, with more lightning than had been known for seven years before. there fell, during all the months that have been mentioned, frequent and plentiful showers of rain, which rendered the crops of grass luxuriant in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. the winds at this time were chiefly from the south-east. a few intermittents appeared in june, which yielded readily to the bark. on the 16th day of june, dr. physick informed me he had a black boy under his care with the yellow fever. in july, the hooping cough, cholera infantum, and some cases of dysentery and bilious fever appeared in the city. on the 30th of july, dr. pascalis informed me that he had lost a patient on the fifth day of a yellow fever. in august, the dysentery was the principal form of disease that prevailed in the city. on the 22d of this month, a woman died of the yellow fever in gaskill-street, under the care of dr. church. on the 28th and 30th, there fell an unusual quantity of rain. the winds were south-west and north-west during the greatest part of the summer months. the latter were sometimes accompanied with rain. on the 11th of september, a clerk of mr. levi hollingsworth, and, on the 12th, a clerk of mr. john connelly, died with the yellow fever. a plentiful shower of rain fell on the night of the 21st of this month. about this time there appeared one and twenty cases of yellow fever in spruce-street, between front and second-streets. they were all in the neighbourhood of putrid exhalations. fourteen of them ended fatally. no one of the above cases of malignant fever could be traced to a ship, or to a direct or indirect intercourse with persons affected by that disease. while philadelphia was thus visited by a few sporadic cases only of yellow fever, it was epidemic in several of the cities of the united states, particularly in new-york, providence, in rhode island, norfolk, and baltimore. in the last named place, it was publicly declared by the committee of health to be of domestic origin. the dysentery was epidemic, at the same time, in several of the towns of massachusetts and new-hampshire. it was attended with uncommon mortality at hanover, in the latter state. this difference in the states of health and sickness in the different parts of the united states must be sought for chiefly in the different states of the weather in those places. the exemption of philadelphia from the yellow fever, as an epidemic, may perhaps be ascribed to the strength and vigour of the vegetable products of the year, which retarded their putrefaction; to frequent showers of rain, which washed away the filth of the streets and gutters; and to the perfection of the summer and autumnal fruits. the months of november and december this year were uncommonly healthy. during the former, several light shocks of earthquakes were felt in lancaster and harrisburg, in pennsylvania, and in wilmington, in the state of delaware. an account of sporadic cases of _yellow fever_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in 1801. the month of january was intensely cold. in february it became more moderate. the diseases, during these two months, were catarrhs and a few pleurisies. in march and april there fell an unusual quantity of rain. the hay harvest began in the neighbourhood of philadelphia on the 28th of may. a few mild cases of scarlatina anginosa occurred during these months. in june the weather was dry and healthy. on the 8th of july, a case of yellow fever occurred in the practice of dr. stewart. about the 15th of the month, a patient died with it in the pennsylvania hospital. dr. physick informed me that he had, at the same time, two patients under his care with that disease. several cases of the measles appeared in the south end of the city during this month. in every part of it, the weather was warm and dry, in consequence of which there were no second crops of grass, and a smaller quantity than usual of summer fruits and vegetables. the winds were less steady than they had been for seven years. they blew, every two or three days, from nearly every point of the compass. on the 4th of august there fell a considerable quantity of rain, which was succeeded by cool and pleasant weather. the cholera morbus was a frequent disease among both adults and children in the city, and the dysentery in several of the adjoining counties of the state. a number of emigrant families arrived this month from ireland and wales, who brought with them the ship fever. they were carefully attended, at the lazaretto and the city hospital, in airy rooms, by which means they did not propagate the disease. contrary to its usual character, it partook of the remissions of the bilious fever, probably from the influence of the season upon it. in september there were a few extremely warm days. in the beginning and middle of the month a number of mild remittents occurred, and about the 22d there were five or six cases of yellow fever in eighth-street, between chesnut and walnut-streets, in two houses ill ventilated, and exposed to a good deal of exhalation. i attended most of these cases in consultation with dr. gallaher. one of the persons who was affected with this fever puked black matter while i sat by his bed-side, a few hours before he died. during the summer and autumn of this year, a number of cases of yellow fever appeared at new-bedford, portland, and norwich, in the new-england states; in new-york; in some parts of new-jersey; and in northampton and bucks counties, in pennsylvania. it prevailed so generally in new-york, as to produce a considerable desertion of the city. in none of the above places could the least proof be adduced of the disease being imported. in philadelphia its existence was doubted or denied by most of the citizens, because it appeared in situations remote from the water, and of course could not be derived from any foreign source. it will be difficult to tell why the fever appeared only in sporadic cases in philadelphia. perhaps its prevalence as an epidemic was prevented by the plentiful rains in the spring months, by the absence of moisture from the filth of the streets and gutters, in consequence of the dry weather in june and july, by the vigour and perfection of the products of the earth, and by the variable state of the winds in the month of july. if none of these causes defended the city from more numerous cases of the yellow fever, it must be resolved into the want of a concurring inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere with the common impure sources of that disease. on the 12th of november, about twelve o'clock in the night, an earthquake was felt in philadelphia, attended with a noise as if something heavy had fallen upon a floor. several cases of scarlet fever appeared in december, but the prevailing disease, during the two last autumnal and the first winter months, was the measles. i have taken notice that it appeared in the south end of the city in july. during the months of august and september it was stationary, but in october, november, and december it spread through every part of the city. the following circumstances occurred in this epidemic, as far as it came under my notice. an account of the measles, as they appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1801. i. the disease wore the livery of the autumnal fever in the following particulars. it was strongly marked by remissions and intermissions. the exacerbations came on chiefly at night. there were in many cases a constant nausea, and discharge of bile by puking. i saw one case in which the disease appeared with a violent cholera morbus, and several in which it was accompanied with diarrh[oe]a and dysentery. ii. many severe cases of phrenzy, and two of cynanche trachealis appeared with the measles. iii. a distressing sore mouth followed them, in a child of two years old, that came under my care. iv. a fatal hydrocephalus internus followed them in a boy of eight years old, whom i saw two days before he died. v. i met with a few cases in which the fever and eruption came on in the same day, but i saw one case in which the eruption did not take place until the tenth, and another, in which it did not appear until the fourteenth day after the fever. vi. two children had pustules on their skins, resembling the small-pox, before the eruption of the measles. vii. many children had coughs and watery eyes, but without the measles. the same children had them two or three weeks afterwards. viii. many people who had had the measles, had coughs during the prevalence of the measles, resembling the cough which occurs in that disease. the remedies made use of in my practice were, 1. bleeding, from four to sixty ounces, according to the age of the patient, and the state of the pulse. this remedy relieved the cough, eased the pains in the head, and in one case produced, when used a third time, an immediate eruption of the measles. 2. lenient purges. 3. demulcent drinks. 4. opiates at night. 5. blisters. and, 6. astringent medicines, where a diarrh[oe]a took place. i saw evident advantages from advising a vegetable diet to many children, as soon as any one of the families to which they belonged were attacked by the measles. i lost but one patient in this disease, and that was a child in convulsions. i ascribed my success to bleeding more generally and more copiously than i had been accustomed to do, in the measles of former years. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1802. the weather during the month of january was unusually moderate and pleasant. in the latter end of it, many shrubs put forth leaves and blossomed. i saw a leaf of the honeysuckle, which was more than an inch in length, and above half an inch in breadth. there was but one fall of snow, and that a light one, during the whole month. the winds blew chiefly from the south-west in february. there was a light fall of snow on the 6th. a shad was caught in the delaware, near the city, on the 17th. on the 18th and 19th of the month, the weather became suddenly very cold. on the 22d there was a snow storm, and on the 28th, rain and a general thaw. in march, the weather was wet, cold, and stormy, with the exception of a few pleasant days. the scarlatina anginosa and the cynanche trachealis were the principal diseases that prevailed during the three months that have been mentioned. in april, there were several frosts, which destroyed the blossoms of the peach-trees. in may, the weather was so cool as to make fires agreeable to the last day of the month. the wind blew chiefly, during the whole of it, from the north-east. the scarlatina continued to be the reigning disease. i saw one fatal case of it, in which a redness only, without any ulcers or sloughs, appeared in the throat; and i attended another, in which a total immobility in the limbs was substituted by nature for the pain and swellings in those parts which generally attend the disease. there were three distinct grades of this epidemic. it was attended with such inflammatory or malignant symptoms, in some instances, as to require two or three bleedings; in others it appeared with a typhoid pulse, which yielded to emetics: turbith mineral was preferred for this purpose; while a redness, without a fever, which yielded to a single purge, was the only symptom of it in many people. the weather was cool, rainy, and hot, in succession, in the month of june. the scarlatina continued to be the prevailing disease. during the first and second weeks in july, there fell a good deal of rain. on the 4th of the month i was called to visit mrs. harris, in front-street, between arch and market-streets, with a bilious fever. the scarlatina had imparted to it a general redness on her skin, which induced her to believe it was that disease, and to neglect sending for medical relief for several days. she died on the 13th of the month, with a red eye, a black tongue, hiccup, and a yellow skin. three other cases of malignant bilious fever occurred this month. two of them were attended by dr. dewees and dr. otto. on the 15th of the month, the city was alarmed by an account of this fever having appeared near the corners of front and vine-streets, a part of the city which had for many weeks before been complained of by many people for emitting a f[oe]tid smell, derived from a great quantity of filthy matters stagnating in that neighbourhood, and from the foul air discharged from a vessel called the esperanza, which lay at vine-street wharf. on the 2d of august, it appeared in other parts of the city, particularly in front and water-streets, near the draw-bridge, where it evidently originated from putrid sources. reports were circulated that it was derived from contagion, conveyed to vine-street wharf in the timbers of a vessel called the st. domingo packet, but faithful and accurate inquiries proved that this vessel had been detained one and twenty days, and well cleaned at the lazaretto, and that no one, of fourteen men who had worked on board of her afterwards, had been affected with sickness of any kind. on the 5th of august, the board of health publicly declared the fever to be contagious, and advised an immediate desertion of the city. the advice was followed with uncommon degrees of terror and precipitation. the disease continued, in different parts of the city, during the whole of august and september. on the 5th of october, the citizens were publicly invited from the country by the board of health. during this season, the yellow fever was epidemic in baltimore and wilmington. in the former place it was admitted by their board of health, and in the latter it was proved by dr. vaughan, to be of domestic origin. it prevailed, at the same time, in sussex county and near woodbury, in new-jersey. sporadic cases of it likewise occurred in new-york and boston, and in portsmouth, in new-hampshire. the chronic fever was epidemic in several of the towns of north-carolina; cases of fever, which terminated in a swelling and mortification of the legs, and in death on the third day, appeared on the waters of the juniata, in pennsylvania; and bilious fevers, of a highly inflammatory grade, were likewise common near germantown and frankford, in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. but few of the cases of yellow fever which have been mentioned came under my care, but i saw a considerable number of fevers of a less violent grade. they were the inflammatory, bilious, mild remitting, chronic, and intermitting fevers, and the febricula. they appeared, in some instances, distinct from each other, but they generally blended their symptoms in their different stages. the yellow fever often came on in the mild form of an intermittent, and even a febricula, and as often, after a single paroxysm, ended in a mild remittent or chronic fever. when it appeared in the latter form, it was frequently attended with a slow or low pulse, and a vomiting and hiccup, such as attend in the yellow fever. this diversity of symptoms, with which the summer and autumnal fever came on, made it impossible to decide upon its type on the day of its attack. having been deceived in one instance, i made it a practice afterwards to watch every case i was called to with double vigilance, lest it should contract a malignant form in my hands, without my being prepared to meet it. of the five original and obvious cases of yellow fever to which i was called, i saved none, for i saw but one of them before the last stage of the disease. in many others, i have reason to believe i prevented that malignant form of fever, by the early and liberal use of depleting medicines. the practice of those physicians who attended most of the persons who had the yellow fever, was much less successful than in our former epidemics. i suspected at the time, and i was convinced afterwards, that it was occasioned by relying exclusively upon bleeding, purges, and mercury. the skin, in several of the cases which i saw, was covered with moisture. this clearly pointed out nature's attempt to relieve herself by sweating. upon my mentioning this fact to the late dr. pfeiffer, jun. he instantly adopted my opinion, and informed me, as a reason for doing so, that he had heard of several whole families in the northern liberties, where the disease prevailed most, who, by attacking it in its forming state by profuse sweats, had cured themselves, without the advice of a physician. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in 1803. the weather in january was uniformly cold. on the 21st of the month, the delaware was completely frozen. on the 4th of february there was a general thaw, attended with a storm of hail, thunder, and lightning, which lasted about three quarters of an hour. the diseases of both these winter months were catarrhs and bilious pleurisies. the latter appeared in a tertian type. the pain in the side was most sensible every other day. the weather was cold and dry in march, in consequence of which, vegetation was unusually backward in april. the hooping cough, catarrhs, and scarlatina were the diseases of this month. the beginning of may was very cool. there was ice on the 7th of the month. the winds, during the greatest parts of this and the previous month, were from the north-east. in june, the weather was cool. intermittents were common in this month, as well as in may. such was the predominance of this type of fever over all other diseases, that it appeared in the form of profuse sweats, every other night, in a lady under the care of dr. dewees and myself, in the puerperile fever. on the intermediate nights she had a fever, without the least moisture on her skin. there were a few choleras this month. during the latter end of the month, i lost a patient with many of the symptoms of yellow fever. the weather in july was alternately hot, moderate, and cool, with but little rain. the first two weeks of this month were healthy. a few tertian fevers occurred, which readily yielded to bark, without previous bleeding. between the 25th and 31st of the month, three deaths took place from the yellow fever. in the month of august, the weather was the same as in july, except that there fell more rain in it. mild remittents and cholera infantum were now common. there were likewise several cases of yellow fever during this month. one of them was in fromberger's-court. it was induced by the f[oe]tor of putrid fish in a cellar. a malignant dysentery was epidemic during this month in the upper part of germantown, and in its neighbourhood. several persons, dr. bensell informed me, died of it in thirty hours sickness. it prevailed, at the same time, in many parts of the new-england states. in september, cases of yellow fever appeared in different parts of the city, but chiefly in water, near walnut-street. on the 12th of the month, the board of health published a declaration of its existence in the city, but said it was not contagious. this opinion gave great offence, for it was generally said to have been imported by means of a packet-boat from new-york, where the fever then prevailed, because a man had sickened and died in the neighbourhood of the wharf where this packet was moored. it was to no purpose to oppose to this belief, proofs that no sick person, and no goods supposed to be infected, had arrived in this boat, and that no one of three men, who had received the seeds of the disease in new-york, had communicated it to any one of the families in philadelphia, in which they had sickened and died. the disease assumed a new character this year, and was cured by a different force of medicine from that which was employed in some of the years in which it had prevailed in philadelphia. i shall briefly describe it in each of the systems, and then take notice of some peculiarities which attended it. afterwards i shall mention the remedies which were effectual in curing it. 1. the pulse was moderately _tense_ in most cases. it intermitted in one case, and in several others the tension was of a transient nature. hæmorrhages occurred in many cases. they were chiefly from the nose, but in some instances they occurred from the stomach, bowels, and hæmorrhoidal vessels. 2. great flatulency attended in the stomach, but sickness and vomiting were much less frequent than in former years. i saw but one case in which diarrh[oe]a attended this fever. 3. i did not meet with a single instance of a glandular swelling in any part of the body. 4. there was a general disposition to sweat in this fever from its beginning. two of my patients died, in whom no moisture could be excited on the skin. but i recovered one with a dry skin, by means of a purge, two bleedings, and blisters. an efflorescence on the skin occurred in several instances. i saw black matter discharged from a blister in one case, and blood in another. 5. the stools were green and black. bile was generally discharged in puking. 6. the blood exhibited the following appearances: siziness, lotura carnium, sunken crassamentum, red sediment, and what is called dense or unseparated blood. i saw no instance of its being dissolved. 7. the tongue was whitish and dark-coloured. this diseased appearance continued, in some instances, several days after a recovery took place. i saw no smooth, red, nor black tongue, and but one dry and one _natural_ tongue. the latter was followed by death. i did not see a single case in which the disease came on without an exciting cause; such as light clothing and bed-clothes, sitting at doors after night, a long walk, gunning, and violent and unusual exercises of any kind. it was excited in a number of people by their exertions to extinguish a fire which took place in water-street, between market and chesnut-streets, on the morning of the 25th of august. i saw a fatal instance of it succeed a severe tooth-ach. whether this pain was the exciting cause, or the first morbid symptom of the fever, i know not; but i was led by it to bleed a young lady twice who complained of that pain, and who had at the same time a tense pulse. her blood had the usual appearances which occur in the yellow fever. the disease had different appearances in different parts of the city. it was most malignant in water-street; but in many instances it became less so, as it travelled westward, so that about ninth-street it appeared in the form of a common intermittent. in every part of the city it often came on, as in the year 1802, in all the milder forms of autumnal fever formerly enumerated, and went off with the usual symptoms of yellow fever. again, it came on with all the force and malignity of a yellow fever, and terminated, in a day or two, in a common remittent or intermittent. these modes of attack were so common, that it was impossible to tell what the character, or probable issue of a fever would be, for two or three days. the following remedies were found, very generally, to be effectual in this fever. 1. moderate bleeding. i bled but three patients three, and only one, four times. in general, the loss of from ten to twenty ounces of blood, reduced the pulse from a synocha to a synoichoid or typhoid state, and thereby prepared the system for other remedies. 2. purges were always useful. i gave calomel and jalap, castor oil, salts, and senna, according to the grade of the disease, and often according to the humour or taste of the patient. i aided these purges by glysters. in one case, where a griping and black stools attended, i directed injections of lime water and milk to be used, with the happiest effects. 3. i gave emetics in many cases with advantage, but never while the pulse was full or tense. 4. having observed, as in the year 1802, a spontaneous moisture on the skin on the first day of the disease, in several cases, i was led to assist this disposition in nature to be relieved by the pores, by means of sweating remedies, but in no instance did i follow it, without previous evacuations from the blood-vessels or bowels; for, however useful the intimations of nature may be in acute diseases, her efforts should never be trusted to alone, inasmuch as they are in most cases too feeble to do service, or so violent as to do mischief. i saw one death, and i heard of another, from an exclusive reliance upon spontaneous sweats in the beginning of this fever. the remedies i employed to promote this evacuation by the pores were, an infusion of the eupatorium perfoliatum in boiling water, aided by copious warm drinks, and hot bricks and blankets, applied to the external surface of the body. the eupatorium sometimes sickened the stomach, and puked. the sweats were intermitted, and renewed two or three times in the course of four and twenty hours. 5. i derived great advantage from the application of blisters to the wrists, _before_ the system descended to what i have elsewhere called, the blistering point. this was on the second and third days. my design, in applying them thus early, was to attract morbid excitement to the extremities, and thereby to create a substitute for a salivation. they had this effect. the pain, increase of fever, and occasional strangury, which were produced by them, served like anchors to prevent the system being drifted and lost, by the concentration of morbid excitement in the stomach and brain, on the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh days of the disease. it gave me great pleasure to find, upon revising dr. home's account of the yellow fever, that this mode of applying blisters, in the early stage of the disease, was not a new one. he often applied them in the first stage of the fever, more especially when the yellow colour of the skin made its appearance on the first or second day. by the advice of dr. cheney, of jamaica, he was led to prefer them to the thighs, instead of the trunk of the body, or the legs and arms. he forbids their ever being applied below the calf of the legs. this caution is probably more necessary in the west-indies than in the united states. the pain and inflammation excited by the blisters were mitigated by soft poultices of bread and milk. the strangury soon yielded to demulcent drinks, particularly to flaxseed tea. i was happy in not being compelled, by the violence or obstinacy of this fever, to resort to a salivation in order to cure it, in a single instance; the discharges from the stomach and bowels, and from the veins, pores, and skin, having proved sufficient to convey the disease out of the system. two persons recovered this year who had the black vomiting. one of them was by means of large quantities of brandy and volatile alkali, administered by dr. john dorsey, in the city hospital; the other was by means of lime and water and milk, given by an intelligent nurse to one of my patients, during the interval of my visits to her. from the history which has been given of the symptoms of this fever; from the less force of medicine that was necessary to subdue it; from the safety and advantage of blisters in its _early_ stage; and from the small proportion which the deaths bore to the number of those who were affected, being seldom more than five in a hundred (including all the grades and forms of the disease), in the practice of most of the physicians, it is evident this fever was of a less malignant nature than it had been in most of the years in which it had been epidemic. there was one more circumstance which proved its diminution of violence, and that was, a more feeble operation of its remote cause. in the year 1802, nearly all the persons who were affected with the fever in the neighbourhood of vine and water-streets, and in water, between walnut and spruce-streets, died. this year, but two died of a great number who were sick in the former, and not one out of twelve who were sick in the latter place. the filth, in both parts of the city, was the same in both years. this difference in the violence and mortality of the fever was probably occasioned by a less concentrated state of the miasmata which produced it, or by the co-operation of a less inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere. the yellow fever was epidemic, during the summer and autumn of this year, in new-york, and in alexandria, in virginia. in the latter place, dr. dick has informed the public, it was derived from domestic putrefaction. an account of sporadic cases of _yellow fever_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in 1804. the month of january was marked by deep snows, rain, clear and cold weather, and by the general healthiness of the city. in february there fell a deep snow, which was followed by several very cold days. there was likewise a fall of snow in march, which was succeeded by an uncommon degree of cold. catarrhs and bilious pleurisies were very common during both these months. in the beginning of april, the weather was cold and rainy. there were but few signs of vegetation before the 15th of the month. bilious pleurisies were still the principal diseases which prevailed in the city. the month of may was wet, cool, and healthy. in june, the winds were easterly, and the weather rainy. the crops of grass were luxuriant. it was remarked, that the milk of cows that fed upon this grass yielded less butter than usual, and that horses that fed upon it, sweated profusely with but little exercise. on the third of the month, i was called upon by dr. physick to visit his father, who was ill with a bilious fever. he died on the seventh, with a red eye, hiccup, and black vomiting. four persons had the yellow fever in the month of july. one of them was in fourth-street, between pine and lombard-streets, another was in fifth-street, between race and vine-streets, both of whom recovered. the remaining two were in the pennsylvania hospital, both of whom died. remitting and intermitting fevers were likewise common in this month. in august, those fevers assumed a chronic form. during this month, there died an unusual number of children with the cholera morbus. the city was uncommonly healthy in september. a storm of wind and rain, from the south-east, proved destructive to the crops of cotton this month, on the sea coast of south-carolina. in october, intermittents were very common between eighth-street and schuylkill. one case of yellow fever came under my care, in conjunction with dr. gallaher, on the western banks of that river. while philadelphia and all the cities of the united states (charleston excepted) were thus exempted from the yellow fever as an epidemic, the western parts of all the middle, and several of the southern states, were visited with the bilious fever, in all its different forms. in delaware county, in the state of new-york, at mill river, in connecticut, and in several of the middle counties of pennsylvania, it prevailed in the form of a yellow fever. in other parts of the united states, it appeared chiefly as a highly inflammatory remittent. it was so general, that not only whole families, but whole neighbourhoods were confined by it. many suffered from the want of medical advice and nursing, and some from the want of even a single attendant. in consequence of the general prevalence of this fever in some parts of pennsylvania, the usual labours of the season were suspended. apples fell and perished upon the ground; no winter grain was sowed; and even cows passed whole days and nights without being milked. the mortality of this fever was considerable, where those distressing circumstances took place. in more favourable circumstances, it yielded to early depletion, and afterwards to the bark. relapses were frequent, from premature exposure to the air. those only escaped them who had been salivated, by accident or design, for the cure of the fever. this disease was observed very generally to prevail most in high situations, which had been for years distinguished for their healthiness, while the low grounds, and the banks of creeks and rivers, were but little affected by it. the unusual quantity of rain, which had fallen during the summer months, had produced moisture in the former places, which favoured putrefaction and exhalation, while both were prevented, in the latter places, by the grounds being completely covered with water. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1805. for a history of the uncommonly cold and tempestuous winter of 1804 and 1805, the reader is referred to the account of the climate of pennsylvania, in the first volume of these inquiries and observations. during the months of january, february, and march, there were a number of bilious catarrhs and pleurisies. on the 7th of april, i visited a patient in the yellow fever with dr. stewart. he was cured, chiefly by copious bleeding. the weather was rainy in may. after the middle of june, and during the whole month of july, there fell no rain. the mercury in fahrenheit fluctuated, for ten days, between 90° and 94°, during this month. the diseases which occurred in it were cholera infantum, dysenteries, a few common bilious, and eight cases of yellow fever. three of the last were in twelfth, between locust and walnut-streets, and were first visited, on the 14th and 15th of the month, by dr. hartshorn, as out-patients of the pennsylvania hospital. two of them were attended, about a week afterwards, by dr. church, in southwark, and the remaining three by dr. rouisseau and dr. stewart, in the south end of the city. on the third of august, there fell a heavy shower of rain, but the weather, during the remaining part of the month, was warm and dry. the pastures were burnt up, and there was a great deficiency of summer vegetables in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. the water in the schuylkill was lower by three inches than it had been in the memory of a man of 70 years of age, who had lived constantly within sight of it. in september, a number of cases of yellow fever appeared in southwark[9], near catharine-street. they were readily traced to a large bed of oysters, which had putrified on catharine-street wharf, and which had emitted a most offensive exhalation throughout the whole neighbourhood, for several weeks before the fever made its appearance. this exhalation proved fatal to a number of cats and dogs, and it now became obvious that the two cases of yellow fever, that were attended by dr. church, in the month of july, were derived from it. an attempt was made to impose a belief that they were taken by contagion from a ship at the lazaretto, which had lately arrived from the west-indies, but a careful investigation of this tale proved, that neither of the two subjects of the fever had been on board that, nor any other ship, then under quarantine. [9] this extensive district is continued, from the city of philadelphia, along the delaware, but is not subject to its government. the fever prevailed during the whole of this month in southwark. a few cases of it appeared in the city, most of which were in persons who had resided in, or visited that district. it was brought on by weak exciting causes in southwark, but the cases which originated in the city, required strong exciting causes to produce them. a heavy rain, accompanied with a good deal of wind, on the 28th of september, and a frost on the night of the 7th of october, gave a considerable check to the fever. but few cases of it came under my care. having perceived the same disposition in nature to relieve herself by the pores, that i observed in the years 1802 and 1803, my remedies were the same as in the latter year, and attended with the same success. dr. caldwell and dr. stewart, whose practice was extensive in southwark, informed me, those remedies had been generally successful in their hands. the only new medicine that the experience of this year suggested in this disease, was for one of its most distressing and dangerous symptoms, that is, the vomiting which occurs in its second stage. dr. physick discovered, that ten drops of the spirit of turpentine, given every two hours, in a little molasses, or syrup, or sweet oil, effectually checked it in several instances, in patients who afterwards recovered. it was administered with equal success in a case which came under my care, after an absence of pulse, and a coldness of the extremities had taken place. dr. church informed me that he gave great relief to the sick in the city hospital, by this medicine, by prescribing it in glysters, as well as by the mouth, in distressing affections of the stomach and bowels. dr. stewart observed that all those persons who had been affected by the yellow fever in former years, had mild remittents in the same situations that others had the prevailing epidemic in a malignant form. in one of four bodies the doctor examined, he found six, and in another three intussusceptions of the intestines, without any signs of inflammation. he discovered the common marks of disease from this fever in other parts of those bodies. the deaths from this fever amounted to between three and four hundred. they would probably have been more numerous, had not those families who were in competent circumstances fled into the country, and had not the poor been removed, by the board of health, from the infected atmosphere of southwark, to tents provided for them in the neighbourhood of the city; and they would probably have been fewer, considering the tractable nature of the disease, when met by suitable remedies in its early stage, had not the sick concealed their indisposition, in many instances, for two or three days, lest they should be dragged to the city hospital, or have centinels placed at their doors, to prevent any communication with their friends and neighbours. while these attempts were made to check the progress of the fever, it did not escape the notice of many of the citizens of philadelphia, that not a single instance occurred of its being communicated by contagion, in any of the families in the city, in which persons had sickened or died with it, and that while the sick were deprived of the kind offices of their friends and neighbours, lest they should be infected, physicians, and the members of the board of health, passed by the guards every day, in their visits to the same sick people, and afterwards mixed with their fellow-citizens, in every part of the city, without changing their clothes. the yellow fever appeared early in the season in new-haven, in connecticut, and in providence, on rhode-island, in both of which places it was derived from putrid exhalation, and was speedily and effectually checked by removing the healthy persons who lived in its neighbourhood to a distance from it. several sporadic cases of it occurred during the autumn in gloucester county, in new-jersey, and in mifflin and chester counties, in pennsylvania. it was epidemic in new-york at the same time it prevailed in southwark and philadelphia. the following extract of a letter from the health officer of new-york, to one of his friends, contains a satisfactory proof that it was not, in that city, an imported disease. _quarantine-ground, sept. 7._ i most sincerely and tenderly deplore the unfortunate situation of our city. what do people say now of the origin of the disease? you may state, for the information of those who wished to be informed, that not a single vessel, on board of which a person has been sick with fever of any kind, or on board of which any person has died with any disease, while in the west-indies, or on the voyage home, has ever gone up to the city during this whole season. this we know, and this we vouch for; and farther state, that all the cases of fever that have come down as from the city, have been _all_ people of, and belonging to the city, and unconnected with the shipping, excepting one, a sailor, who had no connection with any foul vessel. there is not a shadow of proof or suspicion that can attach to the health-office, or to infected vessels, this season. i am, &c. john r. b. rodgers. having concluded the history of the bilious yellow fever, as it has appeared in eleven successive years, since 1793, as an epidemic, or in sporadic cases, i shall proceed next to enumerate all the sources of that fever, as well as all the other usual forms of the summer and autumnal disease of the united states, and afterwards mention the means of preventing them. an inquiry into the various sources of the usual forms of _summer & autumnal disease_ in the united states, and the means of preventing them. the business of the following inquiry is, i. to enumerate the various sources of the usual forms of the summer and autumnal disease in the united states. and, ii. to mention the means of preventing them. to render the application of those means as extensive as possible, it will be proper to mention, under the first head, all those sources of summer and autumnal disease, which have been known to produce it in other countries, as well as in the united states. they are, 1. exhalations from marshes. these are supposed to be partly of a vegetable, and partly of an animal nature. they are derived from the shores of creeks and mill ponds, as well as from low and wet grounds; also from the following vegetable substances in a state of putrefaction. 2. cabbage. a malignant fever was produced at oxford, by a putrid heap of this vegetable some years ago, which proved fatal to many of the inhabitants, and to several of the students of the university at that place. 3. potatoes. nearly a whole ship's crew perished at tortola, by removing from her hold, a quantity of putrid potatoes. 4. pepper. 5. indian meal. 6. onions. 7. mint. 8. anise and caraway seeds, confined in the hold of a ship. 9. coffee. "about the time," says dr. trotter, "when notice was taken of the putrifying coffee on the wharf at philadelphia, in the year 1793, a captain of a man of war, just returned from the jamaica station, informed me, that several vessels laden with the same produce came to kingston, from st. domingo. during the distracted state of that colony, this article, with other productions, had been allowed to spoil and ferment. the evolution of a great quantity of fixed air, or carbonic acid gas, was the consequence; and in these vessels, when opening the hatchways, such was its concentrated state, that the whole of the crew, in some of them, were found dead on the deck. a pilot boarded one of them in this condition, and had nearly perished himself[10]." [10] medicina nautica, p. 324. 10. chocolate shells. 11. cotton which had been wetted on board of a vessel that arrived in new-york, a few years ago, from savannah, in georgia. 12. hemp, flax, and straw. 13. the canvas of an old tent. 14. old books, and old paper money, that had been wetted, and confined in close rooms and closets. 15. the timber of an old house. a fever produced by this cause is mentioned by dr. haller, in his bibliotheca medicinæ. 16. green wood confined in a close cellar during the summer months. a fever from this cause was once produced in this city, in a family that was attended by the late dr. cadwallader. 17. the green timber of a new ship. captain thomas bell informed me, that in a voyage to the east-indies, in the year 1784, he lost six of his men with the scurvy, which he supposed to be derived wholly from the foul air emitted by the green timber of his ship. the hammocks which were near the sides of the ship rotted during the voyage, while those which were suspended in the middle of the ship, retained their sound and natural state. this scurvy has been lately proved by dr. claiborne, in an ingenious inaugural dissertation, published in philadelphia, in the year 1798, to be a misplaced state of malignant fever. dr. lind mentions likewise the timber of new ships as one of the sources of febrile diseases. the timber of soldiers' huts, and of the cabins of men who follow the business of making charcoal in the woods, often produce fevers, as soon as the bark begins to rot and fall from them, which is generally on the second year after they are erected. fevers have been excited even by the exhalation from trees, that have been killed by being girdled in an old field. 18. the stagnating air of the hold of a ship. 19. bilge water. 20. water that had long been confined in hogsheads at sea. 21. stagnating rain water. 22. the stagnating air of close cellars. 23. the matters which usually stagnate in the gutters, common sewers, docks, and alleys of cities, and in the sinks of kitchens. a citizen of philadelphia, who had a sink in his kitchen, lost a number of cats and dogs by convulsions. at length one of his servants was affected with the same disease. this led him to investigate the cause of it. he soon traced it to his sink. by altering its construction, so as to prevent the escape of noxious air from it, he destroyed its unwholesome quality, so that all his domestics lived in good health in his kitchen-afterwards. 24. air emitted by agitating foul and stagnating water. dr. franklin was once infected with an intermitting fever from this cause. 25. a duck pond. the children of a family in this city were observed, for several successive years, to be affected with a bilious remitting fever. the physician of the family, dr. phineas bond, observing no other persons to be affected with the same fever in the neighbourhood, suspected that it arose from some local cause. he examined the yard belonging to the house, where he found an offensive duck pond. the pond was filled with earth, and the family were afterwards free from an annual bilious fever. 26. a hog-stye has been known to produce violent bilious fevers throughout a whole neighbourhood in philadelphia. 27. weeds cut down, and exposed to heat and moisture near a house. fevers are less frequently produced by putrid animal, than by putrid vegetable matters. there are, however, instances of their having been generated by the following animal substances in a state of putrefaction. 1. human bodies that have been left unburied upon a field of battle. 2. salted beef and pork. 3. locusts. 4. raw hides confined in stores, and in the holds of ships. 5. a whale thrown upon the sea shore in holland. 6. a large bed of oysters. the malignant fevers which prevailed in alexandria, in virginia, in 1803, and in southwark, adjoining philadelphia, in the year 1805, were derived from this cause[11]. [11] it has been a common practice with many families, in new-york and philadelphia, for several years past, to lay in a winter store of oysters in their cellars in the fall of the year. may not a part of these oysters, left in these cellars from forgetfulness, or from being unfit for use, become, by putrifying there, the cause of malignant fevers in the succeeding summer and autumn? 7. the entrails of fish. and, 8. privies. the diarrh[oe]a and dysentery are produced, oftener than any other form of summer and autumnal disease, by the f[oe]tor of privies. during the revolutionary war, an american regiment, consisting of 600 men, were affected with a dysentery, from being encamped near a large mass of human fæces. the disease was suddenly checked by removing their encampment to a distance from it. five persons in one family were affected with the yellow fever in philadelphia, in 1805, who lived in a house in which a privy in the cellar emitted a most offensive smell. no one of them had been exposed to the foul air of southwark, in which the fever chiefly prevailed in the autumn of that year. three of them sickened at the same time, which obviated the suspicion of the disease being produced by contagion. there are several other sources of malignant fevers besides those which have been mentioned. they are, exhalations from volcanoes, wells, and springs of water; also flesh[12], fish, and vegetables, eaten in a putrid state; but these seldom act in any country, and two of them only, and that rarely, in the united states. [12] the following fact, communicated to me by mr. samuel lyman, a member of congress from the state of massachusetts, shows the importance of attending to the condition of butchers' meat in our attempts to prevent malignant fevers. a farmer in new-hampshire, who had overheated a fat ox by excessive labour in the time of harvest, perceiving him to be indisposed, instantly killed him, and sent his flesh to a neighbouring market. of twenty four persons who ate of this flesh, fifteen died in a few days. the fatal disease produced by this aliment fell, with its chief force, upon the stomach and bowels. the usual forms of the disease produced by miasmata from the sources of them which have been enumerated are, 1. malignant or bilious yellow fever. 2. inflammatory bilious fever. 3. mild remittent. 4. mild intermittent. 5. chronic, or what is called nervous fever. 6. febricula. 7. dysentery. 8. colic. 9. cholera morbus. 10. diarrh[oe]a. in deriving all the above forms of disease from miasmata, i do not mean to insinuate, that sporadic cases of each of them are not produced by other causes. in designating them by a single name, i commit no breach upon the ancient nomenclature of medicine. the gout affects not only the blood-vessels and bowels, but every other part of the body, and yet no writer has, upon that account, distinguished it by a plural epithet. the four last of the forms of disease, that have been mentioned, have been very properly called intestinal states of fever. they nearly accord, in their greater or less degrees of violence and danger, with the first four states of fever which occupy the blood-vessels, and in the order in which both of them have been named. i shall illustrate this remark by barely mentioning the resemblance of the yellow fever to the dysentery, in being attended with costiveness in its first stage, from a suspended or defective secretion or excretion of bile, and in terminating very generally in death, when not met by the early use of depleting remedies. the variety in the forms and grades of the summer and autumnal disease, in different seasons, and their occasional changes into each other in the same seasons, are to be sought for in the variety of the sensible and insensible qualities of the atmosphere, of the course of the winds, and of the aliments of different years. ii. the means of preventing the different forms of disease that have been mentioned, come next under our consideration. happily for mankind, heaven has kindly sent certain premonitory signs of the most fatal of them. these signs appear, i. externally, in certain changes in previous diseases, in the atmosphere, and in the animal and vegetable creation. ii. in the human body. 1. the first external premonitory sign that i shall mention is, an unusual degree of violence in the diseases of the previous year or season. many proofs of the truth of this remark are to be met with in the works of dr. sydenham. it has been confirmed in philadelphia, in nearly all her malignant fevers since the year 1793. it would seem as if great and mortal epidemics, like the planets, had satellites revolving round them, for they are not only preceded, but accompanied and followed, by diseases which appear to reflect back upon them some of their malignity. but there is an exception to this remark, for we now and then observe uncommon and general healthiness, before the appearance of a malignant epidemic. this was the case in philadelphia, previously to the fevers of 1798 and 1799. i have ascribed this to the stimulus of the pestilential miasmata barely overcoming the action of weak diseases, without being powerful enough to excite a malignant fever. 2. substances, painted with white lead, and exposed to the air, suddenly assuming a dark colour; and winds from unusual quarters, and unusual and long protracted calms, indicate the approach of a pestilential disease. the south winds have blown upon the city of philadelphia, ever since 1793, more constantly than in former years. a smokiness or mist in the air, the late dr. matthew wilson has remarked, generally precedes a sickly autumn in the state of delaware. 3. malignant and mortal epidemics are often preceded by uncommon sickness and mortality among certain birds and beasts. they have both appeared, chiefly among wild pigeons and cats in the united states. the mortality among cats, previous to the appearance of epidemics, has been taken notice of in other countries. dr. willan says it occurred in the city of london, between the 20th of march and the 20th of april, in the year 1797, before a sickly season, and dr. buneiva says it preceded a mortal epidemic in paris. the cats, the doctor remarks, lose, on the second day of their disease, the power of emitting electrical sparks from their backs, and, when thrown from a height, do not, as in health, fall upon their feet[13]. [13] medical journal, vol. iv. 4. the common house fly has nearly disappeared from our cities, moschetoes have been multiplied, and several new insects have appeared, just before the prevalence of our late malignant epidemics. 5. certain trees have emitted an unusual smell; the leaves of others have fallen prematurely; summer fruits have been less in size, and of an inferior quality; and apples and pears have been knotty, in the summers previous to several of our malignant autumnal fevers. dr. ambrose parey says, an unusually rapid growth of mushrooms once preceded the plague in paris. ii. the premonitory signs of an approaching malignant epidemic in the human body are, 1. a sudden drying up, or breaking out of an old sore; fresh eruptions in different parts of the body; a cessation of a chronic disease, or a conversion of a periodical into a continual disease. of this there were many instances in philadelphia, in the year 1793. 2. a peculiar sallowness of the complexion. this was observed to be general in philadelphia, previous to the yellow fever of 1793. dr. dick informed me, that he had observed the same appearance in the faces of the people of alexandria, accompanied in some cases with a yellowness of the eyes, during the summer of 1793, and previous to the appearance of a violent bilious fever on the banks of the potomac. 3. i have observed one or more of the following symptoms, namely, head-ach; a decay, or increase of appetite; costiveness; a diminished or increased secretion of urine; a hot and offensive breath[14]; constant sweats, and sometimes of a f[oe]tid nature, or a dry skin; wakefulness, or a disposition to early or protracted sleep; a preternaturally frequent pulse; unusual vivacity, or depression of spirits; fatigue and sweats from light exertions; hands, when rubbed, emitting a smell like hepar sulphuris; and, lastly, a sense of burning in the mouth; to be present in different persons, during the prevalence of our malignant epidemics. [14] i have once known this breath, in a gentleman who had carried the seeds of the yellow fever in his body from philadelphia into its neighbourhood, create sickness at the stomach in his wife; and i have heard of an instance in which a person, who left philadelphia when highly impregnated with the miasmata of the same fever, creating sickness at the stomach in four or five persons who sat at the same table with him in the country. none of the above persons were afterwards affected by the fever. in an anonymous history of the plague in london, in the year 1664, in the possession of the author, it is said, the breath was a well-known signal of infection to persons who were not infected, and that whenever it was perceived, individuals and companies fled from it. the sickness in the above-mentioned persons was similar to that which is sometimes excited by the smell of a sore leg, or a gun-shot wound, upon the removal of its first dressing. it does not produce fever, because there is no predisposition to it. the means of preventing the different forms of our summer and autumnal disease come next under our consideration. i shall first mention such as have been most effectual in guarding against its malignant form, and afterwards take notice of such as are proper in its milder grades. these means naturally divide themselves again, i. into such as are proper to protect individuals. ii. such as are proper to defend whole communities from the disease. and, iii. such as are proper to exterminate it, by removing its causes. i. of the means of protecting individuals. where flight is practicable, it should be resorted to in every case, to avoid an attack of a malignant fever. the heights of germantown and darby have, for many years, afforded a secure retreat to a large number of the citizens of philadelphia, from their late annual epidemics. it were to be wished our governments possessed a power of compelling our citizens to desert the whole, or parts, of infected cities and villages. in this way the yellow fever was suddenly annihilated in providence, on rhode-island, and in new-haven, in connecticut, in the year 1805. but the same power should rigorously prevent the removal of the sick, except it be that class of them which have neither homes nor friends. the less the distance they are carried beyond the infected atmosphere, the better. the injury sustained by conveying them in a jolting carriage, for two or three miles, has often been proclaimed in the reports of our city hospitals, of patients being admitted without a pulse, and dying a few hours afterwards. in leaving a place infected by miasmata, care should be taken not to expose the body to great cold, heat, or fatigue, for eighteen or twenty days, lest they should excite the dormant seeds of the disease into action. but where flight is not enforced by law, or where it is not practicable, or preferred, safety should be sought for in such means as reduce the preternatural tone and fulness induced in the blood-vessels by the stimulus of the miasmata, and the suppression of customary secretions. these are, 1. a diet, accommodated to the greater or less exposure of the body to the action of miasmata, and to the greater or less degrees of labour, or exercise, which are taken. in cases of great exposure to an infected atmosphere, with but little exercise, the diet should be simple in its quality, and small in its quantity. fresh meats and wine should be avoided. a little salted meat, and cayenne pepper with vegetables, prevent an undue languor of the stomach, from the want of its usual cordial aliments. the less mortality of the yellow fever in the french and spanish west-india islands than in the british, has been justly attributed to the more temperate habits of the natives of france and spain. the bramins, who live wholly upon vegetables, escape the malignant fevers of india, while whole regiments of europeans, who eat animal food, die in their neighbourhood. the people of minorca, dr. cleghorn says, who reside near gardens, and live chiefly upon fruit during the summer, escape the violent autumnal fever of that island. the field negroes of south-carolina owe their exemption from bilious fevers to their living chiefly upon vegetables. there is a fact which shows, that not only temperance, but abstinence bordering upon famine, has afforded a protection from malignant fevers. in a letter which i received a few months ago, from the rev. thomas hall, chaplain to the british factory at leghorn, containing an account of the yellow fever which prevailed in that city, in the summer and autumn of 1804, there is the following communication. "of the _rich_, who live in large airy houses, there died but four persons with the fever. of the _commodious_, who live comfortably, but not affluently, there died ten. of the _poor_, who inhabited small and crowded rooms, in the dirty and confined parts of the city, there died nearly seven hundred. but of the _beggars_, who had scarcely any thing to eat, and who slept half naked every night upon hard pavements, not one died." from the reduced and exhausted state of the system in these people, they were incapable, if i may be allowed the expression, of the combustion of fever. persons reduced by chronic diseases, in like manner, often escape such as are acute. six french ships of the line landed 300 sick, at st. domingo, while the yellow fever prevailed there in the year 1745, and yet no one of them was infected by it[15]. [15] desportes, vol. i. p. 140. where the body is exposed to miasmata, and a great deal of exercise taken at the same time, broths, a little wine, or malt liquors, may be used with the fruits and garden vegetables of the season, with safety and advantage. the change from a full to a low diet should be made gradually. when made suddenly, it predisposes to an attack of the disease. 2. laxative medicines. hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the citizens of philadelphia were indebted for their preservation from the yellow fever to the occasional use of a calomel pill, a few grains of rhubarb, or a table-spoonful of sweet, or castor oil, during the prevalence of our late pestilential fevers. even the air of batavia has been deprived of its poisonous quality, by means of this class of medicines. a citizen of philadelphia asked a captain of a new-england ship, whom he met at that island, how he preserved the whole crew of his ship in health, while half the sailors of all the other ships in the harbour were sick or dead. he informed him, that it was by giving each of them a gentle purge of sulphur every day. 3. a plentiful perspiration, or moderate sweats, kept up by means of warm clothing and bed-clothes. the excretion which takes place by the skin, is a discharge of the first necessity. i have never known an instance of a person's being attacked by the yellow fever in whom this discharge was constant, and equally diffused all over the body. its effects are equally salutary in preventing the plague. so well known is this fact, that mr. volney informs us, in his travels into egypt, that the common salutation at cairo, during the prevalence of the plague, is, "do you sweat freely?" for the purpose of promoting this excretion, flannel shirts or waistcoats worn next to the skin have been found more useful than linen. as the perspiration and sweats, which are thus discharged in a pestilential season, are often unusual in their quantity, and of a morbid quality, clean body-linen or flannel should be put on every day, and where this is not practicable, that which has been worn should be exchanged every morning and evening for that which has been exposed during the previous day and night, in a dry air. 4. blood-letting. in addition to the authorities of dr. haller and dr. hodges, mentioned in another place[16], in favour of this remedy, i shall subjoin a few others. dr. mitchell, in his account of the yellow fever which prevailed in virginia, in the year 1741, informs us, that it was often prevented in persons who were under the influence of its remote cause, by the loss of a few ounces of blood. it was formerly a practice among the physicians in st. domingo, to bleed whole regiments of troops as soon as they arrived from france, by which means they were preserved from the malignant fever of the island. [16] account of the yellow fever in 1793, vol. iii. during the short visit paid to this city, in the year 1798, by dr. borland, a respectable physician of the british army, he put into my hands the following communication. "in the beginning of august, 1797, 109 dutch artillery arrived at port au prince, in the bangalore transport. the florid appearance of the men, their cumbersome clothing, and the season of the year, seemed all unfavourable omens of the melancholy fate we presumed awaited them. it was, however, thought a favourable opportunity, by dr. jackson and myself, to try what could be done in warding off the fever. it was accordingly suggested to monsieur conturier, the chief surgeon of the foreign troops, and the surgeon of the regiment, that the whole detachment should be blooded freely, and that, the morning after, a dose of physic should be administered to every man. this was implicitly complied with, a day or two after, and at this moment in which i write, although a period of four months has elapsed, but two of that detachment have died, one of whom was in a dangerous state when he landed. a success unparalleled during the war in st domingo! it is true, several have been attacked with the disease, but in those the symptoms were less violent, and readily subsided by the use of the lancet. "the _crew_ of the bangalore, on her arrival at port au prince, consisted of twenty-eight men. with them no preventive plan was followed. in a very few weeks eight died, and at present, of the original number, but fourteen remain." all these depleting remedies, whether used separately or together, induce such an artificial debility in the system, as disposes it to vibrate more readily under the impression of the miasmata. thus the willow rises, after bowing before a blast of wind, while the unyielding oak falls to the ground by its side. it is from the similarity of the natural weakness in the systems of women, in the west-indies, with that which has been induced by the artificial means that have been mentioned, that they so generally escape the malignant endemic of the islands. a second class of preventives of malignant fever are such as obviate the internal action of miasmata, by exciting a general or partial determination to the external surface of the body. these are, 1. the warm bath. i have known this grateful remedy used with success in our city. it serves the treble purposes of keeping the skin clean, and the pores open, and of defending what are called the vital organs from disease, by inviting its remote cause to the external surface of the body. 2. the cold bath, or cold water applied to the external surface of the body. ulloa, in his travels through cuba, tells us the spaniards make it a practice, when partially wetted by the rain, to plunge themselves, with their wet clothes on, into the first stream of water they meet with afterwards, by which means they avoid taking the fever of the island. where this cannot be conveniently done, the peasants strip off their clothes, and put them under a shelter, and receive showers of rain upon their naked bodies, and thus preserve themselves from the fever. dr. baynard has left it upon record, in his treatise upon the cold bath, that those persons who lived in water-mills, also watermen, bargemen, and fishermen, who were employed upon the river, and in dabbling in cold water, were rarely affected by the plague in london, in 1665, and that but two persons died with it on london bridge. the water carriers at cairo, mr. volney says, uniformly escape the plague; and dr. chisholm informs us, that those negroes in demarara who go naked, and are thereby disposed not to avoid showers of rain, are never affected with the fever of that country. 3. washing the body, every morning and evening, with salt water. a whole ship's crew from philadelphia was preserved by this means from the yellow fever, some years ago, in one of the west-india islands, while a large proportion of the crews of several ships, that lay in the same harbour, perished by that disease. 4. anointing the body with oil. the natives of africa, and some american indians, use this preventive with success during their sickly seasons. it has lately been used, it is said, with effect in preventing the plague. its efficacy for that purpose was first suggested by no oilman having died of that disease during four years, in which time 100,000 people perished with it in egypt. oliver, in his travels into that country, says the men who make and sell butter, are equally fortunate in escaping it. 5. issues, setons, and blisters belong to this class of preventives of malignant and bilious fevers. issues, according to parisinus, florentinus, forestus, and several other authors quoted by diemerbroeck, have prevented the plague in many hundred instances. paræus says, all who had ulcers from the venereal disease, or any other cause, escaped it. dr. hodges owed his preservation from the plague in london, in 1665, to an issue in his leg. he says he always felt a slight pain in it when he went into a sick room. dr. gallaher ascribed his escape from the yellow fever of 1799 to a perpetual blister, which he applied to his arm for that purpose. dr. barton favoured me with the sight of a letter from dr. james stevens, dated january 12, 1801, in which he says he believed dr. beach (formerly of connecticut) had been preserved from the bilious fever by a seton in his side. he adds further, that dr. beach had been called to attend the labourers at the onandoga salt springs, in the state of new-york, ninety-eight of whom out of a hundred had the bilious fever. of the two who escaped it, one had a sore leg, the other what is called a scald-head. the discharge from the sores in each of them, as well as from the doctor's issue, was more copious during the prevalence of the fever, than it had been at any other time. a third class of preventives of malignant fever, are such as excite a general action, more powerful than that which the miasmata are disposed to create in the system, or an action of a contrary nature. these are, 1. onions and garlic. all those citizens who used these vegetables in their diet, escaped the yellow fever in 1793. the greater exemption of the natives of france from this disease, wherever they are exposed to it, than of the inhabitants of other european countries, has been ascribed in part to the liberal use of those condiments in their food. the jews, it has been said, have often owed to them their preservation from the plagues which formerly prevailed in europe. it is probable leeks and onions, which to this day form a material part of the diet of the inhabitants of egypt, were cultivated and eaten originally as the means of obviating the plagues of that country. i have been at a loss to know why the author of nature, who has endowed these vegetables with so many excellent qualities for diet and medicine, should have accompanied them with such a disagreeable smell. perhaps the reason was, kindly to force them into universal use; for it is remarkable their smell in the breath is imperceptible to those who use them. 2. calomel, taken in such small doses as gently to affect the gums. it preserved most of the crew of a russian ship at plymouth, in the year 1777, from a fever generated by filth in her hold. in a letter which i received from captain thomas truxton, in the year 1797, he informed me, that an old and respectable merchant at batavia had assured him, he had been preserved in good health by calomel, taken in the way that has been mentioned, during the sickly seasons, for upwards of thirty years. the mortality of the fevers of that island may easily be conceived of, when i add, on the authority of a physician quoted in sir george staunton's account of his embassy to china, that one half of all new comers die there on the first year of their arrival. our principal dependence should be placed upon those two preventives under this head. there are several others which have been in common use, some of which i believe are hurtful, and the rest are of feeble, or doubtful efficacy. they are, 3. wine and ardent spirits. they both prevent a malignant fever, only when they excite an action in the system above that which is ordinarily excited by the miasmata of the fever; but this cannot be done without producing intoxication, which, to be effectual, must be perpetual; for the weakness and excitability, which take place in the intervals of drunkenness, predispose to the disease. agreeably to this remark, i observed three persons, who were constantly drunk, survive two of our most fatal epidemics, while all those persons who were alternately drunk and sober, rarely escaped an attack of the fever. in most of them, it terminated in death. 4. tobacco. many hundreds of the citizens of philadelphia can witness, that no benefit was derived from this weed, in any of the ways in which it is commonly used, in the late epidemics of our city. mr. howard says it has no effect in preserving from the plague. 5. camphor suspended in a bag round the neck, and rags wetted in vinegar, and applied to the nose. these means were in general use in the fever of 1793, in philadelphia, but they afforded no protection from it. it is possible they had a contrary effect, by entangling, in their volatile particles, more of the miasmata of the fever, and thus increasing a predisposition to it. a fourth class of the preventives of malignant fevers are certain substances which are said to destroy miasmata by entering into mixture with them. two persons, who were very much exposed to the causes of the fever in 1798, took each of them a table spoonful of sweet oil every morning. they both escaped the fever. did the oil, in these cases, act by destroying miasmata in the stomach chemically? or did it defend the stomach mechanically from their action? or did it prevent the disease, only by gently opening the bowels? it is certain the fat of pork meat protects the men who work in the lead-mines of great-britain from the deleterious effects which the fumes of that metal are apt to bring upon the stomach and bowels, and that a poisoned arrow, discharged into the side of a hog, will not injure him, if it be arrested by the fat which lines that part of his body. the vapour which issues from fresh earth has been supposed to destroy the miasmata which produce malignant fevers, by entering into mixture with them. most of the men who were employed in digging graves and cellars, and in removing the dirt from the streets of philadelphia, in 1793, escaped the fever of that year. in the new settlements of our country, it is said, the poison of the rattlesnake is deprived of its deadly effects upon the body, by thrusting the wounded limb into a hole, recently made in the earth. the fable of anteus, who rose with renewed strength from the ground after repeated falls, was probably intended to signify, among other things, the salutary virtues which are contained in the effluvia which issue from fresh clods of earth. 3. there are many facts which show the efficacy of the volatile alkali in destroying, by mixture, the poison of snakes. one of them was lately communicated to the public by dr. ramsay, of south-carolina. what would be the effect of the daily use of a few tea spoonfuls of this medicine in a liquid form, and of frequently washing the body with it, during the prevalence of pestilential epidemics? the miasmata which produce malignant fevers often exist in an inoffensive state in the body, for weeks, and perhaps months, without doing any harm. with but a few exceptions, they seldom induce a disease without the reinforcement of an exciting cause. in vain, therefore, shall we use all the preventives that have been recommended, without, v. avoiding of all its exciting causes. these are, 1. heat and cold. while the former has excited the yellow fever in thousands, the latter has excited it in tens of thousands. it is not in middle latitudes only that cold awakens this disease in the body. dr. mosely says it is a more frequent exciting cause of that, and of other diseases, in the island of jamaica, than in any of the most temperate climates of the globe. it is this which renders cases of yellow fever, when epidemic in our cities, more numerous in the cool months of september and october, than in july and august. for the purpose of avoiding this pernicious and universal influence of cold, the clothing and bed-covers should be rather warmer in those months, in middle and northern latitudes, than is agreeable, and fires should be made every morning and evening in common sitting rooms, and during the whole day, when the weather is damp or cool. they serve, not only to prevent the reduction of the excitement of the blood-vessels, by the gradual and imperceptible abstraction of the heat of the body, but to convey up a chimney all the unwholesome air that accumulates in those rooms during a sickly season. by these precautions, i have known whole families preserved in health, while all their neighbours who neglected them, have been confined by a prevailing autumnal fever. 3. the early morning and evening air, even in warm weather. 4. fatigue from amusements, such as fishing, gunning, and dancing, and from _unusual_ labour or exercise. the effects of fatigue from this cause have been already noticed[17], in the maids of large families being the only persons who die of the fever, in consequence of their having performed great and _unusual_ services to those branches of the family who survive them, while nurses, who only exercise their ordinary habits in attending sick people, are seldom carried off by it. [17] account of the yellow fever in 1793, vol. iii. 5. intemperance in eating and drinking. 6. partaking of _new_ aliments and drinks. the stomach, during the prevalence of malignant fevers, is always in an irritable state, and constantly disposed to be affected by impressions that are not habitual to it. 7. violent emotions or passions of the mind. 8. the entire cessation of moderate labour. this, by permitting the mind to ramble upon subjects of terror and distress, and by exposing the body to idleness and company, favours an attack of fever. a predisposition to it, is likewise created by alternating labour and idleness with each other. 9. the continuance of hard labour. the miasmata which produce malignant fevers sometimes possess so much force, that the least addition to it, even from customary acts of labour, is sufficient to excite the disease. in this case, safety should be sought in retirement, more especially by those persons whose occupations expose them to the heat of fires, and the rays of the sun, such as hatters, smiths, bricklayers, and house and ship carpenters. the wealthy inhabitants of constantinople and smyrna erroneously suppose they escape the contagion of the plague, by shutting themselves up in their houses during its prevalence. they owe their preservation chiefly to their being removed, by an exemption from care and business, from all its exciting causes. most of the nobility and gentry of moscow, by these means escaped a plague which carried off 27,000 persons in that city, in the year 1771, and many whole families in philadelphia were indebted for their safety to the same precautions in the year 1793. confinement is more certain in its beneficial effects, when persons occupy the upper stories only of their houses. the inhabitants of st. lucia, dr. chisholm says, by this means often escape the yellow fever of that island. such is the difference between the healthiness of the upper and lower stories of a house, that, travellers tell us, birds live in the former, and die in the latter, during the prevalence of a plague in the eastern countries. all the exciting causes that have been enumerated should be avoided with double care three days before, and three days after, as well as on the days of the full and change of the moon. the reason for this caution was given in the account of the yellow fever in philadelphia in the year 1797. to persons who have retired from infected cities, or countries, it will be necessary to suggest a caution, not to visit them while the malignant fever from which they fled prevails in them. dr. dow informed me, in his visit to philadelphia in the year 1800, that the natives and old citizens of new-orleans who retired into the country, and returned during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city, the year before, were often affected by it, while all such persons as did not change their residence, escaped it. the danger from visiting an infected city is greater to persons who breathe an atmosphere of a uniform temperature, than one that is subject to alternate changes in its degrees of heat and cold. the inhabitants of mexico, baron humboldt informed me, who descend from their elevated situation, where the thermometer seldom varies more than ten degrees in the year, and visit vera cruz during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city, are much oftener affected by it than the new comers from the variable climates of european countries. but the habits of insensibility to the impressions of the miasmata of this disease in one country, do not always protect the system from their action in another. the same illustrious traveller informed me, that the inhabitants of the havannah who visit vera cruz, and the inhabitants of vera cruz who visit the havannah, are affected in common with strangers with the fever of those places. i shall take leave of this part of our subject, by adding, that i am so much impressed with a belief in the general, and almost necessary connection of an exciting cause with a yellow fever, that were i to enter a city, and meet its inhabitants under the first impressions of terror and distress from its appearance, my advice to them should be, "beware, not of contagion, for the yellow fever of our country is not contagious, nor of putrid exhalations, when the duties of humanity or consanguinity require your attendance, but beware of exciting causes!" in the mild grades of the summer and autumnal fevers of the united states, the means of prevention should be different from those which have been recommended to prevent the yellow fever. they consist of such things as gently invigorate the system, and thus create an action superior to that which the miasmata have excited in it. the means commonly employed for this purpose are, 1. cordial diet and drinks; consisting of salted meat, and fish, with a moderate quantity of wine and malt liquors. dr. blane says, the british soldiers who lived upon salt meat, during the american war, were much less afflicted with the intermitting fever than the neighbouring country people; and, it is well known, the american army was much less afflicted with summer and autumnal fevers, after they exchanged their fresh meat for rations of salted beef and pork. ardent spirits should be used cautiously, for, when taken long enough to do good, they create a dangerous attachment to them. a strong infusion of any bitter herb in water, taken upon an empty stomach, is a cheap substitute for all the above liquors where they cannot be afforded. the peruvian bark has in many instances been used with success as a preventive of the mild grades of the summer and autumnal fevers of our country. 2. an equable and constant perspiration. this should be kept up by all the means formerly mentioned for that purpose. 3. avoiding certain exciting causes, particularly great heat and cold, fatigue, long intervals between meals, intemperance, and the morning and evening air, more especially during the lunar periods formerly mentioned. dr. lind says, the farmers of holdernesse, in england, who go out early to their work, are seldom long lived, probably from their constitutions being destroyed by frequent attacks of intermitting fevers, to which that practice exposes them. where peculiar circumstances of business render it necessary for persons to inhale the morning air, care should be taken never to do it without first eating a cordial breakfast. the _intestinal_ state of our summer and autumnal disease requires several specific means to prevent it, different from those which have been advised to defend the blood-vessels from fever. unripe and decayed fruit should be avoided, and that which is ripe and sound should not be eaten in an excessive quantity. spices, and particularly cayenne pepper, and the red pepper of our country, should be taken daily with food. mr. dewar, a british surgeon, tells us, the french soldiers, while in egypt, carried pepper in boxes with them, wherever they went, to eat with the fruits of the country, and thereby often escaped its diseases. the whole diet, during the prevalence of intestinal diseases, when they are not highly inflammatory, should be of a cordial nature. a dysentery prevailed, a few years ago, upon the potomac, in a part of the country which was inhabited by a number of protestant and catholic families. the disease was observed to exist only in the former. the latter, who ate of salted fish every friday, and occasionally on other days of the week, very generally escaped it. in the year 1759, a dysentery broke out in the village of princeton, in new-jersey, and affected many of the students of the college. it was remarked, that it passed by all those boys who came from the cities of new-york and philadelphia. this was ascribed to their having lived more upon tea and coffee than the farmers' sons in the college; for those cordial articles of diet were but rarely used, six and forty years ago, in the farm houses of the middle states of america. i mentioned formerly that the cordial diet of the inhabitants of our cities was probably the reason why the dysentery so seldom prevailed as an epidemic in them. another means of preventing the dysentery is, by avoiding costiveness, and by occasionally taking purging physic, even when the bowels are in their natural state. a militia captain, in the pennsylvania service, preserved his whole company from a dysentery which prevailed in a part of the american army at amboy, in the year 1776, by giving each of them a purge of sea-water. he preserved his family, and many of his neighbours, some years afterwards, from the same disease, by dividing among them a few pounds of purging salts. it was prevented, a few years ago, in the academy of bordentown, in new-jersey, by giving all the boys molasses, in large quantities, in their diet and drinks. the molasses probably acted only by keeping the bowels in a laxative state. as the dysentery is often excited by the dampness of the night air, great care should be taken to avoid it, and, when necessarily exposed to it, to defend the bowels by more warmth than other parts of the body. the egyptians, mr. dewar says, tie a belt about their bowels for that purpose, and with the happiest effects. ii. i come now, according to the order i proposed, to mention the means of preserving whole cities or communities from the influence of those morbid exhalations which produce the different forms of summer and autumnal disease, and, in particular, that which is of a malignant nature. as the flight of a whole city is rarely practicable, it will be necessary to point out the means of destroying the morbid miasmata. 1. where the putrid matters which emit them are of a small extent, they should be covered with water or earth. purchas tells us, 500 persons less died of the plague the day after the nile overflowed the grounds which had emitted the putrid exhalations that produced it, than had died the day before. during the prevalence of a malignant fever, it will be unsafe to remove putrid matters. a plague was generated by an attempt to remove the filth which had accumulated on the banks of the waters which surround the city of mantua, during the summer and autumnal months[18]. even a shower of rain, by disturbing the green pellicle which is sometimes formed over putrid matters, i shall mention in another place, has let loose exhalations that have produced a pestilential disease. [18] burserus. 2. impregnating the air with certain effluvia, which act either by destroying miasmata by means of mixture, or by exciting a new action in the system, has, in some instances, checked the progress of a malignant fever. the air extricated from fermenting wines, during a plentiful vintage, vansweiten tells us, has once checked the ravages of a plague in germany. ambrose parey informs us, the plague was checked in a city in italy by killing all the cats and dogs in the place, and leaving them to putrify in the streets. mr. bruce relates, that all those persons who lived in smoky houses, in one of the countries which he visited, escaped bilious fevers, and dr. clark mentions an instance, in which several cooks, who were constantly exposed to smoke, escaped a fever which affected the whole crew of a galley. the yellow fever has never appeared within the limits of the effluvia of the sal ammoniac manufactory, nor of the tan-pits in the suburbs of philadelphia, nor has the city of london been visited with a plague since its inhabitants have used sea-coal for fuel. but other causes have contributed more certainly to the exemption of that city from the plague for upwards of a century, one of which shall be mentioned under our next head. 3. desquenette tells us, the infection of the plague never crosses the nile, and that it is arrested by means of ditches, dug and filled with water for that purpose. dr. whitman has remarked, that the plague never passes from abydos, on the turkish, to mito, on the european side of the water of the dardanelles, which forms the entrance to constantinople. the yellow fever has never been known to pass from philadelphia to the jersey shore, and the miasmata generated on the east side of the schuylkill rarely infect the inhabitants of the opposite side of the river. many persons found safety from the plague of london, in 1665, by flying to ships which lay in the middle of the thames, and, it is well known, no instance of yellow fever occurred in those philadelphia families that confined themselves to ships in the middle of the delaware, in the year 1793. but three or four, of four hundred men, on board a ship of war called the jason, commanded by captain coteneuil, perished with an epidemic yellow fever, in the year 1746, at st. domingo, in consequence, dr. desportes says, of her hold being constantly half filled with water[19]. i have multiplied facts upon this subject, because they lead to important conclusions. they show the immense consequence of frequently washing the streets and houses of cities, both to prevent and check pestilential fevers. what would be the effect of placing tubs of fresh water in the rooms of patients infected with malignant fevers, and in an atmosphere charged with putrid exhalations? their efficacy in absorbing the matter which constitutes the odour of fresh paint, favours a hope that they would be useful for that purpose. i have mentioned an instance, in the account of the yellow fever in philadelphia, in the year 1797, in which they were supposed to have been employed with evident advantage. [19] vol. i. p. 161. 4. intercepting the passage of miasmata to the inhabitants of cities. varro, in his treatise upon agriculture, relates, that his namesake varro, a roman general, was in great danger of suffering, with a large fleet and army, from a malignant fever at conyra. having discovered the course of the miasmata which produced it to be from the south, he fastened up all the southern windows and doors of the houses in which his troops were quartered, and opened new ones to the north, by which means he preserved them from the fever which prevailed in all the other houses of the town and neighbourhood. mr. howard advises keeping the doors and windows, of houses which are exposed to the plague, constantly shut, except during the time of sunshine. several other means have been recommended to preserve cities from malignant fevers during their prevalence, which are of doubtful efficacy, or evidently hurtful. they are, 5. strewing lime over putrid matters. dr. dalzelle says, he once checked a bilious fever, by spreading twelve barrels of lime on a piece of marshy ground, from whence the exhalations that produced it were derived[20]. a mixture of quick lime and ashes in water, when thrown into a privy, discharges from it a large quantity of offensive air, and leaves it afterwards without a smell. as this foul air is discharged into the atmosphere, it has been doubted whether the lime and ashes should be used for that purpose, after a malignant fever has made its appearance. [20] sur les maladies des climats chauds. 6. mr. quiton morveau has lately proposed the muriatic gas as a means of destroying miasmata. however effectual it may be in destroying the volatile and foul excretions which are discharged from the human body in confined situations, as in filthy jails, hospitals, and ships, it is not calculated to oppose the seeds of a disease which exist in the atmosphere, and which are diffused over a large extent of city or country. mr. morveau ascribes great virtues to it, in checking the malignant fever in cadiz, in 1801, but from the time at which it was used, being late in the autumn, there is more reason to believe it had run its ordinary course, or that it was destroyed by cold weather. 7. the explosion of gunpowder has been recommended for checking pestilential diseases. mr. quiton morveau says, it destroys the offensive odour of putrid exhalations, but does not act upon the fevers produced by them. 8. washing the floors of houses with a solution of alkaline salts in water, has been recommended by dr. mitchell, as an antidote to malignant fevers. as yet, i believe, there are no facts which establish the efficacy of the practice, when they are produced by exhalations from decayed vegetable and animal substances in a putrid state. 9. large fires have sometimes been made in cities, in order to destroy the miasmata of pestilential diseases. they were obviously hurtful in the plague of london, in the year 1665. dr. hodges, who relates this fact, says, "heaven wept for the mistake of kindling them, and mercifully put them out, with showers of rain." i cannot conclude this head, without lamenting the want of laws in all our states, to compel physicians to make public the first cases of malignant fever that come under their notice. the cry of fire is not more useful to save a city from destruction, than the early knowledge of such cases would be to save it from the ravages of pestilential and mortal epidemics. hundreds of instances have occurred, in all ages and countries, in which they might have been stifled in their birth, by the means that have been mentioned, had this practice been adopted. but when, and where, will science, humanity, and government first combine to accomplish this salutary purpose? most of our histories of mortal epidemics abound with facts which show a contrary disposition and conduct in physicians, rulers, and the people. i shall mention one of these facts only, to show how far we must travel over mountains of prejudice and error, before we shall witness that desirable event. it is extracted from the second volume of the life of the late empress of russia. "the russian army (says the biographer), after defeating the turks, on entering their territories were met by the plague, and brought it to their country, where the folly of several of their generals contributed to its propagation, as if they thought by a military word of command to alter the nature of things. lieutenantgeneral stoffeln, at yassy, where the pestilence raged in the winter of 1770, issued peremptory orders that its name should not be pronounced; he even obliged the physicians and surgeons to draw up a declaration in writing, that it was only _a spotted fever_. one honest surgeon of the name of kluge refused to sign it. in this manner the season of prevention was neglected. several thousand russian soldiers were by this means carried off. the men fell dead upon the road in heaps. the number of burghers that died was never known, as they had run into the country, and into the forests. at length the havoc of death reached the general's own people: he remained true to his persuasion, left the town, and went into the more perilous camp. but his intrepidity availed him nothing; he died of the plague in july, 1771[21]." [21] the above disease appears to have been the camp fever, the origin and character of which will be noticed in the next article. iii. let us now consider, in the last place, the means of exterminating malignant and other forms of summer and autumnal disease, by removing their causes. these means are, 1. the removal or destruction of all those putrid matters formerly enumerated, which are capable of producing fevers. many of the institutions of the jewish nation, for this purpose, are worthy of our imitation. the following verses contain a fund of useful knowledge upon this subject.--"thou shalt have a place without the camp, whether thou shalt go forth abroad; and shalt have a paddle upon thy weapon, and it shall be when thou wilt ease thyself abroad, thou shalt dig therewith, and shalt turn back, and cover that which cometh from thee; for the lord thy god walketh in the midst of thy camp to deliver thee, therefore shall he _see no unclean thing in thee_, and turn away from thee." deuteronomy, chapter xxiii. verses 12, 13, and 14. "but the flesh of the bullock, and his skin, and his dung, shalt thou _burn with fire without the camp_." exodus, chapter xxxix. verse 14. the advantages of thus burying and removing all putrid matters, and of burning such as were disposed to a speedy putrefaction, in a crowded camp, and in a warm climate, are very obvious. their benefits have often been realized in other countries. the united provinces of holland hold their exemption from the plague, only by the tenure of their cleanliness. in the character given by luther of pope julius, he says, "he kept the streets of rome so clean and sweet, that there were no plagues nor sicknesses during his time." the city of oxford was prepared to afford an asylum to the royal family of great-britain from the plague, when it ravaged london, and other parts of england, in the year 1665, only in consequence of its having been cleaned, some years before, by the bishop of winchester. in a manuscript account of the life of doctor, afterwards governor colden, of new-york, there is the following fact. it was first communicated to the public in the daily gazette of the capital of that state, on the 30th of october, 1799. "a malignant fever having raged with exceeding violence for two summers successively in the city of new-york, about forty years ago, he communicated his thoughts to the public, on the most probable cure of the calamity. he published a little treatise on the occasion, in which he collected the sentiments of the best authority, on the bad effects of _stagnating waters_, _moist air_, _damp cellars_, _filthy shores_, and _dirty streets_. he showed how much these nuisances prevailed in many parts of the city, and pointed out the remedies. the corporation of the city voted him their thanks, adopted his reasoning, and established a plan for draining and cleaning the city, which was attended with the most happy effects." the advantages of burning offal matters, capable by putrefaction of producing fevers, has been demonstrated by those housekeepers, who, instead of collecting the entrails of fish and poultry, and the parings and skins of vegetables, in barrels, instantly throw them into their kitchen fires. the families of such persons are generally healthy. 2. in the construction of cities, narrow streets and alleys should be carefully avoided. deep lots should be reserved for yards and gardens for all the houses, and subterraneous passages should be dug to convey, when practicable, to running water, the contents of privies, and the foul water of kitchens. in cities that are wholly supplied with fresh water by pipes from neighbouring springs or rivers, all the evils from privies might be prevented by digging them so deep as to connect them with water. great advantages, it has been suggested, would arise in the construction of cities, from leaving open squares, equal in number and size to those which are covered with houses. the light and dark squares of a chequer-board might serve as models for the execution of such a plan. the city of london, which had been afflicted nearly every year for above half a century by the plague, has never been visited by it since the year 1666. in that memorable year, while the inhabitants were venting their execrations upon a harmless bale of silks imported from holland, as the vehicle of the seeds of their late mortal epidemic, heaven kindly pointed out, and removed its cause, by permitting a fire to destroy whole streets and lanes of small wooden buildings, which had been the reservoirs of filth for centuries, and thereby the sources of all the plagues of that city[22]. those streets and lanes were to london, what water-street and farmer's-row are to philadelphia, fell's-point to baltimore, the slips and docks to new-york, and water-street to the town of norfolk. [22] a proposal was made to replace the houses that had been burnt, by similar buildings, and upon the same space of ground. sir christopher wren opposed it, and with the following argument: "by so doing, you will show you have not _deserved_ the late fire!" 3. where the different forms of summer and autumnal disease arise from marsh exhalations, they should be destroyed by drains, by wells communicating with their subterraneous springs, or by cultivating upon them certain grasses, which form a kind of mat over the soil, and, when none of these modes of destroying them is practicable, by overflowing them with water. i have met with many excellent quotations from a work upon this part of our subject, by tozzetti, an italian physician, from which, i have no doubt, much useful information might be obtained. the rev. thomas hall, to whom i made an unsuccessful application for this work, speaks of it, in his answer to my letter, in the following terms. "it is in such high estimation, that the late emperor leopold, when grand duke of tuscany, caused it to be re-printed at his own expence, and presented it to his friends. the consequence of this was, it influenced the owners of low marshy grounds, in the neighbourhood of the river arno, to drain and cultivate them, and thereby rendered the abode of noxious air, and malignant fevers, a terrestrial paradise." 4. the summer and autumnal diseases of our country have often followed the erection of mill-dams. they may easily be obviated by surrounding those receptacles of water with trees, which prevent the sun's acting upon their shores, so as to exhale miasmata from them. trees planted upon the sides of creeks and rivers, near a house, serve the same salutary purpose. 5. it has often been observed, that families enjoy good health, for many years, in the swamps of delaware and north-carolina, while they are in their natural state, but that sickness always follows the action of the rays of the sun upon the moist surface of the earth, after they are cleared. for this reason, the cultivation of a country should always follow the cutting down of its timber, in order to prevent the new ground becoming, by its exhalations, a source of disease. 6. in commercial cities, no vessel that arrives with a cargo of putrescent articles should ever be suffered to approach a wharf, before the air that has been confined in her hold has been discharged. the same thing should be done after the arrival of a vessel from a distant or hot country, though her cargo be not capable of putrefaction, for air acquires a morbid quality by stagnating contiguous to wood, under circumstances formerly mentioned. all these modes of removing the causes of malignant and yellow fevers, and of promoting strict and universal cleanliness, are of more consequence in the middle and northern states of america, than in countries uniformly warm, inasmuch as the disease may be taken as often as our inhabitants are exposed to its sources. in the west-indies, a second attack of the yellow fever is prevented by the insensibility induced upon the system, by its being constantly exposed to the impressions of heat and exhalation. after a seasoning, as it is called, or a residence of two or three years in those islands, the miasmata affect the old settlers, as they do the natives, only with mild remittents. nearly the same thing takes place at madras, in the east-indies, where, dr. clark says, the exhalations which bring on bilious fevers, colic, cholera, and spasmodic affections in new comers, produce a puking in the morning, only in old residents. but very different is the condition of the inhabitants of the middle and northern states of america, in whom the winters prevent the acquisition of habits of insensibility to the heat and exhalations of the previous summers, and thus place them every year in the condition of new comers in the west and east-indies, or of persons who have spent two or three years in a cold climate. this circumstance increases the danger of depopulation from our malignant epidemics, and should produce corresponding exertions to prevent them. in enumerating the various means of preventing and exterminating the malignant forms of fever, it may appear strange that i have said nothing of the efficacy of quarantines for that purpose. did i believe these pages would be read only by the citizens of pennsylvania, i would do homage to their prejudices, by passing over this subject by a respectful and melancholy silence; but as it is probable they will fall into the hands of physicians and citizens of other states, i feel myself under an obligation to declare, that i believe quarantines are of no efficacy in preventing the yellow fever, in any other way than by excluding the unwholesome air that is generated in the holds of ships, which may be done as easily in a single day, as in weeks or months. they originated in error, and have been kept up by a supine and traditional faith in the opinions and conduct of our ancestors in medicine. millions of dollars have been wasted by them. from their influence, the commerce, agriculture, and manufactures of our country have suffered for many years. but this is not all. thousands of lives have been sacrificed, by that faith in their efficacy, which has led to the neglect of domestic cleanliness. distressing as these evils are, still greater have originated from them; for a belief in the contagious nature of the yellow fever, which is so solemnly enforced by the execution of quarantine laws, has demoralized our citizens. it has, in many instances, extinguished friendship, annihilated religion, and violated the sacraments of nature, by resisting even the loud and vehement cries of filial and parental blood. while i thus deny the yellow fever to be the offspring of a specific contagion, and of course incapable of being imported so as to become an epidemic in any country, i shall admit presently, that the excretions of a patient in this disease may, by confinement, become so acrid as to produce, under circumstances to be mentioned hereafter, a similar disease in a person, but from this person it cannot be communicated, if he possess only the common advantages of pure air and cleanliness. to enforce a quarantine law, therefore, under such a contingent circumstance, and at the expence of such a profusion of blessings as have been mentioned, is to imitate the conduct of the man, who, in attempting to kill a fly upon his child's forehead, knocked out its brains. from the detail that has been given of the sources of malignant fevers, and of the means of preventing them, it is evident that they do not exist by an unchangeable law of nature, and that heaven has surrendered every part of the globe to man, in a state capable of being inhabited, and enjoyed. the facts that have been mentioned show further, the connection of health and longevity, with the reason and labour of man. to every natural evil the author of nature has kindly prepared an antidote. pestilential fevers furnish no exception to this remark. the means of preventing them are as much under the power of human reason and industry, as the means of preventing the evils of lightning and common fire. i am so satisfied of the truth of this opinion, that i look for a time when our courts of law shall punish cities and villages, for permitting any of the sources of bilious and malignant fevers to exist within their jurisdiction. i have repeatedly asserted the yellow fever of the united states not to be contagious. i shall now mention the proofs of that assertion, and endeavour to explain instances of its supposed contagion upon other principles. facts, intended to prove _the yellow fever_ not to be contagious. when fevers are communicated from one person to another, it is always in one of the following ways. 1. by secreted matters. 2. by excreted matters. the small-pox and measles are communicated in the former way; the jail, or, as it is sometimes called, the ship, or camp, and hospital fever, is communicated only by means of the excretions of the body. the perspiration, by acquiring a morbid and irritating quality more readily than any other excretion, in consequence of its stagnation and confinement to the body in a tedious jail fever, is the principal means of its propagation. the perspiration[23] is, moreover, predisposed to acquire this morbid and acrid quality by the filthiness, scanty, or bad aliment, and depression of mind, which generally precede that fever. it is confined to sailors, passengers, soldiers, prisoners, and patients, in foul and crowded ships, tents, jails, and hospitals, and to poor people who live in small, damp, and confined houses. it prevails chiefly in cool and cold weather, but is never epidemic; for the excreted matters which produce the fever do not float in the external atmosphere, nor are they communicated, so as to produce disease, more than a few feet from the persons who exhale them. they are sometimes communicated by means of the clothes which have been worn by the sick, and there have been instances in which the fever has been produced by persons who had not been confined by it, but who had previously been exposed to all the causes which generate it. it has been but little known in the united states since the revolutionary war, at which time it prevailed with great mortality in the hospitals and camps of the american army. it has now and then appeared in ships that were crowded with passengers from different parts of europe. it is a common disease in the manufacturing towns of great-britain, where it has been the subject of several valuable publications, particularly by dr. smith and dr. john hunter. dr. haygarth has likewise written upon it, but he has unfortunately confounded it with the west-india and american yellow fever, which differs from it in prevailing chiefly in warm climates and seasons; in being the offspring of dead and putrid vegetable and animal matters; in affecting chiefly young and robust habits; in being generally accompanied with a diseased state of the stomach, and an obstruction or preternatural secretion and excretion of bile; in terminating, most commonly, within seven days; in becoming epidemic _only_ by means of an impure atmosphere; and in not furnishing ordinarily those excretions which, when received into other bodies, reproduce the same disease. [23] the deleterious nature of this fluid, and its disposition to create disease, under the above circumstances, has been happily illustrated by dr. mitchill, in an ingenious letter to dr. duncan, of edinburgh, published in the fourth volume of the annals of medicine. i have been compelled to employ this tedious description of two forms of fever, widely different from each other in their causes, symptoms, and duration, from the want of two words which shall designate them. dr. miller has boldly and ingeniously proposed to remedy this deficiency in our language, by calling the former _idio-miasmatic_, and the latter _koino-miasmatic_ fevers, thereby denoting their _private_ or _personal_, and their _public_ or _common_ origin[24]. my best wishes attend the adoption of those terms! [24] medical repository, hexade ii. vol. i. i return to remark, that the yellow fever is not contagious in its simple state, and that it spreads exclusively by means of exhalations from putrid matters, which are diffused in the air. this is evident from the following considerations: 1. it does not spread by contagion in the west-indies. this has been proved in the most satisfactory manner by drs. hillary, huck, hunter, hector m'lean, clark, jackson, borland, pinckard, and scott. dr. chisholm stands alone, among modern physicians, in maintaining a contrary opinion. it would be easy to prove, from many passages in the late edition of the doctor's learned and instructive volumes, that he has been mistaken; and that the disease was an endemic of every island in which he supposed it to be derived from contagion. a just idea of the great incorrectness of all his statements, in favour of his opinion, may be formed from the letter of j. f. eckard, esq. danish consul, in philadelphia, to dr. james mease, published in a late number of the new-york medical repository[25]. [25] for february, march, and april, 1804. 2. the yellow fever does not spread in the country, when carried thither from the cities of the united states. 3. it does not spread in yellow fever hospitals, when they are situated beyond the influence of the impure air in which it is generated. 4. it does not spread in cities (as will appear hereafter) from any specific matter emitted from the bodies of sick people. 5. it generally requires the co-operation of an _exciting_ cause, with miasmata, to produce it. this is never the case with diseases which are universally acknowledged to be contagious. 6. it is not propagated by the artificial means which propagate contagious diseases. dr. ffirth inoculated himself above twenty times, in different parts of his body, with the black matter discharged from the stomachs of patients in the yellow fever, and several times with the serum of the blood, and the saliva of patients ill with that disease, without being infected by them; nor was he indisposed after swallowing half an ounce of the black matter recently ejected from the stomach, nor by exposing himself to the vapour which was produced by throwing a quantity of that matter upon iron heated over a fire[26]. [26] inaugural dissertation on malignant fever, &c. published in june, 1804. to the first four of these assertions there are some seeming exceptions in favour of the propagation of this fever by contagion. i shall briefly mention them, and endeavour to explain them upon other principles. the circumstances which seem to favour the communication of the yellow fever from one person to another, by means of what has been supposed to be contagion, are as follow: 1. a patient being attended in a small, filthy, and _close_ room. the excretions of the body, when thus accumulated, undergo an additional putrefactive process, and acquire the same properties as those putrid animal matters which are known to produce malignant fevers. i have heard of two or three instances in which a fever was produced by these means in the country, remote from the place where it originated, as well as from every external source of putrid exhalation. the plague is sometimes propagated in this way in the low and filthy huts which compose the alleys and narrow streets of cairo, smyrna, and constantinople. 2. a person sleeping in the sheets, or upon a bed impregnated with the sweats or other excretions, or being exposed to the smell of the foul linen, or other clothing of persons who had the yellow fever. the disease here, as in the former case, is communicated in the same way as from any other putrid animal matters. it was once received in philadelphia from the effluvia of a chest of unwashed clothes, which had belonged to one of our citizens who had died with it in barbadoes; but it extended no further in a large family than to the person who opened the chest. i have heard of but two instances more of its having been propagated by these means in the united states, in which case the disease perished with the unfortunate subjects of it. to the above insolated cases of the yellow fever being produced by the clothing of persons who had died of it, i shall oppose a fact communicated to me by dr. mease. while the doctor resided at the lazaretto, as inspector of sickly vessels, between may, 1794, and the same month in 1798, the clothing contained in the chests and trunks of all the seamen and others, belonging to philadelphia, who had died of the yellow fever in the west-indies, or on their passage home, and the linen of all the persons who had been sent from the city to the lazaretto with that disease, amounting in all to more than one hundred, were opened, exposed to the air, and washed, by the family of the steward of the hospital, and yet no one of them contracted the least indisposition from them. i am disposed to believe the linen, or any other clothing of a person in good health that had been strongly impregnated with sweats, and afterwards suffered to putrify in a confined place, would be more apt to produce a yellow fever in a summer or autumnal month, than the linen of a person who had died of that disease, with the usual absence of a moisture on the skin. the changes which the healthy excretions by the pores undergo by putrefaction, may easily be conceived, by recollecting the offensive smell which a pocket-handkerchief acquires that has been used for two or three days to wipe away the sweat of the face and hands in warm weather[27]. [27] see van swieten on epidemic diseases, aphorism 1408. 3. the protraction of a yellow fever to such a period as to dispose it to assume the symptoms, and to generate the peculiar and highly volatilised exhalation from the pores of the skin which takes place in the jail fever. i am happy in finding i am not the author of this opinion. sir john pringle, dr. monro, and dr. hillary, speak of a contagious fever produced by the combined action of marsh and human miasmata. the first of those physicians supposes the hungarian bilious fever, which prevailed over the continent of europe in the seventeenth century, was sometimes propagated in this way, as well as by marsh and other putrid exhalations. dr. richard pearson, in his observations upon the bilious fevers which prevailed in the neighbourhood of birmingham, in england, in the years 1797, 1798, and 1799, has the following remark: "in its first stage, this fever did not appear to be contagious, but it evidently was so after the eleventh and fourteenth day, when the _typhoid_ state was induced[28]." as this protracted state of bilious fever rarely occurs in our country, it has seldom been communicated in this way. [28] page 13. it is not peculiar, i believe, to a bilious and yellow fever, when much protracted beyond its ordinary duration, to put on the symptoms of the jail fever. the same appearances occur in the pleurisy, and in other, of what dr. sydenham calls _intercurrent_ fevers, all of which i have no doubt, under certain circumstances of filth, confinement, and long duration, would produce a fever in persons who were exposed to it. this fever, if the weather were cold, would probably put on inflammatory symptoms, and be added, in our nosologies, to the class of contagious diseases. from the necessary influence of time, in thus rendering fevers of all kinds now and then contagious by excretion, it follows, that the yellow fever, when of its usual short duration, is incapable of generating that excretion, and that, instead of being considered as the only form of bilious fever that possesses a power of propagating itself, it should be considered as the only one that is devoid of it. 4. miasmata, whether from marshes, or other external sources, acting upon a system previously impregnated with the excreted matters which produce the jail or ship fever. mr. lempriere informs us, that he saw what were supposed to be cases of yellow fever communicated by some sailors who brought the seeds of the ship fever with them to the island of jamaica. the fevers which affected most of the crews of the hussar frigate, mentioned by dr. trotter[29], and of the busbridge indiaman, described by mr. bryce[30], appear to have been the effect of the combined operation of foul air in those ships, and human excretions, upon their systems. the disease was barely tinged with bilious symptoms, and hence the facility with which it was cured, for the jail fever more readily yields to medicine than the yellow fever. the former was probably excited by some latent exhalation from dead matters in the holds of the ships, and hence we find it ceased on shore, where it was deprived of its exciting cause. it is true, great pains were taken to clean the hold and decks of the busbridge, but there are foul matters which adhere to the timbers of ships, and which, according to dr. lind, are sometimes generated by those timbers when new, that are not to be destroyed by any of the common means employed for that purpose. of this dr. kollock has furnished us with a most satisfactory proof, in his history of the yellow fever, which prevailed on board of the frigate general greene, on her voyage to the havanna, in the year 1799. "the air in the hold of the vessel (says the doctor) was so contaminated, as to extinguish lights immediately, and candles in the cockpit were almost as useless from the same cause. the fish were thrown overboard, and the decks washed and scoured, the ventilator and wind sails put in motion, and every measure of purification adopted that their situation allowed; notwithstanding these precautions disease invaded us. the men were unceasing in their exertions to purify the ship; washing, scouring with vinegar, burning powder and vinegar, old junk, and sulphur, added to constant ventilation, proved unequal even to the amelioration of their calamities, while they were in the latitude of _great heat_. after the removal of the sick, the ship was disburthened of her stores, ballast, &c. cleansed and white-washed throughout; still new cases occurred for nearly two months. some days, two, three, or four were sent off to the hospital, which would seem to indicate the retention of some portion of this noxious principle, which was lodged beyond the reach of the cleansing process." that this noxious principle or matter existed in the ship, and not in the bodies of the crew, is evident from its not having been communicated, in a single instance by a hundred of them who were sent to an hospital on rhode-island, notwithstanding an intercourse sufficient to propagate it was necessarily kept up with the inhabitants. even their nurses did not take it[31]. [29] medicina nautica, p. 360. [30] annals of medicine, vol. i. p. 116. [31] medical repository, vol. iv. no. 1. 5. a fifth instance in which contagion has been supposed to take place in the yellow fever is, where the exhalation from the excretions of a patient in that disease acts as an _exciting_ cause, in persons previously impregnated with the marsh, or other external miasmata, which produce it. the activity of this exhalation, even when it is attended with no smell, is so great, as to induce sickness, head-ach, vertigo, and fainting. it is not peculiar to the exhalations from such patients to produce morbid effects upon persons who visit them. the odour emitted by persons in the confluent small-pox has been known to produce the same symptoms, together with a subsequent fever and apthous sore throat. this has been remarked long ago by dr. lind, and latterly by dr. willan, in his reports of the diseases of london[32]. that the yellow fever is often excited in this way, without the intervention of a supposed specific contagion, i infer from its sometimes spreading through whole families, who have breathed the same impure atmosphere with the person first infected by the fever. this is more especially the case where the impression made by the exhalation from the sick person is assisted by fear, fatigue, or anxiety of mind in other branches of the family. in favour of this mode of exciting the yellow fever, dr. otto communicated to me the following fact. in the autumn of the year 1798, it prevailed upon the _shores_ of the delaware, in gloucester county, in new-jersey. a mild remittent prevailed at the same time on the _high_ grounds, a few miles from the river. during this time, the doctor observed, if a person who had inhaled the seeds of the yellow fever in philadelphia afterwards came into a family _near_ the river, the same disease appeared in several instances in one or more branches of that family; but where persons brought the fever from the city, and went into a family on the _high_ grounds, where the mild remittents prevailed, there was not a single instance of a yellow fever being excited by them in any of its members. this fact is important, and of extensive application. it places the stimulus from the breath, or other exhalations of persons affected by the yellow fever, upon a footing with intemperance, fatigue, heat, and all the common exciting causes of the disease; none of which, it is well known, can produce it, except in persons who have previously inhaled the putrid miasmata, which in all countries are its only remote cause. the city of philadelphia has furnished, in all our yellow fever years, many additional proofs of the correctness of dr. otto's remark. in the months of july and august, when miasmata are generally local, and float chiefly near to their hot beds, the docks and holds of ships, persons who are affected by these miasmata, and sicken in other parts of the city, never communicate the disease; but after the less prepared and heterogeneous filth of our whole city has been acted on by an autumnal, as well as summer sun, so as to emit pestilential exhalations into all our streets and alleys, the fever is now and then excited in the manner that has been mentioned, by a single person in a whole family. the common intermittents of the southern states are often excited in the same way, without being suspected of spreading by contagion. even the jail or hospital fever is vindicated by dr. hunter from the highly contagious nature which has been ascribed to it, upon the same principle. his words, which are directly to my purpose, are as follow: "in considering the extent and power of the contagion [meaning of the jail or hospital fever], i am not inclined to impute to this cause the fevers of all those who are taken ill in one family after the first, as they are all along exposed to the same vitiated air which occasions the first fever. in like manner, when a poor woman visits some of her sick neighbours, and is taken ill herself, and afterwards some of her children, i would not impute the disease to infection alone; she and her family having previously lived in the same kind of vitiated air which originally produced the fever. if the cases in which the infection meets with the poison already _half formed_ be excepted, the disease in itself will be found to be much less infectious than has been commonly supposed[33]." by the modes of communicating the yellow fever which have been admitted, the dysentery, and all the milder forms of autumnal fevers, have been occasionally propagated, and perhaps oftener than the first-named disease, from their being more apt to run on to the typhus or chronic state. of this i could adduce many proofs, not only from books, but from my own observations; but none of these diseases spread by contagion, or become epidemic from that cause in any country. a contrary opinion, i know, is held by dr. cleghorn, and dr. clarke; but they have deceived themselves, as they formerly deceived me, by not attending to the difference between secreted contagions and morbid excretions from the body, produced by the causes which have been enumerated, and which are rare and accidental concomitants of bilious or summer diseases. [32] page 13 and 113. [33] medical transactions, vol. iii. p. 351. 6. the last instance of supposed contagion of the yellow fever is said to arise from the effluvia of a putrid body that has died of that disease. the effluvia in this case act either as the putrified excretions mentioned under the first head, or as an exciting cause upon miasmata, previously received into the system. a dead body, in a state of putrefaction from any other disease, would produce, under the same circumstances of season and predisposition, the same kind and degrees of fever. the similarity of the fever induced by the means that have been enumerated, with the fever from which it was derived, has been supposed to favour the opinion of its being communicated by a specific contagion. but let it be recollected that the yellow fever is, at the time of its being supposed to be thus received, the reigning epidemic, and that irritants of all kinds necessarily produce that disease. the morbid sweats which now and then produce an intermitting fever, and the alvine excretions which occasionally produce a dysentery, act only by exciting morbid actions in the system, which conform in their symptoms to an immutable and universal law of epidemics. it is only when those two diseases generally prevail, that they seem to produce each other. thus have i explained all the supposed cases of contagion of the yellow fever. to infer from the solitary instances of it thus excited, is to reason as incorrectly as to say the small-pox is not contagious, because we now and then meet with persons who cannot be infected by it. from the explanation that has been given of the instances of supposed contagion of the yellow fever, we are compelled to resort to certain noxious qualities in the atmosphere, as the exclusive causes of the prevalence, not only of that fever, but (with a few exceptions) of all other epidemic diseases. it is true, we are as yet ignorant of the precise nature of those qualities in the air which produce epidemics; but their effects are as certainly felt by the human body as the effects of heat, and yet who knows the nature of that great and universal principle of activity in our globe? that the yellow fever is propagated by means of an impure atmosphere, at all times, and in all places, i infer from the following facts: 1. it appears only in those climates and seasons of the year in which heat, acting upon moist animal and vegetable matters, fills the air with their putrid exhalations. a vertical sun, pouring its beams for ages upon a dry soil; and swamps, defended from the influence of the sun by extensive forests, have not, in a single instance, produced this disease. 2. it is unknown in places where a connection is not perceptible between it, and marshes, mill-ponds, docks, gutters, sinks, unventilated ships, and other sources of noxious air. the truth of this remark is established by the testimonies of dr. lind and dr. chisholm, and by many facts in lempriere's excellent history of the diseases of jamaica. dr. davidson furnished me with a striking confirmation of their remarks, in the following extract from a letter, dated november 12th, 1794. "i have mentioned (says the doctor) an instance of the remarkable good health which the 66th regiment enjoyed at st. vincents for several years, upon a high hill above the town, removed from all exhalations, and in a situation kept at all times cool by the blowing of a constant trade wind. they did not lose, during eighteen months, above two or three men (the regiment was completed to the peace establishment), and during eight years they lost but two officers, one of whom, the quarter-master, resided constantly in town, and died from over fatigue; the other arrived very ill from antigua, and died within a few days afterwards." in the united states, no advocate for the specific nature or importation of the yellow fever, has ever been able to discover a single case of it beyond the influence of an atmosphere rendered impure by putrid exhalations. it is no objection to the truth of this remark, that malignant bilious fevers sometimes appear upon the summits of hills, while their declivities, and the vallies below, are exempted from them. the miasmata, in all these cases, are arrested by those heights, and are always to be traced to putrefaction and exhalation in their neighbourhood. nor is it any objection to the indissoluble connection between putrid exhalations and the yellow fever, which has been mentioned, that the disease sometimes appears in places remote from the source of miasmata in _time_ and _place_. the bilious pleurisies, which occur in the winter and spring, after a sickly autumn, prove that they are retained in the body for many months, and although they are sometimes limited in their extent to a single house, and often to a village, a city, and the banks of a creek or river, yet they are now and then carried to a much greater distance. mr. lempriere, in his valuable observations upon the diseases of the british army in jamaica, informs us, that kingston is sometimes rendered sickly by exhalations from a lagoon, which lies _nine_ miles to the eastward of that town[34]. the greater or less distance, to which miasmata are carried from the place where they are generated, appears to depend upon their quantity, upon the force and duration of currents of wind which act upon them, and upon their being more or less opposed by rivers, woods, water, houses, wells, or mountains. [34] vol. i. p. 84. 3. it is destroyed, like its fraternal diseases, the common bilious and intermitting fevers, by means of _long-continued_ and _heavy_ rains[35]. when rains are heavy, but of short duration, they suspend it only in warm weather; but when they are succeeded by cold weather, they destroy all the forms of bilious fever. the malignant tertians, described by dr. cleghorn, always ceased about the autumnal equinox; for at that time, says the doctor, "rain falls in such torrents as to tear up trees by the roots, carry away cattle, break down fences, and do considerable mischief to the gardens and vineyards; but, after a long and scorching summer, they are very acceptable and beneficial, for they mitigate the excessive heat of the air, and give a check to epidemical diseases[36]." there are facts, however, which would seem to contradict the assertion that miasmata are suspended or destroyed by heavy rains. dr. lind, in his treatise upon the diseases of hot climates, mentions instances in which they suddenly created fevers. it is probable, in these cases the rains may have had that effect, by disturbing the pellicle which time often throws over the surface of stagnating pools of water, and putrid matters on dry land. i was led to entertain this opinion by a fact mentioned in a letter i received from dr. davidson, dated november 4th, 1794. "being ordered (says the doctor) up to barbadoes, last november, upon service, i found that the troops had suffered considerably by that formidable scourge, the yellow fever. the season had been remarkably dry. it was observed, a rainy season contributed to make the season healthier, excepting at constitution-hill, where the sixth regiment was stationed, and where a heavy shower of rain seldom failed to bring back the fever, after it had ceased for some time. i found the barrack, where this regiment was, surrounded by a pond of brackish water, which, being but imperfectly drained by the continuance of the drought, the surface was covered with a green scum, which prevented the exhalation of marshy putrefaction. after a heavy shower of rain, this scum was broken, and the miasmata evolved, and acted with double force, according to the time of their secretion." [35] clarke on the diseases of long voyages to hot climates, p. 116. [36] diseases of minorca, p. 8. 4. it is completely destroyed by frost. as neither rains nor frosts act in sick rooms, nor affect the bodies of sick people, they must annihilate the disease by acting exclusively upon the atmosphere. very different in their nature are the small-pox and measles, which are propagated by specific contagion. they do not wait for the suns of july or august, nor do they require an impure atmosphere, or an exciting cause, to give them activity. they spread in the winter and spring, as well as in the summer and autumnal months: wet and dry weather do not arrest their progress, and frost (so fatal to the yellow fever), by rendering it necessary to exclude cold air from sick rooms, increases the force of their contagion, and thereby propagates them more certainly through a country. 5. it is likewise destroyed, by intense heat, and high winds. the latter, we are sure, like heavy rains and frost, do not produce that salutary effect by acting upon the bodies, or in the rooms of sick people. it is worthy of notice, that while the activity of miasmata is destroyed by cold, when it descends to frost; by heat, when it is so intense as to dry up all the sources of putrid exhalation; by heavy rains, when they are succeeded by cool weather; and by high winds, when they are not succeeded by warm weather; they are rendered more active by cool, warm, and damp weather, and by light winds. the influence of damp weather, in retaining and propagating miasmata, will be readily admitted, by recollecting how much more easily hounds track their prey, and how much more extensively odours of all kinds pervade the atmosphere, when it is charged with moisture, than in dry weather. it has been asked, if putrid matters produce malignant bilious fevers in our cities, why do they not produce them in lisbon, and in several other of the filthiest cities in the south of europe? to this i answer, that filth and dirt are two distinct things. the streets of a city may be very _dirty_, that is, covered with mud composed of inoffensive clay, sand, or lime, and, at the same time, be perfectly free from those _filthy_ vegetable and animal matters which, by putrefaction, contaminate the air. but, admitting the streets of those cities to abound with the filthy matters that produce pestilential diseases in other countries, it is possible the exhalations from them may be so _constant_, and so _powerful_, in their impressions upon the bodies of the inhabitants, as to produce, from habit, no morbid effects, or but feeble diseases, as was remarked formerly, is the case in the natives and old settlers in the east and west-indies. but if this explanation be not satisfactory, it may be resolved into a partial absence of an inflammatory constitution of the air, which, i shall say presently, must concur in producing pestilential diseases. such deviations from uniformity in the works of nature are universal. in the present instances, they no more invalidate the general proposition of malignant fevers being every where of domestic origin, than the exemption of ireland from venomous reptiles, proves they are not generated in other countries, or that the pleurisy and rheumatism are not the effects of the alternate action of cold and heat upon the body, because hundreds, who have been exposed to them under equal circumstances, have not been affected by those diseases. there may be other parts of the world in which putrid matters do not produce bilious malignant diseases from the causes that have been mentioned, or from some unknown cause, but i am safe in repeating, there never was a bilious epidemic yellow fever that could not be traced to putrid exhalation. it has been asked, if the yellow fever be not imported, why does it make its first appearance among sailors, and near the docks and wharves of our cities? i answer, this is far from being true. the disease has as often appeared first at a distance from the shores of our cities as near them, but, from its connection with a ship not being discovered, it has been called by another name. but where the first cases of it occur in sailors, i believe the seeds of it are always previously received by them from our filthy docks and wharves, or from the foul air which is discharged with the cargoes of the ships in which they have arrived, which seeds are readily excited in them by hard labour, or intemperance, so as to produce the disease. that this is the case, is further evident from its appearing in them, only in those months in which the bilious fever prevails in our cities. it has been asked further, why were not these bilious malignant fevers more common before the years 1791, 1792, and 1793? to this i answer, by repeating what was mentioned in another place[37], that our climate has been gradually undergoing a change. the summers are more alternated by hot and cool, and wet and dry weather, than in former years. the winters are likewise less uniformly cold. grass is two or three weeks later in the spring in affording pasture to cattle than it was within the memory of many thousand people. above all, the summer has encroached upon the autumn, and hence the frequent accounts we read in our newspapers of trees blossoming, of full grown strawberries and raspberries being gathered, and of cherries and apples, of a considerable size, being seen, in the months of october and november, in all the middle states. by means of this protraction of the heat of summer, more time is given for the generation of putrid exhalations, and possibly for their greater concentration and activity in producing malignant bilious diseases. [37] account of the climate of pennsylvania, vol i. it has been asked again, why do not the putrid matters which produce the yellow fever in some years produce it _every_ year? this question might be answered by asking two others. 1st. why, if the yellow fever be derived from the we st-indies, was it not imported every year before 1791, and before the existence, or during the feeble and partial operation of quarantine laws? it is no answer to this question to say, that a war is necessary to generate the disease in the islands, for it exists in some of them at all times, and the seasons of its prevalence in our cities have, in many instances, had no connection with war, nor with the presence of european armies in those and in other sickly parts of the globe. during the seven years revolutionary war it was unknown as an epidemic in the united states, and yet sailors arrived in all our cities daily from sickly islands, in small and crowded vessels, and sometimes covered with the rags they had worn in the yellow fever, in british hospitals and jails. i ask, 2dly, why does the dysentery (which is certainly a domestic disease) rise up in our country, and spread sickness and death through whole families and villages, and disappear from the same places for fifteen or twenty years afterwards? the want of uniformity in the exhalations of our country in producing those diseases depends upon their being combined with more or less heat or moisture; upon the surface of the earth being completely dry, or completely covered with water[38]; upon different currents of winds, or the total absence of wind; upon the disproportion of the temperature of the air in the day and night; upon the quantity of dew; upon the early or late appearance of warm or cold weather; and upon the predisposition of the body to disease, derived from the quality of the aliments of the season. a similar want of uniformity in the annual operations of our climate appears in the size and quality of grain, fruits, and vegetables of all kinds. [38] in the account of the yellow fever of 1793, the different and opposite effects of a dry and rainy season in producing bilious fevers are mentioned from dr. dazilles. in the autumn of 1804, i have elsewhere remarked, after a summer in which there had fallen an unusual quantity of rain, the bilious fevers appeared chiefly on the high grounds in pennsylvania, which were in a state of moisture, while scarcely a case of them appeared in the neighbourhood of marshes, or low grounds, owing to their being so completely covered with water, as to be incapable of generating, by putrefaction, the miasmata which produce those forms of disease. but the greater violence and mortality of our bilious fevers, than in former years, must be sought for chiefly in an inflammatory or malignant constitution of the atmosphere, the effects of which have been no less obvious upon the small-pox, measles, and the intercurrent fevers of dr. sydenham, than they are upon the summer and autumnal disease that has been mentioned. this malignant state of the air has been noticed, under different names, by all the writers upon epidemics, from hippocrates down to the present day. it was ascribed, by the venerable father of physic, to a "divine something" in the atmosphere. dr. sydenham, whose works abound with references to it, supposes it to be derived from a mineral exhalation from the bowels of the earth. from numerous other testimonies of a belief in the influence of the insensible qualities of the air, altering the character of epidemics, i shall select the following: "it is certain (says dr. mosely) that diseases undergo changes and revolutions. some continue for a succession of years, and vanish when they have exhausted the temporary, but secret cause which produced them. others have appeared and disappeared suddenly; and others have their periodical returns." the doctor ascribes a malignant fever among the dogs in jamaica (improperly called, from one of its symptoms, hydrophobia), to a change in the atmosphere, in the year 1783. it was said to have been imported, but experience, he says, proved the fact to be otherwise[39]. [39] treatise upon tropical diseases, p. 43, 44. "this latent malignity in the atmosphere (says baron vansweiten) is known only by its effects, and cannot easily be reduced to any known species of acrimony." in another place he says, "it seems certain that this unknown matter disposes all the humours to a sudden and bad putrefaction[40]." [40] commentaries on boerhaave's aphorisms, vol. v. p. 226, 230. dr. john stedman has related many facts, in his essay upon insalutary constitutions of the air, which prove, that diseases are influenced by a quality in it, which, he says, "is productive of corruption," but which has hitherto eluded the researches of physicians[41]. [41] page 135. mr. lempriere, after mentioning the unusual mortality occasioned by the yellow fever, within the last five or six years, in the island of jamaica, ascribes it wholly "to that particular constitution of atmosphere upon which the existence of epidemics, at one period rather than another, depend[42]." [42] vol. ii. p. 31. not only diseases bear testimony to a change in the atmosphere, but the whole vegetable and animal creation concur in it, proofs of which were mentioned in another place. three things are remarkable with respect to this inflammatory constitution of the air. 1. it is sometimes of a local nature, and influences the diseases of a city, or country, while adjoining cities and countries are exempted from it. 2. it much oftener pervades a great extent of country. this was evident in the years 1793 and 1794, in the united states. during the same years, the yellow fever prevailed in most of the west-india islands. many of the epidemics mentioned by dr. sims, in the first volume of the medical memoirs, affected, in the same years, the most remote parts of the continent of europe. even the ocean partakes of a morbid constitution of its atmosphere, and diseases at sea sympathise in violence with those of the land, at an immense distance from each other. this appears in a letter from a surgeon, on board a british ship of war, to mr. gooch, published in the third volume of his medical and surgical observations. 3. the predisposing state of the atmosphere to induce malignant diseases continues for several years, under all the circumstances of wet and dry, and of hot and cold weather. this will appear, from attending to the accounts which have been given of the weather, in all the years in which the yellow fever has prevailed in philadelphia since 1792[43]. the remark is confirmed by all the records of malignant epidemics. [43] vol. iii. and iv. it is to no purpose to say, the presence of the peculiar matter which constitutes an inflammatory or malignant state of the air has not been detected by any chemical agents. the same thing has been justly said of the exhalations which produce the bilious intermitting, remitting, and yellow fever. no experiment that has yet been made, has discovered their presence in the air. the eudiometer has been used in vain for this purpose. in one experiment made by dr. gattani, the air from a marsh at the mouth of the river vateline was found to be apparently purer by two degrees than the air on a neighbouring mountain, which was 2880 feet higher than the sea. the inhabitants of the mountain were notwithstanding healthy, while those who lived in the neighbourhood of the marsh were annually afflicted with bilious and intermitting fevers[44]. the contagions of the small-pox and measles consist of matter, and yet who has ever discovered this matter in the air? we infer the existence of those remote causes of diseases in the atmosphere only from their effects. of the existence of putrid exhalations in it, there are other evidences besides bilious and yellow fevers. they are sometimes the objects of the sense of smelling. we see them in the pale or sallow complexions of the inhabitants of the countries which generate them, and we observe them occasionally in the diseases of several domestic animals. the most frequent of these diseases are inflammation, tubercles, and ulcers in the liver. dr. cleghorn describes a diseased state of that viscus in cattle, in an unhealthy part of the island of minorca. dr. grainger takes notice of several morbid appearances in the livers of domestic animals in holland, in the year 1743. but the united states have furnished facts to illustrate the truth of this remark. mr. james wardrobe, near richmond, in virginia, informed me, that in august, 1794, at a time when bilious fevers were prevalent in his neighbourhood, his cattle were seized with a disease, which, i said formerly, is known by the name of the yellow water, and which appears to be a true yellow fever. they were attacked with a staggering. their eyes were muddy, or ferocious. a costiveness attended in all cases. it killed in two days. fifty-two of his cattle perished by it. upon opening the bodies of several of them, he found the liver swelled and ulcerated. the blood was dissolved in the veins. in the bladder of one of them, he found thirteen pints of blood and water. similar appearances were observed in the livers of sheep in the neighbourhood of cadiz, in the year 1799, during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city. they were considered as such unequivocal marks of an unwholesome atmosphere among the ancients, that they examined the livers of domestic animals, in order to determine on the healthy or unhealthy situation of the spot on which they wished to live. [44] alibert's dissertation sur les fievres pernicieuses et attaxiques intermittentes, p. 185. the advocates for the yellow fever being a specific disease, and propagated only by contagion, will gain nothing by denying an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere (the cause of which is unknown to us) to be necessary to raise common remittents to that grade in which they become malignant yellow fevers; for they are obliged to have recourse to an unknown quality in the air, every time they are called upon to account for the disease prevailing chiefly in our cities, and not spreading when it is carried from them into the country. the same reference to an occult quality in the air is had by all the writers upon the plague, in accounting for its immediate and total extinction, when it is carried into a foreign port. in speaking of the influence of an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere in raising common bilious, to malignant yellow fevers, i wish not to have it supposed, that its concurrence is necessary to produce sporadic cases of that, or any other malignant disease. strong exciting causes, combined with highly volatilized and active miasmata, i believe, will produce a yellow fever at any time. i have seen one or more such cases almost every year since i settled in philadelphia, and particularly when my business was confined chiefly to that class of people who live near the wharves, and in the suburbs, and who are still the first, and frequently the only victims of the yellow fever. it has been said, exultingly, that the opinion of the importation of the yellow fever is of great antiquity in our country, and that it has lately been admitted by the most respectable physicians in britain and france, and sanctioned by the laws of several of the governments in europe. had antiquity, numbers, rank, and power been just arguments in favour of existing opinions, a thousand truths would have perished in their birth, which have diffused light and happiness over every part of our globe. in favour of the ancient and general belief of the importation of the yellow fever, there are several obvious reasons. the idea is produced by a single act of the mind. it requires neither comparison nor reasoning to adopt it, and therefore accords with the natural indolence of man. it, moreover, flatters his avarice and pride, by throwing the origin of a mortal disease from his property and country. the principle of thus referring the origin of the evils of life from ourselves to others is universal. it began in paradise, and has ever since been an essential feature in the character of our species. it has constantly led individuals and nations to consider loathsome and dangerous diseases as of foreign extraction. the venereal disease and the leprosy have no native country, if we believe all the authors who have written upon them. prosper alpinus derives the plagues of cairo from syria, and the physicians of alexandria import them from smyrna or constantinople. the yellow fever is said to have been first brought from siam (where there are proofs it never existed) to the west-indies, whence it is believed to be imported into the cities of the united states. from them, frenchmen and spaniards say it has been re-shipped, directly or indirectly, to st. domingo, havanna, malaga, cadiz, and other parts of the world. weak and absurd credulity! the causes of the ferocious and mortal disease which we thus thrust from our respective ports, like the sin of cain, "lie exclusively at our own doors." lastly, it has been asserted, if we admit the yellow fever to be an indigenous disease of our cities, we shall destroy their commerce, and the value of property in them, by disseminating a belief, that the cause of our disease is fixed in our climate, and that it is out of the power of human means to remove it. the reverse of this supposition is true. if it be an imported disease, our case is without a remedy; for if, with all the advantages of quarantine laws enforced by severe penalties, and executed in the most despotic manner, the disease has existed annually, in most of our cities, as an epidemic, or in sporadic cases, ever since the year 1791, it will be in vain to expect, from similar measures, a future exemption from it. nothing but a belief in its domestic origin, and the adoption of means founded upon that belief, can restore the character of our climate, and save our commercial cities from destruction. those means are cheap, practicable, and certain. they have succeeded, as i shall say presently, in other countries. from the account that has been given of the different ways in which this disease is communicated from one person to another, and from the facts which establish its propagation exclusively through the medium of the atmosphere, when it becomes epidemic, we may explain several things which belong to its history, that are inexplicable upon the principle of its specific contagion. 1. we learn the reason why, in some instances, the fever does not spread from a person who sickens or dies at sea, who had carried the seeds of it in his body from a sickly shore. it is because no febrile miasmata exist in the bodies of the rest of the crew to be excited into action by any peculiar smell from the disease, or by fear or fatigue, and because no morbid excretions are generated by the person who dies. the fever which prevailed on board the nottingham east-indiaman, in the year 1766, affected those forty men only, who had slept on shore on the island of joanna twenty days before. had the whole crew been on shore, the disease would probably have affected them all, and been ascribed to contagion generated by the first persons who were confined by it[45]. a danish ship, in the year 1768, sent twelve of her crew on shore for water. they were all seized after their return to the ship with malignant fever, and died without infecting any person on board, and from the same causes which preserved the crew of the nottingham indiaman[46]. [45] observations on the bilious fevers usual in voyages to the east-indies, by james badinach, m. d. medical observations and inquiries, vol. iv. [46] clarke on the diseases of long voyages to hot climates, p. 123, 125. 2. we learn the reason why the disease sometimes spreads through a whole ship's crew, apparently from one or more affected persons. it is either because they have been confined to small and close berths by bad weather, or because the fever has been protracted to a typhus or chronic state, or because the bodies of the whole crew are impregnated with morbid miasmata, and thus predisposed to have the disease excited in the manner that has been mentioned. in the last way it was excited in most of the crew of the united states frigate, in the delaware, opposite to the city of philadelphia, in the year 1797. it appears to have spread, from a similar cause, from a few sailors, on board the grenville indiaman, after touching at batavia. the whole crew had been predisposed to the disease by inhaling the noxious air of that island. the same reasons account for the fever expiring in a healthy village or country; also for its spreading when carried to those towns which are seated upon creeks or rivers, and in the neighbourhood of marsh exhalations. it has uniformly perished in the high and healthy village of germantown, when carried from philadelphia, and has three times appeared to be contagious near the muddy shores of the creeks which flow through wilmington and chester. 3. from the facts that have been mentioned, we are taught to disbelieve the possibility of the disease being imported in the masts and sails of a ship, by a contagious matter secreted by a sailor who may have sickened or died on board her, on a passage from a west-india island. the death in most of the cases supposed to be imported, in this way, occurs within a few days after the ship leaves her west-india port, or within a few days after her arrival. in the former case, the disease is derived from west-india miasmata; in the latter, it is derived, as was before remarked, either from the foul air of the hold of the ship, or of the dock or wharf to which the ship is moored. many other facts might be adduced to show the yellow fever not to be an imported disease. it has often prevailed among the indians remote from the sea coast, and many hundred cases of it have occurred, since the year 1793, on the inland waters of the united states, from the hudson and susquehannah, to the rivers of the mississippi. in south-america, baron humboldt assured me, it is every where believed to be an endemic of that country. these simple and connected facts, in which all the physicians in the united states who derive the yellow fever from domestic causes have agreed, will receive fresh support by comparing them with the different and contrary opinions of the physicians who maintain its importation. some of them have asserted it to be a specific disease, and derived it from the east and west-indies; others derive it from beulam, on the coast of africa; a third sect have called it a ship fever; a fourth have ascribed it to a mixture of imported contagion with the foul air of our cities; while a fifth, who believed it to be imported in 1793, have supposed it to be the offspring of a contagion left by the disease of that year, revived by the heat of our summers, and disseminated, ever since, through the different cities of our country. the number of these opinions, clearly proves, that no one of them is tenable. a belief in the non-contagion of the yellow fever, or of its being incommunicable except in one of the five ways that have been mentioned, is calculated to produce the following good effects: 1. it will deliver the states which have sea-ports from four-fifths of the expences of their present quarantine laws and lazarettoes. a very small apparatus, in laws and officers, would be sufficient to prevent the landing of persons affected by the ship fever in our cities, and the more dangerous practice, of ships pouring streams of pestilential air, from their holds, upon the citizens who live near our docks and wharves. 2. it will deliver our merchants from the losses incurred by the delays of their ships, by long and unnecessary quarantines. it will, moreover, tend to procure the immediate admission of our ships into foreign ports, by removing that belief in the contagious nature of the yellow fever, which originated in our country, and which has been spread, by the public acts of our legislatures and boards of health, throughout the globe. 3. it will deliver our citizens from the danger to which they are exposed, by spending the time of the quarantine, on board of vessels in the neighbourhood of the marshes, which form the shores of the rivers or coasts of quarantine roads. this danger is much increased by idleness, and by the vexation which is excited, by sailors and passengers being detained, unnecessarily, fifteen or twenty days from their business and friends. 4. it will lead us to a speedy removal of all the excretions, and a constant ventilation of the rooms of patients in the yellow fever, and thereby to prevent the accumulation, and further putrefaction of those exhalations which may reproduce it. 5. it is calculated to prevent the desertion of patients in the yellow fever, by their friends and families, and to produce caution in them to prevent the excitement of the disease in their own bodies, by means of low diet and gentle physic, proportioned to the impurity of the air, and to the anxiety and fatigue to which they are exposed in attending the sick. 6. it will put an end to the cruel practice of quieting the groundless fears of a whole neighbourhood, by removing the poor who are affected by the fever, from their houses, and conveying them, half dead with disease and terror, to a solitary or crowded hospital, or of nailing a yellow flag upon the doors of others, or of fixing a guard before them, both of which have been practised in philadelphia, not only without any good effect, but to the great injury of the sick. 7. by deriving the fever from our own climate and atmosphere, we shall be able to foresee its approach in the increased violence of common diseases, in the morbid state of vegetation, in the course of the winds, in the diseases of certain brute animals, and in the increase of common, or the appearance of uncommon insects. 8. a belief in the non-contagion of the yellow fever, and its general prevalence from putrid animal and vegetable matters _only_, is calculated to lead us to drain or cover marshy grounds, and to remove from our cities all the sources of impure air, whether they exist in the holds of ships, in docks, gutters, and common sewers, or in privies, gardens, yards, and cellars, more especially during the existence of the signs of a malignant constitution of the air. a fever, the same in its causes, and similar to it in many of its symptoms, that is, the plague, has been extirpated, by extraordinary degrees of cleanliness, from the cities of holland, great-britain, and several other parts of europe. the reader will perceive, from these facts and reasonings, that i have relinquished the opinion published in my account of the yellow fever in the years 1793, 1794, and 1797, respecting its contagious nature. i was misled by dr. lining, and several west-india writers, in ascribing a much greater extent to the excreted matters in producing the disease, than i have since discovered to be correct, and by bianchi, lind, clark, and cleghorn, in admitting even the common bilious fever to be contagious. the reader will perceive, likewise, that i have changed my opinion respecting one of the modes in which the plague is propagated. i once believed, upon the authorities of travellers, physicians, and schools of medicine, that it was a highly contagious disease. i am now satisfied this is not the case; but, from the greater number of people who are depressed and debilitated by poverty and famine, and who live in small and filthy huts[47] in the cities of the east, than in the cities of the united states, i still believe it to be more frequently communicated from an intercourse with sick people by the morbid excretions of the body, than the yellow fever is in our country. for the change of my opinion upon this subject, i am indebted to dr. caldwell's and mr. webster's publications upon pestilential diseases, and to the travels of mariti and sonnini into syria and egypt. i reject, of course, with the contagious quality of the plague, the idea of its ever being imported into any country so as to become epidemic, by means of a knife-case, a piece of cotton, or a bale of silks, with the same decision that i do all the improbable and contradictory reports of an epidemic yellow fever being imported in a sailor's jacket, or in the timbers and sails of a ship that had been washed by the salt water, and fanned by the pure air of the ocean, for several weeks, on her passage from the west-indies to the united states. [47] m. savary, in his travels, says, two hundred persons live in cairo within a compass that accommodates but thirty persons in paris. it gives me pleasure to find this unpopular opinion of the non-contagion of the plague is not a new one. it was held by the faculty of medicine in paris, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, and it has since been defended by dr. stoll, of vienna, dr. samoilowitz, of russia, and several other eminent physicians. dr. herberden has lately called in question the truth of all the stories that are upon record of the plague having been imported into england in the last century, and the researches of sir robert wilson of the british army, and of assellini, and several other french physicians, have produced the most satisfactory proofs of its not being a contagious disease in its native country. a discovery more pregnant with blessings to mankind has seldom been made. pyramids of error, the works of successive ages and nations, must fall before it, and rivers of tears must be dried up by it. it is impossible fully to appreciate the immense benefits which await this mighty achievement of our science upon the affairs of the globe. large cities shall no longer be the hot-beds of disease and death. marshy grounds, teeming with pestilential exhalations, shall become the healthy abodes of men. a powerful source of repulsion between nations shall be removed, and commerce shall shake off the fetters which have been imposed upon it by expensive and vexatious quarantines. a red or a yellow eye shall no longer be the signal to desert a friend or a brother to perish alone in a garret or a barn, nor to expel the stranger from our houses, to seek an asylum in a public hospital, to avoid dying in the street. the number of diseases shall be lessened, and the most mortal of them shall be struck out of the list of human evils. to accelerate these events, it is incumbent upon the physicians of the united states to second the discoveries of their european brethren. it becomes them constantly to recollect, that we are the centinels of the health and lives of our fellow-citizens, and that there is a grade of benevolence in our profession much higher than that which arises from the cure of diseases. it consists in exterminating their causes. a defence of _blood-letting_, as a remedy for certain diseases. blood-letting, as a remedy for fevers, and certain other diseases, having lately been the subject of much discussion, and many objections having been made to it, which appear to be founded in error and fear, i have considered that a defence of it, by removing those objections, might render it more generally useful, in every part of the united states. i shall begin this subject by remarking, that blood-letting is indicated, in fevers of great morbid excitement, 1. by the sudden suppression or diminution of the natural discharges by the pores, bowels, and kidneys, whereby a plethora is induced in the system. 2. by the habits of the persons who are most subject to such fevers. 3. by the theory of fever. i have attempted to prove that the higher grades of fever depend upon morbid and excessive action in the blood-vessels. it is connected, of course, with preternatural sensibility in their muscular fibres. the blood is the most powerful irritant which acts upon them. by abstracting a part of it, we lessen the principal cause of the fever. the effect of blood-letting is as immediate and natural in removing fever, as the abstraction of a particle of sand is, to cure an inflammation of the eye, when it arises from that cause. 4. by the symptoms of the first stage of violent fevers, such as a sleepiness and an oppressed pulse, or by delirium, with a throbbing pulse, and great pains in every part of the body. 5. by the rupture of the blood-vessels, which takes place from the quantity or impetus of the blood in fevers of great morbid action. let no one call bleeding a cruel or unnatural remedy. it is one of the specifics of nature; but in the use of it she seldom affords much relief. she frequently pours the stimulating and oppressing mass of blood into the lungs and brain; and when she finds an outlet for it through the nose, it is discharged either in such a deficient or excessive quantity, as to be useless or hurtful. by artificial blood-letting, we can choose the _time_ and _place_ of drawing blood, and we may regulate its quantity by the degrees of action in the blood-vessels. the disposition of nature to cure violent morbid action by depletion, is further manifested by her substituting, in the room of blood-letting, large, but less safe and less beneficial, evacuations from the stomach and bowels. 6. by the relief which is obtained in fevers of violent action by remedies of less efficacy (to be mentioned hereafter), which act indirectly in reducing the force of the sanguiferous system. 7. by the immense advantages which have attended the use of blood-letting in violent fevers, when used at a proper time, and in a quantity suited to the force of the disease. i shall briefly enumerate these advantages. 1. it frequently strangles a fever, when used in its forming state, and thereby saves much pain, time, and expence to a patient. 2. it imparts strength to the body, by removing the depression which is induced by the remote cause of the fever. it moreover obviates a disposition to faint, which arises from this state of the system. 3. it reduces the uncommon frequency of the pulse. the loss of ten ounces of blood reduced miss sally eyre's pulse from 176 strokes to 140, in a few minutes, in the fever of the year 1794. dr. gordon mentions many similar instances of its reducing the frequency of the pulse, in the puerperile fever. 4. it renders the pulse more frequent when it is preternaturally slow. 5. it checks the nausea and vomiting, which attend the malignant state of fever. of this i saw many instances in the year 1794. dr. poissonnier desperrieres confirms this remark, in his account of the fevers of st. domingo; and adds further, that it prevents, when sufficiently copious, the troublesome vomiting which often occurs on the fifth day of the yellow fever[48]. it has the same effect in preventing the diarrh[oe]a in the measles. [48] traite des fievres de l'isle de st. domingue, vol. ii. p. 76. 6. it renders the bowels, when costive, more easily moved by purging physic. 7. it renders the action of mercury more speedy and more certain, in exciting a salivation. 8. it disposes the body to sweat spontaneously, or renders diluting and diaphoretic medicines more effectual for that purpose. 9. it _suddenly_ removes a dryness, and _gradually_ a blackness, from the tongue. of the former effect of bleeding, i saw two instances, and of the latter, one, during the autumn of 1794. 10. it removes or lessens pain in every part of the body, and more especially in the head. 11. it removes or lessens the burning heat of the skin, and the burning heat in the stomach, so common and so distressing in the yellow fever. 12. it removes a constant chilliness, which sometimes continues for several days, and which will neither yield to cordial drinks, nor warm bed-clothes. 13. it checks such sweats as are profuse without affording relief, and renders such as are partial and moderate, universal and salutary. 14. it sometimes checks a diarrh[oe]a and tenesmus, after astringent medicines have been given to no purpose. this has often been observed in the measles. 15. it suddenly cures the intolerance of light which accompanies many of the inflammatory states of fever. 16. it removes coma. mr. henry clymer was suddenly relieved of this alarming symptom, in the fever of 1794, by the loss of twelve ounces of blood. 17. it induces sleep. this effect of bleeding is so uniform, that it obtained, in the year 1794, the name of an anodyne in several families. sleep sometimes stole upon the patient while the blood was flowing. 18. it prevents effusions of serum and blood. hæmorrhages seldom occur, where bleeding has been sufficiently copious. 19. it belongs to this remedy to prevent the chronic diseases of cough, consumption, jaundice, abscess in the liver, and all the different states of dropsy which so often follow autumnal fevers. my amiable friend, mrs. lenox, furnished an exception to this remark, in the year 1794. after having been cured of the yellow fever by seven bleedings, she was affected, in consequence of taking a ride, with a slight return of fever, accompanied by an acute pain in the head, and some of the symptoms of a dropsy of the brain. as her pulse was tense and quick, i advised repeated bleedings to remove it. this prescription, for reasons which it is unnecessary to relate, was not followed at the time, or in the manner, in which it was recommended. the pain, in the mean time, became more alarming. in this situation, two physicians were proposed by her friends to consult with me. i objected to them both, because i knew their principles and modes of practice to be contrary to mine, and that they were proposed only with a view of wresting the lancet from my hand. from this desire of avoiding a controversy with my brethren, where conviction was impossible on either side, as well as to obviate all cause of complaint by my patient's friends, i offered to take my leave of her, and to resign her wholly to the care of the two gentlemen who were proposed to attend her with me. to this she objected in a decided manner. but that i might not be suspected of an undue reliance upon my own judgment, i proposed to call upon dr. griffitts or dr. physick to assist me in my attendance upon her. both these physicians had renounced the prejudices of the schools in which they had been educated, and had conformed their principles and practice to the present improving state of medical science. my patient preferred dr. griffitts, who, in his first visit to her, as soon as he felt her pulse, proposed more bleeding. the operation was performed by the doctor himself, and repeated daily for five days afterwards. from an apprehension that the disease was so fixed as to require some aid to blood-letting, we gave her calomel in such large doses as to excite a salivation. by the use of these remedies she recovered slowly, but so perfectly as to enjoy her usual health. 20. bleeding prevents the termination of malignant, in the gangrenous state of fever. this effect of blood-letting will enable us to understand some things in the writings of dr. morton and dr. sydenham, which at first sight appear to be unintelligible. dr. morton describes what he calls a putrid fever, which was epidemic and fatal, in the year 1678. dr. sydenham, who practised in london at the same time, takes no notice of this fever. the reason of his silence is obvious. by copious bleeding, he prevented the fever of that year from running on to the gangrenous state, while dr. morton, by neglecting to bleed, created the supposed putrid fevers which he has described. it has been common to charge the friends of blood-letting with _temerity_ in their practice. from this view which has been given of it, it appears, that it would be more proper to ascribe _timidity_ to them, for they bleed to prevent the offensive and distressing consequences of neglecting it, which have been mentioned. 21. it cures, without permitting a fever to put on those alarming symptoms, which excite constant apprehensions of danger and death, in the minds of patients and their friends. it is because these alarming symptoms are prevented, by bleeding, that patients are sometimes unwilling to believe they have been cured by it, of a malignant fever. thus, the syrian leper of old, viewed the water of jordan as too simple and too common to cure a formidable disease, without recollecting that the remedies for the greatest evils of life are all simple, and within the power of the greatest part of mankind. 22. it prepares the way for the successful use of the bark and other tonic remedies, by destroying, or so far weakening, a morbid action in the blood-vessels, that a medicine of a moderate stimulus afterwards exceeds it in force, and thereby restores equable and healthy action to the system. 23. bleeding prevents relapses. it, moreover, prevents that predisposition to the intermitting and pleuritic states of fever, which so frequently attack persons in the spring, who have had the bilious remitting fever in the preceding autumn. but great and numerous as the advantages of blood-letting are in fevers, there have been many objections to it. i shall briefly enumerate, and endeavour to refute the errors upon this subject. blood-letting has been forbidden by physicians, by the following circumstances, and states of the system. 1. by warm weather. galen bled in a plague, and aræteus in a bilious fever, in a warm climate. dr. sydenham and dr. hillary inform us, that the most inflammatory fevers occur in, and succeed hot weather. dr. cleghorn prescribed it copiously in the warm months, in minorca. dr. mosely cured the yellow fever by this remedy, in jamaica. dr. broadbelt, and dr. weston, in the same island, have lately adopted his successful practice. dr. desportes speaks in the highest terms of it in all the inflammatory diseases of st. domingo. he complains of the neglect of it in the rheumatism, in consequence of which, he says, the disease produces abscesses in the lungs[49]. i have never, in any year of my practice, been restrained by the heat of summer in the use of the lancet, where the pulse has indicated it to be necessary, and have always found the same advantages from it, as when i have prescribed it in the winter or spring months. [49] page 35. in thus deciding in favour of bleeding in warm weather, i do not mean to defend its use to the same extent, as to diseases, or to quantity, in the native and long settled inhabitants of hot climates, as in persons who have recently migrated to them, or who live in climates alternately hot and cold. 2. being born, and having lived in a warm climate. this is so far from being an objection to blood-letting in an inflammatory disease, that it renders it more necessary. i think i have lost several west-india patients from the influence of this error. 3. great apparent weakness. this, in acute and violent fevers, is always from a depressed state of the system. it resembles, in so many particulars, that weakness which is the effect of the abstraction of stimulus, that it is no wonder they have been confounded by physicians. this sameness of symptoms from opposite states of the system is taken notice of by hippocrates. he describes convulsions, and particularly a hiccup, as occurring equally from repletion and inanition, which answer to the terms of depression, and debility from action and abstraction. the natural remedy for the former is depletion, and no mode of depleting is so effectual or safe as blood-letting. but the great objection to this remedy is, when a fever of great morbid excitement affects persons of delicate constitutions, and such as have long been subject to debility of the chronic kind. in this state of the system there is the same morbid and preternatural action in the blood-vessels, that there is in persons of robust habits, and the same remedy is necessary to subdue it in both cases. it is sometimes indicated in a larger quantity in weakly than in robust people, by the plethora which is more easily induced in their relaxed and yielding blood-vessels, and by the greater facility with which ruptures and effusions take place in their viscera. thus it is more necessary to throw overboard a large part of the cargo of an old and leaky vessel in a storm, than of a new and strong one. i know that vomits, purges, sweats, and other evacuating remedies, are preferred to bleeding in weakly constitutions, but i hope to show hereafter, that bleeding is not only more effectual, but more safe in such habits, than any other depleting remedy. 4. infancy and childhood. this is so far from being an objection to bleeding, that the excitable state of the blood-vessels in those periods of life, renders it peculiarly necessary in their inflammatory diseases. dr. sydenham bled children in the hooping cough, and in dentition. i have followed his practice, and bled as freely in the violent states of fever in infancy as in middle life. i bled my eldest daughter when she was but six weeks old, for convulsions brought on by an excessive dose of laudanum given to her by her nurse; and i bled one of my sons twice, before he was two months old, for an acute fever which fell upon his lungs and bowels. in both cases, life appeared to be saved by this remedy. 5. old age. the increase of appetite in old people, their inability to use sufficient exercise, whereby their blood-vessels become relaxed, plethoric, and excitable, and above all, the translation of the strength of the muscles to the arteries, and of plethora to the veins, all indicate bleeding to be more necessary (in equal circumstances) in old, than in middle aged people. my practice in the diseases of old people has long been regulated by the above facts. i bled mrs. fullarton twice in a pleurisy in january, 1804, in the 84th year of her age, and thereby cured her disease. i am not the author of this practice. botallus left a testimony in favour of it nearly 200 years ago[50], and it has since been confirmed by the experience of hoffman, and many other physicians. an ignorance of, or inattention to this change in the state of the blood-vessels, in persons in the decline of life, and the neglect of the only remedy indicated by it, is probably the reason why diseases often prove fatal to them, which in early or middle life cured themselves, or yielded to a single dose of physic, or a few ounces of bark. [50] magis esse adjuvandos senes, missione sanguinis dum morbus postulat, aut corpus eorum habitus malus est, quam ubi hæc (quod absonum videbitur) juvenibus contingunt. de cur. per sang. missionem, cap. 11. § 11. 6. the time of menstruation. the uterus, during this period, is in an inflamed state, and the whole system is plethoric and excitable, and of course disposed to a violent degree of fever, from all the causes which excite it. bleeding, therefore, is more indicated, in fever of great morbid action, at this time, than at any other. formerly the natural discharge from the uterus was trusted to, to remove a fever contracted during the time of menstruation; but what relief can the discharge of four or five ounces of blood from the uterus afford, in a fever which requires the loss of 50, or perhaps of 100 ounces to cure it? 7. pregnancy. the inflammation and distention induced upon the uterus directly, and indirectly upon the whole system by pregnancy, render bleeding, in the acute states of fever, more necessary than at other times. i have elsewhere mentioned the advantages of bleeding pregnant women, in the yellow fever. i did not learn the advantages of the practice in that disease. i bled mrs. philler 11 times in seven days, in a pleurisy during her pregnancy, in the month of march, 1783. mrs. fiss was bled 13 times in the spring of 1783; and mrs. kirby 16 times in the same condition, by my orders, in the winter of 1786, in a similar disease. all these women recovered, and the children they carried during their illness, are at this time alive, and in good health. 8. fainting after bleeding. this symptom is accidental in many people. no inference can be drawn from it against blood-letting. it often occurs after the first and second bleedings in a fever, but in no subsequent bleeding, though it be repeated a dozen times. of this i saw several instances, in the yellow fever of 1794. the pulse, during the fainting, is often tense and full. 9. coldness of the extremities, and of the whole body. this cold state of fever when it occurs early, yields more readily to bleeding, than to the most cordial medicines. 10. sweats are supposed to forbid blood-letting. i have seen two instances of death, from leaving a paroxysm of malignant fever to terminate itself by sweating. dr. sydenham has taught a contrary practice in the following case. "while this constitution (says the doctor) prevailed, i was called to dr. morice, who then practised in london. he had this fever, attended with profuse sweats, and numerous petechiæ. by the consent of some other physicians, our joint friends, he was blooded, and rose from his bed, his body being first wiped dry. he found immediate relief from the use of a cooling diet and medicines, the dangerous symptoms soon going off; and by continuing this method he recovered in a few days[51]." in the same fever, the doctor adds further, "for though one might expect great advantages in pursuing an indication taken from what generally proves serviceable (viz. sweating), yet i have found, by constant experience, that the patient not only finds no relief, but, contrariwise, is more heated thereby; so that frequently a delirium, petechiæ, and other very dangerous symptoms immediately succeed such _sweats_[52]." [51] wallis's edition, vol. i. p. 210. [52] vol. i. p. 208. morgagni describes a malignant fever which prevailed in italy, in which the patients died in profuse sweats, while their physicians were looking for a crisis from them. bleeding would probably have checked these sweats, and cured the fever. 11. dissolved blood, and an absence of an inflammatory crust on its crassamentum. i shall hereafter place dissolved blood at the highest point of a scale, which is intended to mark the different degrees of morbid action in the system. i have mentioned, in the outlines of a theory of fever, that it is the effect of a tendency to a palsy, induced by the violent force of impression upon the blood-vessels. this appearance of the blood in certain states of fever, instead of forbidding bleeding, is the most vehement call of the system for it. nor is the absence of a crust on the crassamentum of the blood, a proof of the absence of great morbid diathesis, or a signal to lay aside the lancet. on the contrary, i shall show hereafter, that there are several appearances of the blood which indicate more morbid action in the blood-vessels than a sizy or inflammatory crust. 12. an undue proportion of serum to crassamentum in the blood. this predominance of water in the blood has often checked sufficient blood-letting. but it should be constantly disregarded while it is attended with those states of pulse (to be mentioned hereafter) which require bleeding. 14. the presence of petechiæ on the skin. these, i have elsewhere said, are the effects of the gangrenous state of fever. dr. sydenham and dr. de haen have taught the safety and advantage of bleeding, when these spots are accompanied by an active pulse. a boy of mr. john carrol owes his recovery from the small-pox to the loss of fifty ounces of blood, by five bleedings, at a time when nearly every pock on his arms and legs had a purple appearance. louis xiv was bled five times in the small-pox, when he was but thirteen years of age, and thereby probably saved from the grave, to the great honour and emolument of the single physician who urged it against the advice of all the other physicians of the court. dr. cleghorn mentions a single case of the success of bleeding in the petechial small-pox. his want of equal success afterwards, in similar cases, was probably occasioned by his bleeding too sparingly, that is, but three or four times. abscesses and sore breasts, which accompany or succeed fever, are no objections to blood-letting, provided the pulse indicate the continuance of inflammatory diathesis. they depend frequently upon the same state of the system as livid effusions on the skin. 14. the long duration of fever. inflammatory diathesis is often protracted for many weeks, in the chronic state of fever. it, moreover, frequently revives after having disappeared, from an accidental irritant affecting some part of the body, particularly the lungs and brain. i bled a young man of james cameron, in the autumn of 1794, four times between the 20th and 30th days of a chronic fever, in consequence of a pain in the side, accompanied by a tense pulse, which suddenly came on after the 20th day of his disease. his blood was sizy. his pain and tense pulse were subdued by the bleeding, and he recovered. i bled the late dr. prowl twelve times, in a fever which continued thirty days, in the autumn of the year 1800. i wish these cases to be attended to by young practitioners. the pulmonary consumption is often the effect of a chronic fever, terminating with fresh inflammatory symptoms, by effusions in the lungs. it may easily be prevented by forgetting the number of the days of our patient's fever, and treating the pulmonary affection as if it were a recent complaint. 15. tremors and slight convulsions in the limbs. bark, wine, laudanum, and musk are generally prescribed to remove these symptoms; but, to be effectual, they should, in most cases, be preceded by the loss of a few ounces of blood. 16. bleeding is forbidden after the fifth or seventh day in a pleurisy. this prohibition was introduced into medicine at a time when a fear was entertained of arresting the progress of nature in preparing and expelling morbific matter from the system. from repeated experience i can assert, that bleeding is safe in every stage of pleurisy in which there is pain, and a tense and oppressed pulse; and that it has, when used for the first time after the fifth and seventh days, saved many lives. bleeding has likewise been limited to a certain number of ounces in several states of fever. were the force of the remote cause of a fever, its degrees of violence, and the habits of the subject of it, always the same, this rule would be a proper one; but, this not being the case, we must be governed wholly by the condition of the system, manifested chiefly by the state of the pulse. to admit of copious bleeding in one state of fever, and not in another, under equal circumstances of morbid excitement, is to prescribe for its name, and to forget the changes which climate, season, and previous habits create in all its different states. 17. the loss of a sufficient quantity of blood is often prevented by patients being apparently _worse_, after the first or second bleeding. this change for the worse, shows itself in some one or more of the following symptoms, viz. increase of heat, chills, delirium, hæmorrhages, convulsions, nausea, vomiting, faintness, coma, great weakness, pain, a tense, after a soft pulse, and a reduction of it in force and frequency. they are all occasioned by the system rising suddenly from a state of extreme depression, in consequence of the abstraction of the pressure of the blood to a state of vigour and activity, so great, in some instances, as to reproduce a depression below what existed in the system before a vein was opened; or it is occasioned by a translation of morbid action from one part of the body to another. the chills which follow bleeding are the effects of a change in the fever, from an uncommon to a common state of malignity. they occur chiefly in those violent cases of fever which come on without a chilly fit. the hæmorrhages produced by bleeding are chiefly from the nose, hæmorrhoidal vessels, or uterus, and of course are, for the most part, safe. uncommon weakness, succeeding blood-letting, is the effect of sudden depression induced upon the whole system, by the cause before-mentioned, or of a sudden translation of the excitement of the muscles into the blood-vessels, or some other part of the body. these symptoms, together with all the others which have been mentioned, are so far from forbidding, that they all most forcibly indicate a repetition of blood-letting. i shall briefly illustrate, by the recital of three cases, the good effects of bleeding, in removing pain, and the preternatural slowness and weakness of the pulse, when produced by the use of that remedy. in the month of june of 1795, i visited dr. say in a malignant fever, attended with pleuritic symptoms, in consultation with dr. physick. an acute pain in his head followed six successive bleedings. after a seventh bleeding, he had no pain. his fever soon afterwards left him. in thus persevering in the use of a remedy, which, for several days, appeared to do harm, we were guided wholly by the state of his pulse, which uniformly indicated, by its force, the necessity of more bleeding. in the autumn of 1794, i was sent for to visit samuel bradford, a young man of about 20 years of age, son of mr. thomas bradford, who was ill with the reigning malignant epidemic. his pulse was at 80. i drew about 12 ounces of blood from him. immediately after his arm was tied up, his pulse fell to 60 strokes in a minute. i bled him a second time, but more plentifully than before, and thereby, in a few minutes, brought his pulse back again to 80 strokes in a minute. a third bleeding the next day, aided by the usual purging physic, cured him in a few days. in the month of march, 1795, dr. physick requested me to visit, with him, mrs. fries, the wife of mr. john fries, in a malignant fever. he had bled her four times. after the fourth bleeding, her pulse suddenly fell, so as scarcely to be perceptible. i found her hands and feet cold, and her countenance ghastly, as if she were in the last moments of life. in this alarming situation, i suggested nothing to dr. physick but to follow his judgment, for i knew that he was master of that law of the animal economy which resolved all her symptoms into an oppressed state of the system. the doctor decided in a moment in favour of more bleeding. during the flowing of the blood, the pulse rose. at the end of three, ten, and seventeen hours it fell, and rose again by three successive bleedings, in all of which she lost about thirty ounces of _sizy_ blood. so great was the vigour acquired by the pulse, a few days after the paroxysms of depression, which have been described, were relieved, that it required seven more bleedings to subdue it. i wish the history of these two cases to be carefully attended to by the reader. i have been thus minute in the detail of them, chiefly because i have heard of practitioners who have lost patients by attempting to raise a pulse that had been depressed by bleeding, in a malignant fever, by means of cordial medicines, instead of the repeated use of the lancet. the practice is strictly rational; for, in proportion as the blood-vessels are weakened by pressure, the quantity of blood to be moved should be proportioned to the diminution of their strength. this depressed state of the pulse, whether induced by a paroxysm of fever, or by blood-letting, is sometimes attended with a strong pulsation of the arteries in the bowels and head. i have mentioned, among the _apparent_ bad effects of bleeding, that it sometimes changes a soft into a tense pulse. of this i saw a remarkable instance in captain john barry, in the autumn of 1795. after the loss of 130 ounces of blood in a malignant yellow fever, his pulse became so soft as to indicate no more bleeding. in this situation he remained for three days, but without mending as rapidly as i expected from the state of his pulse. on the fourth day he had a hæmorrhage from his bowels, from which he lost above a pint of blood. his pulse now suddenly became tense, and continued so for two or three days. i ascribed this change in his pulse to the vessels of the bowels, which had been oppressed by congestion, being so much relieved by the hæmorrhage, as to resume an inflammatory action. i have observed a similar change to take place in the pulse, after a third bleeding, in a case of hæmorrhoidal fever, which came under my notice in the month of january, 1803. it is thus we see the blood-vessels, in a common phlegmon, travel back again, from a tendency to mortification, to the red colour and pain of common inflammation. from a review of the commotions excited in the system by bleeding, a reason may be given why the physicians, who do not bleed in the depressed state of the pulse, have so few patients in what they call malignant fevers, compared with those who use a contrary practice. the disease, in such cases, being locked up, is not permitted to unfold its true character; and hence patients are said to die of apoplexy, lethargy, cholera, dysentery, or nervous fever, who, under a different treatment, would have exhibited all the marks of an ordinary malignant fever. in obviating the objections to blood-letting from its apparent evils, i have said nothing of the apparent bad effects of other remedies. a nausea is often rendered worse by an emetic, and pains in the bowels are increased by a purge. but these remedies notwithstanding maintain, and justly too, a high character among physicians. 19. bleeding has been accused of bringing on a nervous, or the chronic state of fever. the use of this remedy, in a degree so moderate as to obviate the putrid or gangrenous state of fever only, may induce the chronic state of fever; for it is the effect, in this case, of the remains of inflammatory diathesis in the blood-vessels; but when blood is drawn proportioned to the morbid action in the system, it is impossible for a chronic fever to be produced by it. even the excessive use of blood-letting, however injurious it may be in other respects, cannot produce a chronic fever, for it destroys morbid action altogether in the blood-vessels. 20. bleeding has been charged with being a weakening remedy. i grant that it is so, and in this, its merit chiefly consists. the excessive morbid action of the blood-vessels must be subdued in part, in a fever, before stimulating remedies can be given with safety or advantage. now this is usually attempted by depleting medicines, to be mentioned hereafter, or it is left to time and nature, all of which are frequently either deficient, or excessive in their operations; whereas bleeding, by suddenly reducing the morbid action of the blood-vessels to a wished-for point of debility, saves a great and unnecessary waste of excitability, and thus prepares the body for the exhibition of such cordial remedies as are proper to remove the debility which predisposed to the fever. 21. it has been said that bleeding renders the habitual use of it necessary to health and life. this objection to blood-letting is founded upon an ignorance of the difference between the healthy, and morbid action of the blood-vessels. where blood is drawn in health, such a relaxation is induced in the blood-vessels, as to favour the formation of plethora, which may require habitual bleeding to remove it; but where blood is drawn only in the inflammatory state of fever, the blood-vessels are reduced from a morbid degree of strength to that which is natural, in which state no predisposition to plethora is created, and no foundation laid for periodical blood-letting. but there are cases which require even this evil, to prevent a greater. thus we cure a strangulated hernia, when no fever attends, by the most profuse bleeding. the plethora and predisposition to disease which follow it are trifling, compared with preventing certain and sudden death. 22. bleeding has been accused of bringing on an intermitting fever. this is so far from being an objection to it, that it should be considered as a new argument in its favour; for when it produces that state of fever, it converts a latent, and perhaps a dangerous disease, into one that is obvious to the senses, and under the dominion of medicine. nor is it an objection to blood-letting, that, when used in an inflammatory intermittent, it sometimes changes it into a continual fever. an instance of the good effects of this change occurred in the pennsylvania hospital, in an obstinate tertian, in the year 1804. the continual fever, which followed the loss of blood, was cured in a few days, and by the most simple remedies. 23. it has been said that bleeding, more especially where it is copious, predisposes to effusions of serum in the lungs, chest, bowels, limbs, and brain. in replying to this objection to bleeding, in my public lectures, i have addressed my pupils in the following language: "ask the poor patients who come panting to the door of our hospital, with swelled legs and hard bellies, every fall, whether they have been too copiously bled, and they will all tell you, that no lancet has come near their arms. ask the parents who still mourn the loss of children who have died, in our city, of the internal dropsy of the brain, whether they were destroyed by excessive blood-letting? if the remembrance of the acute sufferings which accompanied their sickness and death will permit these parents to speak, they will tell you, that every medicine, except bleeding, had been tried to no purpose in their children's diseases. go to those families in which i have practised for many years, and inquire, whether there is a living or a dead instance of dropsy having followed, in any one of them, the use of my lancet? let the undertakers and grave-diggers bear witness against me, if i have ever, in the course of my practice, conveyed the body of a single dropsical patient into their hands, by excessive blood-letting? no. dropsies, like abscesses and gangrenous eruptions upon the skin, arise, in most cases, from the _want_ of sufficient bleeding in inflammatory diseases. debility, whether induced by action or abstraction, seldom disposes to effusion. who ever heard of dropsy succeeding famine? and how rarely do we see it accompany the extreme debility of old age?" "if ever bleeding kills," says botallus, either directly or indirectly, through the instrumentality of other diseases, "it is not from its excess, but because it is not drawn in a sufficient quantity, or at a proper time[53]." and, again, says this excellent writer, "one hundred thousand men perish from the want of blood-letting, or from its being used out of time, to one who perishes from too much bleeding, prescribed by a physician[54]." [53] cap. viii. § 4. [54] cap. xxxvi. § 4. it is remarkable, that the dread of producing a dropsy by bleeding, is confined chiefly to its use in malignant fevers; for the men who urge this objection to it, do not hesitate to draw four or five quarts of blood in the cure of the pleurisy. the habitual association of the lancet with this disease, has often caused me to rejoice when i have heard a patient complain of a pain in his side, in a malignant fever. it insured to me his consent to the frequent use of the lancet, and it protected me, when it was used unsuccessfully, from the clamours of the public, for few people censure copious bleeding in a pleurisy. 24. against blood-letting it has been urged, that the indians of our country cure their inflammatory fevers without it. to relieve myself from the distressing obloquy to which my use of this remedy formerly exposed me, i have carefully sought for, and examined their remedies for those fevers, with a sincere desire to adopt them; but my inquiries have convinced me, that they are not only disproportioned to the habits and diseases of civilized life, but that they are far less successful than blood-letting, in curing the inflammatory fevers which occur among the indians themselves. 25. evacuating remedies of another kind have been said to be more safe than bleeding, and equally effectual, in reducing the inflammatory state of fever. i shall enumerate each of these evacuating remedies, and then draw a comparative view of their effects with blood-letting. they are, i. vomits. ii. purges. iii. sweats. iv. salivation. and, v. blisters. i. vomits have often been effectual in curing fevers of a mild character. they discharge offensive and irritating matters from the stomach; they lessen the fulness of the blood-vessels, by determining the serum of the blood through the pores; and they equalize the excitement of the system, by inviting its excessive degrees from the blood-vessels to the stomach and muscles. but they are, 1. uncertain in their operation, from the torpor induced by the fever upon the stomach. 2. they are unsafe in many conditions of the system, as in pregnancy, and a disposition to apoplexy and ruptures. life has sometimes been destroyed by their inducing cramp, hæmorrhage, and inflammation in the stomach. 3. they are not subject to the controul of a physician, often operating more, or less than was intended by him, or indicated by the disease. 4. they are often ineffectual in mild, and always so in fevers of great morbid action. ii. purges are useful in discharging acrid fæces and bile from the bowels in fevers. they act, moreover, by creating an artificial weak part, and thus invite morbid excitement from the blood-vessels to the bowels. they likewise lessen the quantity of blood, by preventing fresh accessions of chyle being added to it; but like vomits they are, 1. uncertain in their operation; and from the same cause. many ounces of salts and castor oil, and whole drachms of calomel and jalap, have often been given, without effect, to remove the costiveness which is connected with the malignant state of fever. 2. they are not subject to the direction of a physician, with respect to the time of their operation, or the quantity or quality of matter they are intended to discharge from the bowels. 3. they are unsafe in the advanced stage of fevers. dr. physick informed me, that three patients died in the water-closet, under the operation of purges, in st. george's hospital, during his attendance upon it. i have seen death, in several instances, succeed a plentiful spontaneous stool in debilitated habits. iii. sweating was introduced into practice at a time when morbific matter was supposed to be the proximate cause of fever. it acts, not by expelling any thing exclusively morbid from the blood, but by abstracting a portion of its fluid parts, and thus reducing the action of the blood-vessels. this mode of curing fever is still fashionable in genteel life. it excites no fear, and offends no sense. the sweating remedies have been numerous, and fashion has reigned as much among them, as in other things. alexipharmic waters, and powders, and all the train of sudorific medicines, have lately yielded to the different preparations of antimony, particularly to james's powder. i object to them all, 1. because they are uncertain; large and repeated doses of them being often given to no purpose. 2. because they are slow, and disagreeable, where they succeed in curing fever. 3. because, like vomits and purges, they are not under the direction of a physician, with respect to the quantity of fluid discharged by them. 4. because they are sometimes, even when most profuse, ineffectual in the cure of fever. 5. the preparations of antimony, lately employed for the purpose of exciting sweats, are by no means safe. they sometimes convulse the system by a violent puking. even the boasted james's powder has done great mischief. dr. goldsmith and mr. howard, it is said, were destroyed by it. none of these objections to sweating remedies are intended to dissuade from their use, when nature shows a disposition to throw off a fever by the pores of the skin; but, even then, they often require the aid of bleeding to render them effectual for that purpose. iv. mercury, the sampson of the materia medica, after having subdued the venereal disease, the tetanus, and many other formidable diseases, has lately added to its triumphs and reputation, by overcoming the inflammatory and malignant state of fever. i shall confine myself, in this place, to its depleting operation, when it acts by exciting a salivation. from half a pound to two pounds of fluid are discharged by it in a day. the depletion in this way is gradual, whereby fainting is prevented. by exciting and inflaming the glands of the mouth and throat, excitement and inflammation are abstracted from more vital parts. in morbid congestion and excitement in the brain, a salivation is of eminent service, from the proximity of the discharge to the part affected. but i object to it, as an exclusive evacuant in the cure of fever, 1. because it is sometimes impossible, by the largest doses of mercury, to excite it, when the exigences of the system render it most necessary. 2. because it is not so quick in its operation, as to be proportioned to the rapid progress of the malignant state of fever. 3. because it is at all times a disagreeable, and frequently a painful remedy, more especially where the teeth are decayed. 4. because it cannot be proportioned in its duration, or in the quantity of fluid discharged by it, to the violence or changes in the fever. dr. chisholm relied, for the cure of the beullam fever at grenada, chiefly upon this evacuation. i have mentioned the ratio of success which attended it. v. blisters are useful in depleting from those parts which are the seats of topical inflammation. the relief obtained by them in this way more than balances their stimulus upon the whole system need hardly say, that their effects in reducing the morbid and excessive action of the blood-vessels are very feeble. to depend upon them in cases of great inflammatory action, is as unwise as it would be to attempt to bale the water from a leaky and sinking ship by the hollow of the hand, instead of discharging it by two or three pumps. vi. abstemious diet has sometimes been prescribed as a remedy for fever. it acts directly by the abstraction of the stimulus of food from the stomach, and indirectly by lessening the quantity of blood. it can bear no proportion, in its effects, to the rapidity and violence of an inflammatory fever. in chronic fever, such as occurs in the pulmonary consumption, it has often been tried to no purpose. long before it reduces the pulse, it often induces such a relaxation of the tone of the stomach and bowels as to accelerate death. to depend upon it therefore in the cure of inflammatory fever, whether acute or chronic, is like trusting to the rays of the sun to exhale the water of an overflowing tide, instead of draining it off immediately, by digging a hole in the ground. but there are cases in which the blood-vessels become so insolated, that they refuse to yield their morbid excitement to depletion from any outlet, except from themselves. i attended a sailor, in the pennsylvania hospital, in 1799, who was affected with deafness, attended with a full and tense pulse. i prescribed for it, purging, blisters, and low diet, but without any effect. perceiving no change in his pulse, nor in his disease, from those remedies, i ordered him to lose ten ounces of blood. the relief obtained by this evacuation induced me to repeat it. by means of six bleedings he was perfectly cured, without the aid of any other remedy. bleeding has great advantages over every mode of depleting that has been mentioned. 1. it abstracts one of the exciting causes, viz. the stimulus of the blood, from the seat of fever. i have formerly illustrated this advantage of blood-letting, by comparing it to the abstraction of a grain of sand from the eye to cure an opthalmia. the other depleting remedies are as indirect and circuitous in their operation in curing fever, as vomits and purges would be to remove an inflammation in the eye, while the grain of sand continued to irritate it. 2. blood-letting is quick in its operation, and may be accommodated to the rapidity of fever, when it manifests itself in apoplexy, palsy, and syncope. 3. it is under the command of a physician. he may bleed _when_ and _where_ he pleases, and may suit the _quantity_ of blood he draws, exactly to the condition of his patient's system. 4. it may be performed with the least attendance of nurses or friends. this is of great importance to the poor at all times, and to the rich during the prevalence of mortal epidemics. 5. it disturbs the system much less than any of the other modes of depleting, and therefore is best accommodated to that state of the system, in which patients are in danger of fainting or dying upon being moved. 6. it is a more delicate depleting remedy than most of those which have been mentioned, particularly vomits, purges, and a salivation. 7. there is no immediate danger to life from its use. patients have sometimes died under the operation of vomits and purges, but i never saw nor heard an instance of a patient's dying in a fainty fit, brought on by bleeding. 8. it is less weakening, when used to the extent that is necessary to cure, than the same degrees of vomiting, purging, and sweating. 9. convalescence is more rapid and more perfect after bleeding, than after the successful use of any of the other evacuating remedies. by making use of blood-letting in fevers, we are not precluded from the benefits of the other evacuating remedies. some of them are rendered more certain and more effectual by it, and there are cases of fever, in which the combined or successive application of them all is barely sufficient to save life. to rely upon any one evacuating remedy, to the exclusion of the others, is like trusting to a pair of oars in a sea voyage, instead of spreading every sail of a ship. i suspect the disputes about the eligibility of the different remedies which have been mentioned, have arisen from an ignorance that they all belong to one class, and that they differ only in their force and manner of operation. thus the physicians of the last century ascribed different virtues to salts of different names, which the chemists of the present day have taught us are exactly the same, and differ only in the manner of their being prepared. having replied to the principal objections to blood-letting, and stated its comparative advantages over other modes of depletion, i proceed next to mention the circumstances which should regulate the use of it. these are, i. the state of the pulse. the following states of the pulse indicate the necessity of bleeding. 1. a full, frequent, and tense pulse, such as occurs in the pulmonary, rheumatic, gouty, phrenitic, and maniacal states of fever. 2. a full, frequent, and jerking pulse, without tension, such as frequently occurs in the vertiginous, paralytic, apoplectic, and hydropic states of fever. 3. a small, frequent, but tense pulse, such as occurs in the chronic, pulmonary, and rheumatic states of fever. 4. a tense and _quick_ pulse, without much preternatural frequency. this state of the pulse is common in the yellow fever. 5. a slow but tense pulse, such as occurs in the apoplectic, hydrocephalic, and malignant states of fever, in which its strokes are from 60 to 90, in a minute. 6. an uncommonly frequent pulse, without much tension, beating from 120 to 170 or 180 strokes in a minute. this state of the pulse occurs likewise in the malignant states of fever. 7. a soft pulse, without much frequency or fulness. i have met with this state of the pulse in affections of the brain, and in that state of pulmonary fever which is known by the name of pneumonia notha. it sometimes, i have remarked, becomes tense after bleeding. 8. an intermitting pulse. 9. a depressed pulse. 10. an imperceptible pulse. the slow, intermitting, depressed, and imperceptible states of the pulse are supposed exclusively to indicate congestion in the brain. but they are all, i believe, occasioned likewise by great excess of stimulus acting upon the heart and arteries. a pulse more tense in one arm than in the other, i have generally found to attend a morbid state of the brain. much yet remains to be known of the signs of a disease in the brain, by the states of the pulse; hence mr. hunter has justly remarked, that "in inflammation of the brain, the pulse varies more than in inflammations of any other part; and perhaps we are led to judge of inflammation there, more from _other_ symptoms than the pulse[55]." [55] treatise on inflammation, chap. iii. 9. the slow, uncommonly frequent, intermitting, and imperceptible states of the pulse, which require bleeding, may be distinguished from the same states of the pulse, which arise from an exhausted state of the system, and that forbid bleeding, by the following marks: 1. they occur in the beginning of a fever. 2. they occur in the paroxysms of fevers which have remissions and exacerbations. 3. they sometimes occur after blood-letting, from causes formerly mentioned. 4. they sometimes occur, and continue during the whole course of an inflammation of the stomach and bowels. and, 5. they occur in relapses, after the crisis of a fever. the other states of the pulse indicate bleeding in every stage of fever, and in every condition of the system. i have taken notice, in another place, of the circumstances which render it proper in the advanced stage of chronic fever. if all the states of pulse which have been enumerated indicate bleeding, it must be an affecting consideration to reflect, how many lives have been lost, by physicians limiting the use of the lancet only to the tense or full pulse! i wish it comported with the proposed limits of this essay to illustrate and establish, by the recital of cases, the truth of these remarks upon the indications of bleeding from the pulse. it communicates much more knowledge of the state of the system than any other sign of disease. its frequency (unconnected with its other states), being under the influence of diet, motion, and the passions of the mind, is of the least consequence. in counting the number of its strokes, we are apt to be diverted from attending to its irregularity and force; and in these, it should always be remembered, fever chiefly consists. the knowledge acquired by attending to these states of the pulse is so definite and useful, and the circumstances which seduce from a due attention to them are so erroneous in their indications, that i have sometimes wished the chinese custom of prescribing, from feeling the pulse only, without seeing or conversing with the patient, were imposed upon all physicians. to render the knowledge of the indications of blood-letting, from the state of the pulse, as definite and correct as possible, i shall add, for the benefit of young practitioners, the following directions for feeling it. 1. let the arm be placed in a situation in which all the muscles which move it shall be completely relaxed; and let it, at the same time, be free from the pressure of the body upon it. 2. feel the pulse, in all obscure or difficult cases, in both arms. 3. apply all the fingers of one hand, when practicable, to the pulse. for this purpose, it will be most convenient to feel the pulse of the right hand with your left, and of the left hand with your right. 4. do not decide upon blood-letting, in difficult cases, until you have felt the pulse for some time. the chinese physicians never prescribe until they have counted 49 strokes. 5. feel the pulse at the intervals of four or five minutes, when you suspect that its force has been varied by any circumstance not connected with the disease, such as emotions of the mind, exercise, eating, drinking, and the like. 6. feel the pulsations of the arteries in the temples and in the neck, when the pulse is depressed or imperceptible in the wrists. 7. request silence in a sick room, and close your eyes, in feeling a pulse in difficult cases. by so doing, you will concentrate the sensations of your ears and eyes, in your fingers. in judging of the states of the pulse which have been enumerated, it will be necessary always to remember the natural difference, in its frequency and force, in old people and children; also in the morning and evening, and in the sleeping and waking states of the system. much yet remains to be known upon this subject. i have mentioned the different states of the pulse, which call for bleeding, but it is more difficult to know when to prescribe it, when the pulse imparts no sign of disease. in general it may be remarked, where the disease is _recent_, the part affected important to life, and incapable of sustaining violent morbid action long, without danger of disorganization, where pain is great, and respiration difficult, the pulse may be disregarded in the use of the lancet. but to return. ii. regard should be had to the character of the reigning epidemic, in deciding upon blood-letting. if the prevailing fever be of a highly inflammatory nature, bleeding may be used with more safety, in cases where the indications of it from the pulse are somewhat doubtful. the character of a previous epidemic should likewise direct the use of the lancet. the pestilential fever which followed the plague in london, in 1665, dr. sydenham says, yielded only to blood-letting. it is equally necessary in all the febrile diseases which succeed malignant fevers. iii. regard should be had to the weather and season of the year. dr. hillary and dr. huxham both say it is much more necessary in dry, than in wet weather, and, all physicians know, it is more copiously indicated in the spring and autumn, than in summer and winter. iv. the constitution of a patient, and more especially his habits with respect to blood-letting, should be taken into consideration, in prescribing it. if he be plethoric, and accustomed to bleeding in former indispositions, it will be more necessary, than in opposite states and habits of the system. nature will expect it. v. the corpulency of a patient should regulate the use of the lancet. a butcher of great observation informed me, that a fat ox did not yield more than from one half, to one third of the quantity of blood of a lean one, of the same size of bone, and it is well known, that the loss of a small quantity of blood, after cutting off the head of a fowl, is always a sign of its being fit for the table. the pressure of fat upon the blood-vessels produces the same effects in the human species that it does in those animals; of course, less blood should be drawn from fat, than from lean people, under equal circumstances of disease. vi. as persons have more or less blood in their vessels, according to their size, less blood should be drawn, under equal circumstances, from small than large people. vii. regard should be had to the age of adults in prescribing bleeding. in persons between fifty and sixty years of age, for reasons formerly mentioned, more blood may be drawn than in middle life, in similar diseases. in persons beyond 70, it will be necessary to regulate the quantity to be drawn by other signs than the pulse, or the appearances of the blood, the former being generally full, and sometimes tense, and the latter often putting on the sign of the second grade of morbid action formerly described. viii. regard should be had to the country or place from which persons affected with fevers have arrived, in prescribing the loss of blood. fevers, in america, are more inflammatory than fevers, in persons of equal rank, in great-britain. a french physician once said, it was safer to draw a hogs-head of wine from a frenchman's veins, than a quarter of a hundred pounds of beef from an englishman's, meaning to convey an idea of the difference in the grades of morbid or inflammatory action in the diseases of the inhabitants of france and england, and of the difference in the quantity of blood proper to be drawn in each of them. a similar difference exists between the grades of fever in great-britain and america. from a want of attention to this circumstance, i saw a common pleurisy end in an abscess of the lungs, in a sea captain, in the city of london, in the year 1769, who was attended by a physician of the first reputation in england. he was bled but once. his pulse and american constitution called for the loss of 50 or 60 ounces of blood. ix. regard should be had to the structure and situation of the parts diseased with febrile action. the brain, from its importance to all the functions of life, the rectum, the bladder, and the trachea, when inflamed, and the intestines, when strangulated, from their being removed so much out of the influence of the great circulation, all require more copious bleeding than the same degrees of disease in the lungs, and some other parts of the body. x. after blood-letting has been performed, the appearances of the blood should be attended to, in order to judge of the propriety of repeating it. i shall briefly describe these appearances, and arrange them in the order in which they indicate the different degrees of inflammatory diathesis, beginning with the highest. 1. dissolved blood. it occurs in the malignant states of fever. i have seen it several times in the pleurisy, and have once heard of it in a case of gout. i have ascribed this decomposition of the blood to such a violent degree of action in the blood-vessels, as to dispose them to a paralytic state. it is generally considered as a signal to lay aside the lancet. if it occur in the _first stage_ of a fever, it indicates a very opposite practice. by repeated bleedings, the vessels recover their natural action, and the blood becomes _reduced_ to its original texture. of this i have had frequent experience, since the year 1793. it required three successive bleedings to restore the blood from a dissolved, to a coagulable state, in mr. benton. it afterwards became very sizy. if this dissolved blood appear towards the close of a malignant fever, no other benefit than the protraction of life for a day or two, or an easy death, can be expected from repeating the bleeding, even though it be indicated by a tense pulse; for the viscera are generally so much choaked by the continuance of violent action in the blood-vessels, that they are seldom able to discharge the blood which distends them, into the cavity in the vessels, which is created by the abstraction of blood from a vein. there is some variety in the appearance of this state of the blood, which indicates more or less violent pressure upon the blood-vessels. it threatens most danger to life when it resembles molasses in its consistence. the danger is less when the part which is dissolved occupies the bottom of the bowl, and when its surface is covered with a sizy pellicle or coat. does not the restoration of the blood from its disorganized state, by means of bleeding, suggest an idea of a similar change being practicable in the solids, when they are disorganized by disease? and are we not led hereby to an animating view of the extent and power of medicine? 2. blood of a scarlet colour, without any separation into crassamentum or serum, indicates a second degree of morbid action. it occurs likewise in the malignant state of fever. it is called improperly dense blood. it occurs in old people. 3. blood in which part of the crassamentum is dissolved in the serum, forming a resemblance to what is called the lotura carnium, or the washings of flesh in water. 4. crassamentum sinking to the bottom of a bowl in yellow serum. 5. crassamentum floating in serum, which is at first turbid, but which afterwards becomes yellow and transparent, by depositing certain red and fiery particles of the blood in the bottom of the bowl. 6. sizy blood, or blood covered with a buffy coat. the more the crassamentum appears in the form of a cup, the more inflammatory action is said to be indicated by it. this appearance of the blood occurs in all the common states of inflammatory fever. it occurs too in the mild state of malignant fevers, and in the close of such of them as have been violent. it is not always confined to the common inflammatory state of the pulse, for i have observed it occasionally in most of the different states of the pulse which have been described. the appearance of this buffy coat on the blood in the yellow fever is always favourable. it shows the disease to be tending from an uncommon to a _common_ degree of inflammatory diathesis. it has been remarked, that blood which resembles claret in its colour, while flowing, generally puts on, when it cools, a sizy appearance. it would seem, from these facts, that the power of coagulation in the blood was lessened in an exact ratio to the increase of action upon the blood-vessels, and that it was increased in proportion to the diminution of that action, to that degree of it which constitutes what i have called _common_ inflammatory action. here, as upon a former occasion, we may say with concern, if bleeding be indicated by all the appearances of the blood which have been enumerated, how many lives have been lost by physicians limiting the use of the lancet to those cases only, where the blood discovered an inflammatory crust! these remarks upon the relative signs of inflammatory action in the blood-vessels, should be admitted with a recollection that they are all liable to be varied by a moderate, or violent exacerbation of fever, by the size of the stream of blood, and by the heat, coldness, and form of the cup into which the blood flows. even blood drawn, under exactly equal circumstances, from both arms, exhibited, in a case of pleurisy communicated to me by dr. mitchell, of kentucky, very different appearances. that which was taken from one arm was sizy, while that which was taken from the other was of a scarlet colour. that which is drawn from a vein in the arm, puts on, likewise, appearances very different from that which is discharged from the bowels, in a dysentery. these facts were alluded to in the outlines of the theory of fever[56], in order to prove that unequal excitement takes place, not only in the different systems of the body, but in the same system, particularly in the blood-vessels. they likewise show us the necessity of attending to the state of the _pulse_ in both arms, as well as in other parts of the body, in prescribing blood-letting. when time, and more attention to that index of the state of the system in fevers, shall have brought to light all the knowledge that the pulse is capable of imparting, the appearances of the blood, in fevers, will be regarded as little as the appearances of the urine. [56] vol. iii. xi. blood-letting should always be copious where there is danger from sudden and great congestion or inflammation, in vital parts. this danger is indicated most commonly by pain; but there may be congestion in the lungs, liver, bowels, and even in the head, without pain. in these cases, the state of the pulse should always govern the use of the lancet. xii. what quantity of blood may be taken, with safety, from a patient in an inflammatory fever? to answer this question it will be necessary to remark, 1. that, in a person of an ordinary size, there are supposed to be contained between 25 and 28 pounds of blood; and 2. that much more blood may be taken when the blood-vessels are in a state of morbid excitement and excitability, than at any other time. one of the uses of the blood is to stimulate the blood-vessels, and thereby to assist in originating and preserving animal life. in a healthy state of the vessels, the whole mass of the blood is necessary for this purpose; but in their state of morbid excitability, a much less quantity of blood than what is natural (perhaps in some cases four or five pounds) are sufficient to keep up an equal and vigorous circulation. thus very small portions of light and sound are sufficient to excite vision and hearing in an inflamed, and highly excitable state of the eyes and ears. thus too, a single glass of wine will often produce delirium in a fever in a man, who, when in health, is in the habit of drinking a bottle every day, without having his pulse quickened by it. an ignorance of the quantity of blood which has been drawn by design, or lost by accident, has contributed very much to encourage prejudices against blood-letting. mr. cline drew 320 ounces of blood in 20 days from a patient in st. thomas's hospital, who laboured under a contusion of the head. but this quantity is small compared with the quantity lost by a number of persons, whose cases are recorded by dr. haller[57]. i shall mention a few of them. one person lost 9 pounds of blood, a second 12, a third 18, and a fourth 22, from the nose, at one time. a fifth lost 12 pounds by vomiting in one night, and a sixth 22 from the lungs. a gentleman at angola lost between 3 and 4 pounds daily from his nose. to cure it, he was bled 97 times in one year. a young woman was bled 1020 times in 19 years, to cure her of plethora which disposed her to hysteria. another young woman lost 125 ounces of blood, by a natural hæmorrhage, every month. to cure it, she was bled every day, and every other day, for 14 months. in none of these instances, was death the consequence of these great evacuations of blood. on the contrary, all the persons alluded to, recovered. many similar instances of the safety, and even benefit of profuse discharges of blood, by nature and art, might be mentioned from other authors. i shall insert only one more, which shall be taken from dr. sydenham's account of the cure of the plague. "among the other calamities of the civil war which afflicted this nation, the plague also raged in several places, and was brought by accident from another place to dunstar castle, in somersetshire, where some of the soldiers dying suddenly, with an eruption of spots, it likewise seized several others. it happened at that time that a surgeon, who had travelled much in foreign parts, was in the service there, and applied to the governor for leave to assist his fellow-soldiers who were afflicted with this dreadful disease, in the best manner he was able; which being granted, he took so large a quantity of blood from every one at the beginning of the disease, and before any swelling was perceived, that they were ready to faint, and drop down, for he bled them all standing, and in the open air, and had no vessel to measure the blood, which falling on the ground, the quantity each person lost could not, of course, be known. the operation being over, he ordered them to lie in their tents; and though he gave no kind of remedy after bleeding, yet of the numbers that were thus treated, not a single person died. i had this relation from colonel francis windham, a gentleman of great honour and veracity, and at this time governor of the castle[58]." [57] elementa physiologiæ, vol. iv. p. 45. [58] vol. i. p. 131. again. an ignorance of the rapid manner in which blood is regenerated, when lost or drawn, has helped to keep up prejudices against blood-letting. a person (dr. haller says) lost five pounds of blood daily from the hæmorrhoidal vessels for 62 days, and another 75 pounds of blood in 10 days. the loss each day was supplied by fresh quantities of aliment. these facts, i hope, will be sufficient to establish the safety and advantages of plentiful blood-letting, in cases of violent fever; also to show the fallacy and danger of that practice which attempts the cure of such cases of fever, by what is called _moderate_ bleeding. there are, it has been said, no half truths in government. it is equally true, that there are no half truths in medicine. this half-way practice of moderate bleeding, has kept up the mortality of pestilential fevers, in all ages, and in all countries. i have combated this practice elsewhere[59], and have asserted, upon the authority of dr. sydenham, that it is much better not to bleed at all, than to draw blood disproportioned in quantity to the violence of the fever. if the state of the pulse be our guide, the continuance of its inflammatory action, after the loss of even 100 ounces of blood, indicates the necessity of more bleeding, as much as it did the first time a vein was opened. in the use of this remedy it may be truly said, as in many of the enterprizes of life, that nothing is done, while any thing remains to be done. bleeding should be repeated while the symptoms which first indicated it continue, should it be until four-fifths of the blood contained in the body are drawn away. in this manner we act in the use of other remedies. who ever leaves off giving purges in a colic, attended with costiveness, before the bowels are opened? or who lays aside mercury as a useless medicine, because a few doses of it do not cure the venereal disease? [59] account of the yellow fever in 1793. i shall only add under this head, that i have always observed the cure of a malignant fever to be most complete, and the convalescence to be most rapid, when the bleeding has been continued until a _paleness_ is induced in the face, and until the patient is able to sit up without being fainty. after these circumstances occur, a moderate degree of force in the pulse will gradually wear itself away, without doing any harm. xiii. in drawing blood, the quantity should be large or small at a time, according to the state of the system. in cases where the pulse acts with force and freedom, from 10 to 20 ounces of blood may be taken at once; but in cases where the pulse is much depressed, it will be better to take away but a few ounces at a time, and to repeat it three or four times a day. by this means the blood-vessels more _gradually_ recover their vigour, and the apparent bad effects of bleeding are thereby prevented. perhaps the same advantages might be derived, in many other cases, from the gradual abstraction of stimuli, that are derived from the gradual increase of their force and number, in their application to the body. for a number of facts in support of this practice, the reader is referred to the history of the yellow fever, in the year 1793. in an inflammatory fever, the character of which is not accurately known, it is safest to begin with moderate bleeding, and to increase it in quantity, according as the violence and duration of the disease shall make it necessary. in fevers, and other diseases, which run their courses in a few days or hours, and which threaten immediate dissolution, there can be no limits fixed to the quantity of blood which may be drawn at once, or in a short time. botallus drew three, four, and five pints in a day, in such cases. dr. jackson drew fifty-six ounces of blood, at one time, from a mr. thompson, of the british hospitals, in a fever of great violence and danger. this patient was instantly relieved from what he styled "chains and horrors." in three or four hours he was out of danger, and in four days, the doctor adds, returned to his duty[60]. dr. physick drew ninety ounces, by weight, from dr. dewees, in a sudden attack of the apoplectic state of fever, at one bleeding, and thereby restored him so speedily to health, that he was able to attend to his business in three days afterwards. in chronic states of fever, of an inflammatory type, small and frequent bleedings, are to be preferred to large ones. we use mercury, antimony, and diet drinks as alteratives in many diseases with advantage. we do not expect to remove debility by two or three immersions in a cold bath. we persist with patience in prescribing all the above remedies for months and years, before we expect to reap the full benefits of them. why should not blood-letting be used in the same way, and have the same chance of doing good? i have long ago adopted this _alterative_ mode of using it, and i can now look around me, and with pleasure behold a number of persons of both sexes who owe their lives to it. in many cases i have prescribed it once in two or three months, for several years, and in some i have advised it every two weeks, for several months. [60] remarks on the constitution of the medical department of the british army. there is a state of fever in which an excess in the action of the blood-vessels is barely perceptible, but which often threatens immediate danger to life, by a determination of blood to a vital part. in this case i have frequently seen the scale turn in favour of life, by the loss of but four or five ounces of blood. the pressure of this, and even of a much less quantity of blood in the close of a fever, i believe, as effectually destroys life as the excess of several pounds does in its beginning. in cases where bleeding does not cure, it may be used with advantage as a _palliative_ remedy. many diseases induce death in a full and highly excited state of the system. here opium does harm, while bleeding affords certain relief. it belongs to this remedy, in such cases, to ease pain, to prevent convulsions, to compose the mind, to protract the use of reason, to induce sleep, and thus to smooth the passage out of life. xiv. bleeding from an artery, commonly called arteriotomy, would probably have many advantages over venesection, could it be performed at all times with ease and safety. blood discharged by hæmorrhages affords more relief, in fevers, than an equal quantity drawn from a vein, chiefly because it is poured forth, in the former case, from a ruptured artery. i mentioned formerly, that dr. mitchell had found blood drawn from an artery to be what is called dense, at a time when that which was drawn from a vein, in the same persons, was dissolved. this fact may possibly admit of some application. in the close of malignant fevers, where bleeding has been omitted in the beginning of the disease, blood drawn from a vein is generally so dissolved, as to be beyond the reach of repeated bleedings to restore it to its natural texture. in this case, arteriotomy might probably be performed with advantage. the arteries, which retain their capacity of life longer than the veins, by being relieved from the immediate pressure of blood upon them, might be enabled so to act upon the torpid veins, as to restore their natural action, and thereby to arrest departing life. arteriotomy might further be used with advantage in children, in whom it is difficult, and sometimes impracticable to open a vein. xv. much has been said about the proper place from whence blood should be drawn. bleeding in the foot was much used formerly, in order to excite a revulsion from the head and breast; but our present ideas of the circulation of the blood have taught us, that it may be drawn from the arm with equal advantage in nearly all cases. to bleeding in the foot there are the following objections: 1. the difficulty of placing a patient in a situation favourable to it. 2. the greater danger of wounding a tendon in the foot than in the arm, and, 3. the impossibility of examining the blood after it is drawn; for, in this mode of bleeding, the blood generally flows into a basin or pail of water. under this head i shall decide upon the method of drawing blood by means of cups and leeches, in the inflammatory state of fever. where an inflammatory fever arises from local affection, or from contusion in the head or breast, or from a morbid excitement in those, above other parts of the arterial system, they may be useful; but where local affection is a symptom of general and equable fever only, it can seldom be necessary, except where bleeding from the arm has been omitted, or used too sparingly, in the beginning of a fever; by which means such fixed congestion often takes place, as will not yield to general bleeding. xvi. much has been said likewise about the proper time for bleeding in fevers. it may be used at all times, when indicated by the pulse and other circumstances, in continual fevers; but it should be used chiefly in the paroxysms of such as intermit. i have conceived this practice to be of so much consequence, that, when i expect a return of the fever in the night, i request one of my pupils to sit up with my patients all night, in order to meet the paroxysm, if necessary, with the lancet. but i derive another advantage from fixing a centinel over a patient in a malignant fever. when a paroxysm goes off in the night, it often leaves the system in a state of such extreme debility, as to endanger life. in this case, from five to ten drops of laudanum, exhibited by a person who is a judge of the pulse, obviate this alarming debility, and often induce easy and refreshing sleep. by treating the human body like a corded instrument, in thus occasionally relaxing or bracing the system, according to the excess or deficiency of stimulus, in those hours in which death most frequently occurs, i think i have been the means of saving several valuable lives. xvii. the different positions of the body influence the greater or less degrees of relief which are obtained by blood-letting. where there is a great disposition to syncope, and where it is attended with alarming and distressing circumstances, blood should be drawn in a recumbent posture, but where there is no apprehension or dread of fainting, it may be taken in a sitting posture. the relief will be more certain if the patient be able to stand while he is bled. a small quantity of blood, drawn in this posture, brings on fainting, and the good effects which are often derived from it. it should therefore be preferred, where patients object to copious or frequent bleedings. the history of the success of this practice in the british army, recently mentioned from dr. sydenham, furnishes a strong argument in its favour. i regret that the limits i have fixed to this defence of blood-letting will not admit of my applying the principles which have been delivered, to all the inflammatory states of fever. in a future essay, i hope to establish its efficacy in the maniacal state of fever. i have said that madness is the effect of a chronic inflammation in the brain. its remedy, of course, should be frequent and copious blood-letting. physical and moral evil are subject to similar laws. the mad-shirt, and all the common means of coercion, are as improper substitutes for bleeding, in madness, as the whipping-post and pillory are for solitary confinement and labour, in the cure of vice. the pulse should govern the use of the lancet in this, as well as in all the _ordinary_ states of fever. it is the dial-plate of the system. but in the _misplaced_ states of fever, the pulse, like folly in old age, often points at a different mark from nature. in all such cases, we must conform our practice to that which has been successful in the reigning epidemic. a single bleeding, when indicated by this circumstance, often converts a fever from a suffocated, or latent, to a sensible state, and thus renders it a more simple and manageable disease. it is worthy of consideration here, how far local diseases, which have been produced by fevers, might be cured by re-exciting the fever. sir william jones says, the physicians in persia always begin the cure of the leprosy by blood-letting[61]. possibly this remedy diffuses the disease through the blood-vessels, and thereby exposes it to be more easily acted upon by other remedies. [61] asiatic essays. having mentioned the states of fever in which blood-letting is indicated, and the manner in which it should be performed, i shall conclude this inquiry by pointing out the states of fever in which it is forbidden, or in which it should be cautiously or sparingly performed. this subject is of consequence, and should be carefully attended to by all who wish well to the usefulness and credit of the lancet. 1. it is forbidden in that state of fever, as well as in other diseases, in which there is reason to believe the brain or viscera are engorged with blood, and the whole system prostrated below the point of re-action. i have suggested this caution in another place[62]. the pulse in these cases is feeble, and sometimes scarcely perceptible, occasioned by the quantity of blood in the blood-vessels being reduced, in consequence of the stagnation of large portions of it in the viscera. by bleeding in these cases, we deprive the blood-vessels of the feeble remains of the stimulus which keep up their action, and thus precipitate death. the remedies here should be frictions, and stimulating applications to the extremities, and gentle stimuli taken by the mouth, or injected into the bowels. as soon as the system is a little excited by these remedies, blood may be drawn, but in small quantities at a time, and perhaps only by means of cups or leaches applied to the seats of the congestions of the blood. after the vessels are excited by the equable diffusion of the blood through all their parts, it may with safety be drawn from the arm, provided it be indicated by the pulse. [62] vol. iii. 2. it is seldom proper beyond the third day, in a malignant fever, if it has not been used on the days previous to it, and for the same reason that has been given under the former head. even the tension of the pulse is not always a sufficient warrant to bleed, for in three days, in a fever which runs its course in five days, the disorganization of the viscera is so complete, that a recovery is scarcely to be expected from the lancet. the remedies which give the only chance of relief in this case, are purges, blisters, and a salivation. 3. where fevers are attended with paroxysms, bleeding should be omitted, or used with great caution, in the close of those paroxysms. the debility which accompanies the intermission of the fever is often so much increased by the recent loss of blood, as sometimes to endanger life. 4. bleeding is forbidden, or should be used cautiously in that malignant state of fever, in which a weak morbid action, or what dr. darwin calls a tendency to inirritability, takes place in the blood-vessels. it is known by a weak and frequent pulse, such as occurs in the typhus fever, and in the plague in warm climates. i have often met with it in the malignant sore throat, and occasionally in the pleurisy and yellow fever. the remedies here should be gentle vomits or purges, and afterwards cordials. should the pulse be too much excited by them, bleeding may be used to reduce it. 5. it should be used sparingly in the diseases of habitual drunkards. the morbid action in such persons, though often violent, is generally transient. it may be compared to a soap-bubble. the arteries, by being often overstretched by the stimulus of strong drink, do not always contract with the diminution of blood, and such patients often sink, from this cause, from the excessive use of the lancet. 6. it has been forbidden after the suppurative process has begun in local inflammation. it constantly retards the suppuration, when begun, in the angina tonsillaris, and thus protracts that disease. to this rule there are frequent exceptions. 7. it should be omitted in pneumony, after copious expectoration has taken place. this discharge is local depletion, and, though slow in its effects compared with bleeding, it serves the same purpose in relieving the lungs. the lancet can only be required where great pain in coughing, and a tense pulse, attend this stage of the disease. 8. it may be omitted (except when the blood-vessels are insulated) in those diseases in which there is time to wait, without danger to life, or future health, for the circuitous operation of purging medicines, or abstemious diet. 9. it should be avoided, when it can be done without great danger to life, where there is a great and constitutional dread of the operation. in such cases, it has sometimes done harm to the patient, and injured the credit of the lancet. 10. there are cases in which sizy blood should not warrant a repetition of blood-letting. mr. white informs us, in the history of the bilious fever which has lately prevailed at bath, that bleeding, in many cases in which this appearance of the blood took place, was useless or hurtful. in some of the fevers of our own country, we sometimes see sizy blood followed by symptoms which forbid the repeated use of the lancet, but which yield to other depleting remedies, or to such as are of a cordial nature. i have seen the same kind of blood, a few hours before death, in a pulmonary consumption, and three days after a discharge of a gallon and a half of blood from the stomach by vomiting. 11. even a tense pulse does not always call for the repeated use of the lancet. i have mentioned one case, viz. on the third or fourth days of a malignant fever, in which it is improper. there are instances of incurable consumptions from tubercles and ulcers in the lungs, in which the pulse cannot be made to feel the least diminution of tension by either copious or frequent bleedings. there are likewise cases of hepatic fever, in which the pulse cannot be subdued by this remedy. this tense state of the pulse is the effect of a suppurative process in the liver. if a sufficient quantity of blood has been drawn in the first stage of this disease, there is little danger from leaving the pulse to reduce or wear itself down by a sudden or gradual discharge of the hepatic congestion. the recovery in this case is slow, but it is for the most part certain. i have once known a dropsy and death induced by the contrary practice. 12. and lastly. there is sometimes a tension in the pulse in hæmorrhages, that will not yield to the lancet. the man whose blood was sizy, three days after losing a gallon and a half of it from his stomach, had a tense pulse the day before he died; and i once perceived its last strokes to be tense, in a patient whom i lost in a yellow fever by a hæmorrhage from the nose. the only circumstance that can justify bleeding in these cases is extreme pain, in which case, the loss of a few ounces of blood is a more safe and effectual remedy than opium. i shall now add a few remarks upon the efficacy of blood-letting, in diseases which are not supposed to belong to the class of fevers, and which have not been included in the preceding volumes. i. the philosophers, in describing the humble origin of man, say that he is formed "inter stercus et urinam." the divines say that he is "conceived in sin, and shapen in iniquity." i believe it to be equally true, and alike humiliating, that he is conceived and brought forth in disease. this disease appears in pregnancy and parturition. i shall first endeavour to prove this to be the case, and afterwards mention the benefits of blood-letting in relieving it, in both cases. in pregnancy, the uterus is always affected with that grade of morbid action which i formerly called inflammation. this is evident from its exhibiting all its usual phænomena in other parts of the body. these are, 1. swelling, or enlargement. 2. hæmorrhage. the lochia are nothing but a slow and spontaneous bleeding performed by nature, and intended to cure the inflammation of the uterus after parturition. 3. abscesses, schirri, and cancers. it is true, those disorders sometimes occur in women that have never borne children. in these cases, they are the effects of the inflammation excited by the menstrual disease. 4. a full, quick, and tense or frequent pulse; pain; want of appetite[63]; sickness at stomach; puking; syncope; and sometimes convulsions in every part of the body. [63] dr. hunter used to teach, in his lectures, that the final cause of the want of appetite, during the first months of pregnancy, was to obviate plethora, which disposed to abortion. this plethora should have been called an inflammatory disease, in which abstinence is useful. 5. sizy blood. this occurs almost uniformly in pregnancy. 6. a membrane. dr. scarpa has proved the membrana decidua, which is formed during pregnancy, to be in every respect the same in its properties with the membrane which is formed upon other inflamed surfaces, particularly the trachea, the pleura, and the inside of the bowels. thus we see all the common and most characteristic symptoms and effects of inflammation, in other parts of the body, are exhibited by the uterus in pregnancy. these remarks being premised, i proceed to remark, that blood-letting is indicated, in certain states of pregnancy, by all the arguments that have been used in favour of it in any other inflammatory disease. the degree of inflammation in the womb, manifested by the pulse, pain, and other signs of disease, should determine the quantity of blood to be drawn. low diet, gentle purges, and constant exercise, are excellent substitutes for it, but where they are not submitted to, blood-letting should be employed as a substitute for them. in that disposition to abortion, which occurs about the third month of pregnancy, small and frequent bleedings should be preferred to all other modes of depletion. i can assert, from experience, that they prevent abortion, nearly with as much certainty as they prevent a hæmorrhage from the lungs: for what is an abortion but a hæmoptysis (if i may be allowed the expression) from the uterus? during the last month of pregnancy, the loss of from twelve to twenty ounces of blood has the most beneficial effects, in lessening the pains and danger of child-birth, and in preventing its subsequent diseases. the doctrine i have aimed to establish leads, not only to the use of blood-letting in the disease of pregnancy, when required, but to a more copious use of it, when combined with other diseases, than in those diseases in a simple state. this remark applies, in a particular manner, to those spasms and convulsions which sometimes occur in the latter months of pregnancy. without bleeding, they are always fatal. by copious bleeding, amounting in some instances to 80 and 100 ounces, they are generally cured. let it not be supposed that blood-letting is alike proper and useful in every state of pregnancy. there are what are called slow or chronic inflammations, in which the diseased action of the blood-vessels not only forbids it, but calls for cordial and stimulating remedies. the same feeble state of inflammation sometimes takes place in the pregnant uterus. in these cases cordials and stimulants should be preferred to the lancet. _parturition_ is a higher grade of disease than that which takes place in pregnancy. it consists of convulsive or clonic spasms in the uterus, supervening its inflammation, and is accompanied with chills, heat, thirst, a quick, full, tense, or a frequent and depressed pulse, and great pain. by some divines these symptoms, and particularly pain, have been considered as a standing and unchangeable punishment of the original disobedience of woman, and, by some physicians, as indispensably necessary to enable the uterus to relieve itself of its burden. by contemplating the numerous instances in which it has pleased god to bless the labours and ingenuity of man, in lessening or destroying the effects of the curse inflicting upon the earth, and by attending to the histories of the total exemption from pain in child-bearing that are recorded of the women in the brasils, calabria, and some parts of africa, and of the small degrees of it which are felt by the turkish women, who reduce their systems by frequent purges of sweet oil during pregnancy, i was induced to believe pain does not accompany child-bearing by an immutable decree of heaven. by recollecting further how effectually blood-letting relieves many other spasmodic and painful diseases, and how suddenly it relaxes rigidity in the muscles, i was led, in the year 1795, to suppose it might be equally effectual in lessening the violence of the disease and pains of parturition. i was encouraged still more to expect this advantage from it, by having repeatedly observed the advantages of copious bleeding for inflammatory fevers, just before delivery, in mitigating its pains, and shortening its duration. upon my mentioning these reflections and facts to dr. dewees, i was much gratified in being informed, that he had been in the practice, for several years before his removal from abingdon to philadelphia, of drawing _large_ quantities of blood during parturition, and with all the happy effects i had expected from it. the practice has been strongly inculcated by the doctor in his lectures upon midwifery, and has been ably defended and supported by a number of recent facts, in an ingenious inaugural dissertation, published by dr. peter miller, in the year 1804. it has been generally adopted by the practitioners of midwifery, of both sexes, in philadelphia. i do not mean to insinuate that bleeding is a new remedy in parturition. it has long ago been advised and used in france, and even by the midwives of genoa, in italy, but never, in any country, in the large quantities that have been recommended by dr. dewees, that is, from 20 to 80 ounces, or until signs of fainting are induced, nor under the influence of the theory of parturition, being a violent disease. but the advantages of this remedy are not confined to lessening the pains of delivery. it prevents after pains; favours the easy and healthy secretion of milk; prevents sore breasts, swelled legs, puerperile fever, and all the distressing train of anomalous complaints that often follow child-bearing. dr. hunter informed his pupils, in his lectures upon midwifery, in the year 1769, that he had often observed the most rapid recoveries to succeed the most severe labours. the severity of the pains in these cases created a disease, which prevented internal congestions in the womb. bleeding, by depleting the uterus, obviates at once both disease and congestion. its efficacy is much aided by means of glysters, which, by emptying the lower bowels, lessen the pressure upon the uterus. let it not be inferred, from what has been said in favour of blood-letting in parturition, that it is proper in all cases. where there has been great previous inanition, and where there are marks of languor, and feeble morbid action in the system, the remedies should be of an opposite nature. opium and other cordials are indicated in these cases. their salutary effects in exciting the action of the uterus, and expediting delivery, are too well known to be mentioned. i have expressed a hope in another place[64], that a medicine would be discovered that should suspend sensibility altogether, and leave irritability, or the powers of motion, unimpaired, and thereby destroy labour pains altogether. i was encouraged to cherish this hope, by having known delivery to take place, in one instance, during a paroxysm of epilepsy, and having heard of another, during a fit of drunkenness, in a woman attended by dr. church, in both of which there was neither consciousness, nor recollection of pain. [64] medical repository, vol. vi. 2. during the period in which the menses are said to dodge, and for a year or two after they cease to flow, there is a morbid fulness and excitement in the blood-vessels, which are often followed by head-ach, cough, dropsy, hæmorrhages, glandular obstructions, and cancers. they may all be prevented by frequent and moderate bleedings. 3. it has been proved, by many facts, that opium, when taken in an excessive dose, acts by inducing a similar state of the system with that which is induced by the miasmata which bring on malignant and inflammatory fevers. the remedy for the disease produced by it (where a vomiting cannot be excited to discharge the opium) has been found to be copious blood-letting. of its efficacy, the reader will find an account in four cases, published in the fifth volume of the new-york medical repository. 4. it is probable, from the uniformly stimulating manner in which poisons of all kinds act upon the human body, that bleeding would be useful in obviating their baneful effects. dr. john dorsey has lately proved its efficacy, in the case of a child that was affected with convulsions, in consequence of eating the leaves of the datura stramonium. 5. it has been the misfortune of diabetes to be considered by physicians as exclusively a local disease of weak morbid action, or as the effect of simple debility in the kidneys; and hence stimulating and tonic medicines have been exclusively prescribed for it. this opinion is not a correct one. it often affects the whole arterial system, more especially in its first stage, with great morbid action. in two cases of it, where this state of the blood-vessels took place, i have used blood-letting with success, joined with the common remedies for inflammatory diseases. 6. in dislocated bones which resist both skill and force, it has been suggested, that bleeding, till fainting is induced, would probably induce such a relaxation in the muscles as to favour their reduction. this principle was happily applied, in the winter of 1795, by dr. physick, in the pennsylvania hospital, in a case of dislocated humerus of two months continuance. the doctor bled his patient till he fainted, and then reduced his shoulder in less than a minute, and with very little exertion of force. the practice has since become general in philadelphia, in luxations of large bones, where they resist the common degrees of strength employed to reduce them. in contemplating the prejudices against blood-letting, which formerly prevailed so generally in our country, i have been led to ascribe them to a cause wholly political. we are descended chiefly from great-britain, and have been for many years under the influence of english habits upon all subjects. some of these habits, as far as they relate to government, have been partly changed; but in dress, arts, manufactures, manners, and science, we are still governed by our early associations. britain and france have been, for many centuries, hereditary enemies. the hostility of the former to the latter nation, extends to every thing that belongs to their character. it discovers itself, in an eminent degree, in diet and medicine. do the french love soups? the english prefer solid flesh. do the french love their meats well cooked? the english prefer their meats but half roasted. do the french sip coffee after dinner? the english spend their afternoons in drinking port and madeira wines. do the french physicians prescribe purges and glysters to cleanse the bowels? the english physicians prescribe vomits for the same purpose. above all, do the french physicians advise bleeding in fevers? the english physicians forbid it, in most fevers, and substitute sweating in the room of it. here then we discover the source of the former prejudices and errors of our country-men, upon the subject of blood-letting. they are of british origin. they have been inculcated in british universities, and in british books; and they accord as ill with our climate and state of society, as the dutch foot stoves did with the temperate climate of the cape of good hope[65]. [65] i have frequently been surprised, in visiting english patients, to hear them say, when i have prescribed bleeding, that their physicians in england had charged them never to be bled. this advice excluded all regard to the changes which climate, diet, new employments, and age might induce upon the system. i am disposed to believe that many lives are lost, and numerous chronic diseases created in great-britain, by the neglect of bleeding in fevers. my former pupil, dr. fisher, in a letter from the university of edinburgh, dated in the winter of 1795, assured me, that he had cured several of his fellow-students of fevers (contrary to general prejudice) by early bleeding, in as easy and summary a way as he had been accustomed to see them cured in philadelphia, by the use of the same remedy. dr. gordon, of scotland, and several other physicians in great-britain, have lately revived the lancet, and applied it with great judgment and success to the cure of fevers. it is probable the bad consequences which have followed the indiscriminate use of the lancet france, and some other countries, may have contributed in some degree to create the prejudices against it, which are entertained by the physicians in great-britain. bleeding, like opium, has lost its character, in many cases, by being prescribed for the _name_ of a disease. it is still used, mr. townsend tells us, in this empirical way in spain, where a physician, when sent for to a patient, orders him to be bled before he visits him. the late just theory of the manner in which opium acts upon the body, has restrained its mischief, and added greatly to its usefulness. in like manner, may we not hope, that just theories of diseases, and proper ideas of the manner in which bleeding acts in curing them, will prevent a relapse into the evils which formerly accompanied this remedy, and render it a great and universal blessing to mankind? an inquiry into the _comparative state of medicine_, in philadelphia, between the years 1760 and 1766, and the year 1805. in estimating the progress and utility of medicine, important advantages may be derived from taking a view of its ancient, and comparing it with its present state. to do this upon an extensive scale, would be difficult, and foreign to the design of this inquiry. i shall therefore limit it, to the history of the diseases and medical opinions which prevailed, and of the remedies which were in use, in the city of philadelphia, between the years 1760 and 1766, and of the diseases, medical opinions, and remedies of the year 1805. the result of a comparative view of each of them, will determine whether medicine has declined or improved, in that interval of time, in this part of the world. to derive all the benefits that are possible from such an inquiry, it will be proper to detail the causes, which, by acting upon the human body, influence the subjects that have been mentioned, in those two remote periods of time. those causes divide themselves into climate, diet, dress, and certain peculiar customs; on each of which i shall make a few remarks. after what has been said, in the history of the climate of pennsylvania, in the first volume of these inquiries, it will only be necessary in this place briefly to mention, that the winters in philadelphia, between the years 1760 and 1766, were almost uniformly cold. the ground was generally covered with snow, and the delaware frozen, from the first or second week in december, to the last week in february, or the first week in march. thaws were rare during the winter months, and seldom of longer duration than three or four days. the springs began in may. the summers were generally warm, and the air seldom refreshed by cool north-west winds. rains were frequent and heavy, and for the most part accompanied with thunder and lightning. the autumns began in october, and were gradually succeeded by cool and cold weather. the diet of the inhabitants of philadelphia, during those years, consisted chiefly of animal food. it was eaten, in some families, three times, and in all, twice a day. a hot supper was a general meal. to two and three meals of animal food in a day, many persons added what was then called "a relish," about an hour before dinner. it consisted of a slice of ham, a piece of salted fish, and now and then a beef-steak, accompanied with large draughts of punch or toddy. tea was taken in the interval between dinner and supper. in many companies, a glass of wine and bitters was taken a few minutes before dinner, in order to increase the appetite. the drinks, with dinner and supper, were punch and table beer. besides feeding thus plentifully in their families, many of the most respectable citizens belonged to clubs, which met in the city in winter, and in its vicinity, under sheds, or the shade of trees, in summer, once and twice a week, and, in one instance, every night. they were drawn together by suppers in winter, and dinners in summer. their food was simple, and taken chiefly in a solid form. the liquors used with it were punch, london porter, and sound old madeira wine. independently of these clubs, there were occasional meetings of citizens, particularly of young men, at taverns, for convivial purposes. a house in water-street, known by the name of the tun tavern, was devoted chiefly to this kind of accidental meetings. they were often followed by midnight sallies into the streets, and such acts of violence and indecency, as frequently consigned the perpetrators of them afterwards into the hands of the civil officers and physicians of the city. many citizens, particularly tradesmen, met every evening for the purpose of drinking beer, at houses kept for that purpose. instances of drunkenness were rare at such places. the company generally parted at ten o'clock, and retired in an orderly manner to their habitations. morning drams, consisting of cordials of different kinds, were common, both in taverns and private houses, but they were confined chiefly to the lower class of people. from this general use of distilled and fermented liquors, drunkenness was a common vice in all the different ranks of society. the dresses of the men, in the years alluded to, were composed of cloth in winter, and of thin woollen or silk stuffs in summer. wigs composed the covering of the head, after middle life, and cocked hats were universally worn, except by the men who belonged to the society of friends. the dresses of the women, in the years before mentioned, consisted chiefly of silks and calicoes. stays were universal, and hoops were generally worn by the ladies in genteel life. long cloth or camblet cloaks were common, in cold weather, among all classes of women. the principal custom under this head, which influenced health and life, was that which obliged women, after lying-in, "to sit up for company;" that is, to dress themselves, every afternoon on the second week after their confinement, and to sit for four or five hours, exposed to the impure air of a crowded room, and sometimes to long and loud conversations. porches were nearly universal appendages to houses, and it was common for all the branches of a family to expose themselves upon them, to the evening air. stoves were not in use, at that time, in any places of public worship. funerals were attended by a large concourse of citizens, who were thereby often exposed to great heat and cold, and sometimes to standing, while the funeral obsequies were performed, in a wet or damp church-yard. the human mind, in this period of the history of our city, was in a colonized state, and the passions acted but feebly and partially upon literary and political subjects. we come now to mention the diseases which prevailed in our city between the years 1760 and 1766. the cholera morbus was a frequent disease in the summer months. sporadic cases of dysentery were at that time common. i have never seen that disease epidemic in philadelphia. the intermitting fever prevailed in the month of august, and in the autumn, chiefly in the suburbs and neighbourhood of the city. in the year 1765, it was epidemic in southwark, and was so general, at the same time, as to affect two thirds of the inhabitants of the southern states. this fact is mentioned by dr. bond, in a lecture preserved in the minutes of the managers of the pennsylvania hospital. the slow chronic fever, called at that time the nervous fever, was very common, in the autumnal months, in the thickly settled parts of the city. the bilious fever prevailed, at the same time, in southwark. the late dr. clarkson, who began to practise medicine in that part of the city, in the year 1761, upon hearing some of his medical brethren speak of the appearance of bilious remittents in its middle and northern parts, about the year 1778, said they had long been familiar to him, and that he had met with them every year since his settlement in philadelphia[66]. [66] from the early knowledge this excellent physician and worthy man had thus acquired of the bilious remitting fever, he was very successful in the treatment of it. it was by instruction conveyed by him to me with peculiar delicacy, that i was first taught the advantages of copious evacuations from the bowels in that disease. i had been called, when a young practitioner, to visit a gentleman with him in a bilious pleurisy. a third or fourth bleeding, which i advised, cured him. the doctor was much pleased with its effect, and said to me afterwards, "doctor, you and i have each a great fault in our practice; i do not bleed enough, you do not purge enough." the yellow fever prevailed in the neighbourhood of spruce-street wharf, and near a filthy stream of water which flowed through what is now called dock-street, in the year 1762. some cases of it appeared likewise in southwark. it was scarcely known in the north and west parts of the city. no desertion of the citizens took place at this time, nor did the fear of contagion drive the friends of the sick from their bed-sides, nor prevent the usual marks of respect being paid to them after death, by following their bodies to the grave. a few sporadic cases of the same grade of fever appeared in the year 1763. pneumonies, rheumatisms, inflammatory sore throats, and catarrhs were frequent during the winter and spring months. the last disease was induced, not only by sudden changes in the weather, but often by exposure to the evening air, on porches in summer, and by the damp and cold air of places of public worship in winter. the influenza was epidemic in the city in the spring of the year 1761. the malignant sore throat proved fatal to a number of children in the winter of 1763. the scarlet fever prevailed generally in the year 1764. it resembled the same disease, as described by dr. sydenham, in not being accompanied by a sore throat. death from convulsions in pregnant women, also front parturition, and the puerperile fever, were common between the years 1760 and 1766. death was likewise common between the 50th and 60th years of life from gout, apoplexy, palsy, obstructed livers, and dropsies. a club, consisting of about a dozen of the first gentlemen in the city, all paid, for their intemperance, the forfeit of their lives between those ages, and most of them with some one, or more of the diseases that have been mentioned. i sat up with one of that club on the night of his death. several of the members of it called at his house, the evening before he died, to inquire how he was. one of them, upon being informed of his extreme danger, spoke in high and pathetic terms of his convivial talents and virtues, and said, "he had spent 200 evenings a year with him, for the last twenty years of his life." these evenings were all spent at public houses. the colica pictonum, or dry gripes, was formerly a common disease in this city. it was sometimes followed by a palsy of the upper and lower extremities. colics from crapulas were likewise very frequent, and now and then terminated in death. many children died of the cholera infantum, cynanche trachealis, and hydrocephalus internus. the last disease was generally ascribed to worms. fifteen or twenty deaths occurred, every summer, from drinking cold pump water, when the body was in a highly excitable state, from great beat and labour. the small-pox, within the period alluded to, was sometimes epidemic, and carried off many citizens. in the year 1759, dr. barnet was invited from elizabeth-town, in new-jersey, to philadelphia, to inoculate for the small-pox. the practice, though much opposed, soon became general. about that time, dr. redman published a short defence of it, and recommended the practice to his fellow-citizens in the most affectionate language. the success of inoculation was far from being universal. subsequent improvements in the mode of preparing the body, and treating the eruptive fever, have led us to ascribe this want of success to the deep wound made in the arm, to the excessive quantity of mercury given to prepare the body, and to the use of a warm regimen in the eruptive fever. the peculiar customs and the diseases which have been enumerated, by inducing general weakness, rendered the pulmonary consumption a frequent disease among both sexes. pains and diseases from decayed teeth were very common, between the years 1760 and 1766. at that time, the profession of a dentist was unknown in the city. the practice of physic and surgery were united, during those years, in the same persons, and physicians were seldom employed as man-midwives, except in preternatural and tedious labours. the practice of surgery was regulated by mr. sharp's treatise upon that branch of medicine. let us now take a view of the medical opinions which prevailed at the above period, and of the remedies which were employed to cure the diseases that have been mentioned. the system of dr. boerhaave then governed the practice of every physician in philadelphia. of course diseases were ascribed to morbid acrimonies, and other matters in the blood, and the practice of those years was influenced by a belief in them. medicines were prescribed to thin, and to incrassate the blood, and diet drinks were administered in large quantities, in order to alter its qualities. great reliance was placed upon the powers of nature, and critical days were expected with solicitude, in order to observe the discharge of the morbid cause of fevers from the system. this matter was looked for chiefly in the urine, and glasses to retain it were a necessary part of the furniture of every sick room. to ensure the discharge of the supposed morbid matter of fevers through the pores, patients were confined to their beds, and fresh, with cool air, often excluded by close doors and curtains. the medicines to promote sweats were generally of a feeble nature. the spiritus mindereri, and the spirit of sweet nitre were in daily use for that purpose. in dangerous cases, saffron and virginia snake-root were added to them. blood-letting was used plentifully in pleurisies and rheumatisms, but sparingly in all other diseases. blood was often drawn from the feet, in order to excite a revulsion of disease from the superior parts of the body. it was considered as unsafe, at that time, to bleed during the monthly disease of the female sex. purges or vomits began the cure of all febrile diseases, but as the principal dependence was placed upon sweating medicines, those powerful remedies were seldom repeated in the subsequent stages of fevers. to this remark there was a general exception in the yellow fever of 1762. small doses of glauber's salts were given every day after bleeding, so as to promote a gentle, but constant discharge from the bowels. the bark was administered freely in intermittents. the prejudices against it at that time were so general among the common people, that it was often necessary to disguise it. an opinion prevailed among them, that it lay in their bones, and that it disposed them to take cold. it was seldom given in the low and gangrenous states of fever, when they were not attended with remissions. the use of opium was confined chiefly to ease pain, to compose a cough, and to restrain preternatural discharges from the body. such were the prejudices against it, that it was often necessary to conceal it in other medicines. it was rarely taken without the advice of a physician. mercury was in general use in the years that have been mentioned. i have said it was given to prepare the body for the small-pox. it was administered by my first preceptor in medicine, dr. redman, in the same disease, when it appeared in the natural way, with malignant or inflammatory symptoms, in order to keep the salivary glands open and flowing, during the turn of the pock. he gave it likewise liberally in the dry gripes. in one case of that disease, i well remember the pleasure he expressed, in consequence of its having affected his patient's mouth. but to dr. thomas bond the city of philadelphia is indebted for the introduction of mercury into general use, in the practice of medicine. he called it emphatically "a revolutionary remedy," and prescribed it in all diseases which resisted the common modes of practice. he gave it liberally in the cynanche trachealis. he sometimes cured madness, by giving it in such quantities as to excite a salivation. he attempted to cure pulmonary consumption by it, but without success; for, at that time, the influence of the relative actions of different diseases and remedies, upon the human body, was not known, or, if known, no advantage was derived from it in the practice of medicine. the dry gripes were cured, at that time, by a new and peculiar mode of practice, by dr. thomas cadwallader. he kept the patient easy by gentle anodynes, and gave lenient purges, only in the beginning of the disease; nor did he ever assist the latter by injections till the fourth and fifth days, at which time the bowels discharged their contents in an easy manner. it was said this mode of cure prevented the paralytic symptoms, which sometimes follow that disease. it was afterwards adopted and highly commended by the late dr. warren, of london. blisters were in general use, but seldom applied before the latter stage of fevers. they were prescribed, for the first time, in hæmorrhages, and with great success, by dr. george glentworth. wine was given sparingly, even in the lowest stage of what were then called putrid and nervous fevers. the warm and cold baths were but little used in private practice. the former was now and then employed in acute diseases. they were both used in the most liberal manner, together with the vapour and warm air baths, in the pennsylvania hospital, by dr. thomas bond. an attempt was made to erect warm and cold baths, in the neighbourhood of the city, and to connect them with a house of entertainment, by dr. lauchlin m'clen, in the year 1761. the project was considered as unfriendly to morals, and petitions, from several religious societies, were addressed to the governor of the province, to prevent its execution. the enterprize was abandoned, and the doctor soon afterwards left the city. riding on horseback, the fresh air of the sea-shore, and long journies, were often prescribed to invalids, by all the physicians of that day. i come now to mention the causes which influence the diseases, also the medical opinions and remedies of the present time. in this part of our discourse, i shall follow the order of the first part of our inquiry. i have already taken notice of the changes which the climate of philadelphia has undergone since the year 1766. a change has of late years taken place in the dress of the inhabitants of philadelphia. wigs have generally been laid aside, and the hair worn cut and dressed in different ways. round hats, with high crowns, have become fashionable. umbrellas, which were formerly a part of female dress only, are now used in warm and wet weather, by men of all ranks in society; and flannel is worn next to the skin in winter, and muslin in summer, by many persons of both sexes. tight dresses are uncommon, and stays are unknown among our women. it is to be lamented that the benefits to health which might have been derived from the disuse of that part of female dress, have been prevented by the fashion of wearing such light coverings over the breasts and limbs. the evils from this cause, shall be mentioned hereafter. a revolution has taken place in the diet of our citizens. relishes and suppers are generally abolished; bitters, to provoke a preternatural appetite, also meridian bowls of punch, are now scarcely known. animal food is eaten only at dinner, and excess in the use of it is prevented, by a profusion of excellent summer and winter vegetables. malt liquors, or hydrant water, with a moderate quantity of wine, are usually taken with those simple and wholesome meals. clubs, for the exclusive purpose of feeding, are dissolved, and succeeded by family parties, collected for the more rational entertainments of conversation, dancing, music, and chess. taverns and beer-houses are much less frequented than formerly, and drunkenness is rarely seen in genteel life. the tea table, in an evening, has now become the place of resort of both sexes, and the midnight serenade has taken place of the midnight revels of the young gentlemen of former years. in doing justice to the temperance of the modern citizens of philadelphia, i am sorry to admit, there is still a good deal of secret drinking among them. physicians, who detect it by the diseases it produces, often lament the inefficacy of their remedies to remove them. in addition to intemperance from spiritous liquors, a new species of intoxication from opium has found its way into our city. i have known death, in one instance, induced by it. the following circumstances have had a favourable influence upon the health of the present inhabitants of philadelphia. the improvements in the construction of modern houses, so as to render them cooler in summer, and warmer in winter. the less frequent practice of sitting on porches, exposed to the dew, in summer evenings. the universal use of stoves in places of public worship. the abolition of the custom of obliging lying-in women to sit up for company. the partial use of schuylkill or hydrant water, for culinary and other purposes. the enjoyment of pure air, in country seats, in the neighbourhood of the city. they not only preserve from sickness during the summer and autumn, but they render families less liable to diseases during the other seasons of the year. and, lastly, the frequent use of private, and public warm and cold baths. for the establishment of the latter, the citizens of philadelphia are indebted to mr. joseph simons. the following circumstances have an unfavourable influence upon the health of our citizens. ice creams taken in excess, or upon an empty stomach. the continuance of the practice of attending funerals, under all the circumstances that were mentioned in describing the customs which prevailed in philadelphia, between the years 1760 and 1766. the combined influence of great heat and intemperance in drinking, acting upon passions unusually excited by public objects, on the 4th of july, every year. the general and inordinate use of segars. the want of sufficient force in the water which falls into the common sewers to convey their contents into the delaware, renders each of their apertures a source of sickly exhalations to the neighbouring streets and squares. the compact manner in which the gutters are now formed, by preventing the descent of water into the earth, has contributed very much to retain the filth of the city, in those seasons in which they are not washed by rain, nor by the waste water of the pumps and hydrants. the timbers of many of the wharves of the city have gone to decay. the docks have not been cleaned since the year 1774, and many of them expose large surfaces to the action of the sun at low water. the buildings have increased in water-street, and with them there has been a great increase of that kind of filth which is generated in all houses; the stores in this street often contain matters which putrify; from all which there is, in warm weather, a constant emission of such a f[oe]tid odour, as to render a walk through that street, by a person who does not reside there, extremely disagreeable, and sometimes to produce sickness and vomiting. in many parts of the vicinity of the city are to be seen pools of stagnating water, from which there are exhaled large quantities of unhealthy vapours, during the summer and autumnal months. the privies have become so numerous, and are often so full, as to become offensive in most of the compact parts of the city, more especially in damp weather. the pump water is impregnated with many saline and aërial matters of an offensive nature. while these causes exert an unfriendly influence upon the bodies of the citizens of philadelphia, the extreme elevation or depression of their passions, by the different issues of their political contests (now far surpassing, in their magnitude, the contests of former years), together with their many new and fortuitous modes of suddenly acquiring and losing property, predispose them to many diseases of the mind. the present diseases of philadelphia come next under our consideration. fevers have assumed several new forms since the year 1766. the mild bilious fever has gradually spread over every part of the city. it followed the filth which was left by the british army in the year 1778. in the year 1780, it prevailed, as an epidemic, in southwark, and in water and front-streets, below market-street[67]. in the years 1791 and 1792, it assumed an inflammatory appearance, and was accompanied, in many cases, with hepatic affections. the connection of our subject requires that i should barely repeat, that it appeared in 1793 as an epidemic, in the form of what is called yellow fever, in which form it has appeared, in sporadic cases, or as an epidemic, every year since. during the reign of this high grade of bilious fever, mild intermittents and remittents, and the chronic or nervous forms of the summer and autumnal fever, have nearly disappeared. [67] it appears, from the account given by mr. white of the bilious fever of bath, that it prevailed several years in its suburbs, before it became general in that city. it is remarkable, that southwark was nearly the exclusive seat, not only of the bilious or break-bone fever of 1780, but of the intermitting fever in 1765, taken notice of by dr. bond, and of the yellow fever of 1805. inflammations and obstructions of the liver have been more frequent than in former years, and even the pneumonies, catarrhs, intercurrent, and other fevers of the winter and spring months, have all partaken more or less of the inflammatory and malignant nature of the yellow fever. the pulmonary consumption continues to be a common disease among both sexes. the cynanche trachealis, the scarlatina anginosa, the hydrocephalus internus, and cholera infantum, are likewise common diseases in philadelphia. madness, and several other diseases of the mind, have increased since the year 1766, from causes which have been mentioned. several of the different forms of gout are still common among both sexes. apoplexy and palsy have considerably diminished in our city. it is true, the bills of mortality still record a number of deaths from the former, every year; but this statement is incorrect, if it mean a disease of the brain only, for sudden deaths from all their causes are returned exclusively under the name of apoplexy. the less frequent occurrence of this disease, also of palsy, is probably occasioned by the less consumption of animal food, and of distilled and fermented liquors, by that class of citizens who are most subject to them, than in former years. perhaps the round hat, and the general use of umbrellas, may have contributed to lessen those diseases of the brain. the dropsy is now a rare disease, and seldom seen even in our hospital. the colica pictonum, or dry gripes, is scarcely known in philadelphia. i have ascribed this to the use of flannel next to the skin as a part of dress, and to the general disuse of punch as a common drink. the natural small-pox is nearly extirpated, and the puerperile fever is rarely met with in philadelphia. the scrophula is much less frequent than in former years. it is confined chiefly to persons in humble life. i proceed, in the order that was proposed, to take notice of the present medical opinions which prevail among the physicians of philadelphia. the system of dr. boerhaave long ago ceased to regulate the practice of physic. it was succeeded by the system of dr. cullen. in the year 1790, dr. brown's system of medicine was introduced and taught by dr. gibbon. it captivated a few young men for a while, but it soon fell into disrepute. perhaps the high-toned diseases of our city exposed the fallacy and danger of the remedies inculcated by it, and afforded it a shorter life than it has had in many other countries. in the year 1790, the author of this inquiry promulgated some new principles in medicine, suggested by the peculiar phænomena of the diseases of the united states. these principles have been so much enlarged and improved by the successive observations and reasonings of many gentlemen in all the states, as to form an american system of medicine. this system rejects the nosological arrangement of diseases, and places all their numerous forms in morbid excitement, induced by irritants acting upon previous debility. it rejects, likewise, all prescriptions for the names of diseases, and, by directing their applications wholly to the forming and fluctuating states of diseases, and the system, derives from a few active medicines all the advantages which have been in vain expected from the numerous articles which compose european treatises upon the materia medica. this system has been adopted by a part of the physicians of philadelphia, but a respectable number of them are still attached to the system of dr. cullen. a great change has taken place in the remedies which are now in common use in philadelphia. i shall briefly mention such of them as are new, and then take notice of the new and different modes of exhibiting such as were in use between the years 1760 and 1766. vaccination has been generally adopted in our city, in preference to inoculation with variolous matter. digitalis, lead, zinc, and arsenic are now common remedies in the hands of most of our practitioners. cold air, cold water, and ice are among the new remedies of modern practice in philadelphia. blood-letting is now used in nearly all diseases of violent excitement, not only in the blood-vessels, but in other parts of the body. its use is not, as in former times, limited to ounces in specific diseases, but regulated by their force, and the importance of the parts affected to health and life; nor is it forbidden, as formerly, in infancy, in extreme old age, in the summer months, nor in the period of menstruation, where symptoms of a violent, or of a suffocated disease, manifested by an active or a feeble pulse, indicate it to be necessary. leeches are now in general use in diseases which are removed, by their seat or local nature, beyond the influence of the lancet. for the introduction of this excellent remedy into our city we are indebted to mr. john cunitz. opium and bark, which were formerly given in disguise, or with a trembling hand, are now, not only prescribed by physicians, but often purchased, and taken without their advice, by many of the citizens of philadelphia. they even occupy a shelf in the closets of many families. the use of mercury has been revived, and a salivation has been extended; with great improvements and success, to nearly all violent and obstinate diseases. nor has the influence of reason over ignorance and prejudice, with respect to that noble medicine, stopped here. cold water, once supposed to be incompatible with its use, is now applied to the body, in malignant fevers, in order to insure and accelerate its operation upon the salivary glands. wine is given in large quantities, when indicated, without the least fear of producing intoxication. the warm and cold baths, which were formerly confined chiefly to patients in the pennsylvania hospital, are now common prescriptions in private practice. exercise, country air, and the sea shore, are now universally recommended in chronic diseases, and in the debility which precedes and follows them. great pains are now taken to regulate the quantity and quality of aliments and drinks, by the peculiar state of the system. let us now inquire into the influence of the new opinions in medicine, and the new remedies which have been mentioned, upon human life. the small-pox, once the most fatal and universal of all diseases, has nearly ceased to occupy a place in our bills of mortality, by the introduction of vaccination in our city. for the prompt adoption of this great discovery, the citizens of philadelphia owe a large debt of gratitude to dr. coxe, and mr. john vaughan. fevers, from all their causes, and in all their forms, with the exception of the bilious yellow fever, now yield to medicine. even that most malignant form of febrile diseases is treated with more success in philadelphia than in other countries. it would probably seldom prove mortal, did a belief in its being derived from an impure atmosphere, and of its exclusive influence upon the body, while it prevailed as an epidemic, obtain universally among the physicians and citizens of philadelphia. the pulmonary consumption has been prevented, in many hundred instances, by meeting its premonitory signs, in weakness and feeble morbid excitement in the whole system, by country air, gentle exercise, and gently stimulating remedies. even when formed, and tending rapidly to its last stage, it has been cured by small and frequent bleedings, digitalis, and a mercurial salivation. the hydrocephalus internus, the cynanche trachealis, and cholera infantum, once so fatal to the children of our city, now yield to medicine in their early stages. the two former are cured by copious bleeding, aided by remedies formerly employed in them without success. the last is cured by moderate bleeding, calomel, laudanum, and country air. the gout has been torn from its ancient sanctuary in error and prejudice, and its acute paroxysms now yield with as much certainty to the lancet, as the most simple inflammatory diseases. the dropsy is cured by renouncing the unfortunate association of specific remedies with its name, and accommodating them to the degrees of excitement in the blood-vessels. the tetanus from wounds is now prevented, in most cases, by inflaming the injured parts, and thereby compelling them to defend the whole system, by a local disease. where this preventing remedy has been neglected, and where tetanus arises from other causes than wounds, it has often been cured by adding to the diffusible stimulus of opium, the durable stimuli of bark and wine. death from drinking cold water, in the heated state of the body, is now obviated by previously wetting the hands or feet with the water; and when this precaution is neglected, the disease induced by it is generally cured by large doses of liquid laudanum. madness, which formerly doomed its miserable subjects to cells or chains for life, has yielded to bleeding, low diet, mercury, the warm and cold baths, fresh air, gentle exercise, and mild treatment, since its seat has been discovered to be in the blood-vessels of the brain. the last achievement of our science in philadelphia, that i shall mention, consists in the discovery and observation of the premonitory signs of violent and mortal diseases, and in subduing them by simple remedies, in their forming state. by this means, death has been despoiled of his prey, in many hundred instances. in this successful conflict of medicine with disease and death, midwifery and surgery have borne a distinguished part. they derive their claims to the gratitude of the citizens of philadelphia from the practice of each of them being more confined, than formerly, to a few members of our profession. it is in consequence of the former being exercised only by physicians of regular and extensive educations, that death from pregnancy and parturition is a rare occurrence in philadelphia. i should greatly exceed the limits prescribed to this inquiry, should i mention how much pain and misery have been relieved, and how often death has been baffled in his attempts upon human life, by several late improvements in old, and the discovery of new remedies in surgery. i shall briefly name a few of them. in cases of blindness, from a partial opacity of the cornea, or from a closure of the natural pupil, a new pupil has been made; and where the cornea has been partially opaque, the opening through the iris has been formed, opposite to any part of it, which retained its transparency. the cure of fractures has been accelerated by blood-letting, and, where the union of a broken bone has not taken place from a defect of bony matter, it has been produced by passing a seton between the fractured ends of the bone, and effecting a union thereby between them. luxations, which have long resisted both force and art, have been reduced in a few minutes, and without pain, by bleeding at deliquium animi. old sores have been speedily healed, by destroying their surfaces, and thereby placing them in the condition of recent accidents. the fruitless application of the trepan, in concussions of the brain, has been prevented by copious bleeding, and a salivation. a suppression of urine has been cured, by the addition of a piece of a bougie to a flexible catheter. strictures in the urethra have been removed by means of a caustic, also, in a more expeditious way, by dividing them with a lancet. hydrocele has been cured by a small puncture, and afterwards exciting inflammation and adhesion by an injection of wine into the tunica vaginalis testis. the popliteal aneurism and varicose veins have both been removed by operations that were unknown a few years ago. for the introduction of several of those new surgical remedies, and for the discovery and improvement of others, the citizens of philadelphia are indebted to dr. physick. they are likewise indebted to him and dr. griffitts for many of the new and successful modes of practice, in the diseases that have been mentioned. even the few remedies that have been suggested by the author of these inquiries, owe their adoption and usefulness chiefly to the influence of those two respectable and popular physicians. before i dismiss this part of our subject, i have only to add, that since the cure and extraction of the teeth have become a distinct branch of the profession of medicine, several diseases which have arisen from them, when decayed, have been detected and cured[68]. [68] the late mr. andrew spence was the first regular bred dentist that settled in philadelphia. there are now several well educated gentlemen in the city of that profession. we have thus taken a comparative view of the medical theories and remedies of former and modern times, and of their different influence upon human life. to exhibit the advantages of the latter over the former, i shall mention the difference in the number of deaths in three successive years, at a time when the population of the city and suburbs was supposed to amount to 30,000 souls, and in three years, after the population exceeded double that number. between the 25th of december, 1771, and the 25th of december, 1772, there died 1291 persons. between the same days of the same months, in 1772 and 1773, there died 1344 persons. within the same period of time, between 1773 and 1774, the deaths amounted to 1021, making in all 3,656. i regret that i have not been able to procure the returns of deaths in years prior to those which have been mentioned. during the three years that have been selected, no unusually mortal diseases prevailed in the city. the measles were epidemic in 1771, but were not more fatal than in common years. between the 25th of december, 1799, and the 25th of december, 1800, there died 1525 persons. between the same days of the same months, in the years 1801 and 1802, there died 1362 persons. within the same period of time, between 1802 and 1803, the deaths amounted to 1796, making in all 4,883. upon these returns it will be proper to remark, that several hundreds of the deaths, in 1802 and 1803, were from the yellow fever, and that many of them were of strangers. of 68 persons, who were interred in the swedes' church-yard alone, one half were of that description of people. deducting 500 from both those causes of extra-mortality in the three years, between 1799 and 1803, the increase of deaths above what they were in the years 1771 and 1774 is but 727. had diseases continued to be as mortal as they were thirty years ago, considering the present state of our population, the number of deaths would have been more than 7,312. to render the circumstances of the statement of deaths that has been given perfectly equal, it will be necessary to add, that the measles prevailed in the city, in the year 1802, as generally as they did in 1771. from the history that has been given, of the effects of the late improvements and discoveries in medicine upon human life, in philadelphia, we are led to appreciate its importance and usefulness. it has been said, by its enemies, to move; but its motions have been asserted to be only in a circle. the facts that have been stated clearly prove, that it has moved, and rapidly too, within the last thirty years, in a straight line. to encourage and regulate application and enterprize in medicine hereafter, let us inquire to what causes we are indebted for the late discoveries and improvements in our science, and for their happy effects in reducing the number of deaths so far below their former proportion to the inhabitants of philadelphia. the first cause i shall mention is the great physical changes which have taken place in the manners of our citizens in favour of health and life. a second cause, is the assistance which has been afforded to the practice of physic, by the numerous and important discoveries that have lately been made in anatomy, natural history, and chemistry, all of which have been conveyed, from time to time, to the physicians of the city, by means of the philadelphia and hospital libraries, and by the lectures upon those branches of science which are annually delivered in the university of pennsylvania. 3. the application of reasoning to our science has contributed greatly to extend its success in the cure of diseases. simply to observe and to remember, are the humblest operations of the human mind. brutes do both. but to _theorize_, that is, to _think_, or, in other language, to compare facts, to reject counterfeits, to dissolve the seeming affinity of such as are not true, to combine those that are related, though found in remote situations from each other, and, finally, to deduce practical and useful inferences from them, are the high prerogatives and interest of man, in all his intellectual pursuits, and in none more, than in the profession of medicine. 4. the accommodation of remedies to the changes which are induced in diseases by the late revolutions in our climate, seasons, and manners, has had a sensible influence in improving the practice of medicine in our city. the same diseases, like the descendants of the same families, lose their resemblance to each other by the lapse of time; and the almanacks of 1803 might as well be consulted to inform us of the monthly phases of the moon of the present year, as the experience of former years, or the books of foreign countries, be relied upon to regulate the practice of physic at the present time, in any of the cities of the united states. 5. from the diffusion of medical knowledge among all classes of our citizens, by means of medical publications, and controversies, many people have been taught so much of the principles and practice of physic, as to be able to prescribe for themselves in the forming state of acute diseases, and thereby to prevent their fatal termination. it is to this self-acquired knowledge among the citizens of philadelphia, that physicians are in part indebted for not being called out of their beds so frequently as in former years. there are few people who do not venture to administer laudanum in bowel complaints, and there are some persons in the city, who have cured the cynanche trachealis when it has occurred in the night, by vomits and bleeding, without the advice of a physician. the disuse of suppers is another cause why physicians enjoy more rest at night than formerly, for many of their midnight calls, were to relieve diseases brought on by that superfluous meal. 6. the dispensary instituted in our city, in the year 1786, for the medical relief of the poor, has assisted very much in promoting the empire of medicine over disease and death. some lives have likewise been saved by the exertions of the humane society, by means of their printed directions to prevent sudden death; also, by the medical services which have lately been extended to out-patients, by order of the managers of the pennsylvania hospital. 7thly and lastly. a change, favourable to successful practice in philadelphia, has taken place in the conduct of physicians to their patients. a sick room has ceased to be the theatre of imposture in dress and manners, and prescriptions are no longer delivered with the pomp and authority of edicts. on the contrary, sick people are now instructed in the nature of their diseases, and informed of the names and design of their medicines, by which means faith and reason are made to co-operate in adding efficacy to them. nor are patients left, as formerly, by their physicians, under the usual appearances of dissolution, without the aid of medicine. by thus disputing every inch of ground with death, many persons have been rescued from the grave, and lived, years afterwards, monuments of the power of the healing art. from a review of what has been effected within the last nine and thirty years, in lessening the mortality of many diseases, we are led to look forward with confidence and pleasure to the future achievements of our science. could we lift the curtain of time which separates the year 1843 from our view, we should see cancers, pulmonary consumptions, apoplexies, palsies, epilepsy, and hydrophobia struck out of the list of mortal diseases, and many others which still retain an occasional power over life, rendered perfectly harmless, _provided_ the same number of discoveries and improvements shall be made in medicine in the intermediate years, that have been made since the year 1766. but in vain will the avenues of death from those diseases be closed, while the more deadly yellow fever is permitted to supply their place, and to spread terror, distress, and poverty through the city, by destroying the lives of her citizens by hundreds or thousands every year. dear cradle of liberty of conscience in the western world! nurse of industry and arts! and patron of pious and benevolent institutions! may this cease to be thy melancholy destiny! may heaven dispel the errors and prejudices of thy citizens upon the cause and means of preventing their pestilential calamities! and may thy prosperity and happiness be revived, extended, and perpetuated for ages yet to come! * * * * * index. a anthelmintics, i. 228 arsenic, a remedy for cancerous sores, i. 240 army of the united states, diseases of, i. 269 ----, causes of, i. 272 ----, remedies for, i. ibid. agriculture, the practice of, recommended to country physicians, i. 388 age, old, observations on the state of the body and mind in, i. 427 ----, its diseases, i. 446 ----, ----, their remedies, i. 449 air, cool, its good effects in the yellow fever of 1793, iii. 279 association of ideas, its effects upon morals, ii. 45 b. barometer, its mean elevation in philadelphia, i. 96 blisters, their efficacy in obstinate intermittents, i. 179 ----, ----, in the bilious fever of 1780, i. 128 ----, ----, in the yellow fever of 1803, when applied in its early stage, iv. 141 bed, lying in, useful in the bilious fever of 1780, i. 128 bleeding, its efficacy in the cure of obstinate intermittents, i. 179 ----, ----, in the yellow fever of 1793, iii. 253 ----, reasons for the practice, iii. 254 ----, circumstances which regulated it, iii. 261 ----, objections to it answered, iii. 269 ----, gradual manner of abstracting blood recommended, iii. 273 blood-letting, defence of it as a remedy for certain diseases, iv. 275 ----, indicated in fevers, iv. ibid. ----, its good effects in fevers, iv. 277 ----, objections to it answered, iv. 284 ----, its comparative advantages, iv. 313 ----, circumstances which should regulate its use, iv. 316 ----, appearances of the blood, iv. 326 ----, when forbidden, or to be used cautiously, iv. 344 ----, its advantages in pregnancy, iv. 349 ----, in parturition, iv. 353 ----, during the cessation of the menses, iv. 356 ----, in curing the disease induced by a large dose of opium, iv. 357 ----, in curing the disease induced by poison, iv. ibid. ----, in diabetes, iv. ibid. ----, in dislocated bones, iv. 358 blood, quantity drawn from several persons in 1797, iv. 37 ----, appearances of it in 1793, iii. 256 ----, ----, in 1794, iii. 404 c. civilization, diseases derived from it, i. 32 ----, ----, not necessarily connected with it, i. 60 climate of pennsylvania, account of, i. 71 ----, its changes, i. 76 ----, its temperature, i. 78 ----, its effects upon health and life, i. 108 calomel, useful joined with emetics in scarlatina anginosa, i. 144 ----, its effects as a purge, when combined with jalap, in the yellow fever, iii. 241 ----, objections to it answered, iii. 243 contagious, the yellow fever not so, iv. 223 cholera infantum described, i. 157 ----, a form of bilious fever, i. 158 ----, its remedies, i. 160 ----, means of preventing it, i. 164 cynanche trachealis, its different names, i. 169 ----, appearances in the trachea after death, i. 170 ----, its different grades, i. 171 ----, its remedies in its forming state, i. ibid. ----, its remedies after it is formed, i. 172 ----, favourable and unfavourable signs of its issue, i. 174 consumption, pulmonary, thoughts on, i. 199 ----, pulmonary, indians, and persons who lead laborious lives, not subject to it, i. 200 ----, radical remedies for it in exercise, labour, and the hardships of a camp and naval life, i. 204 ----, its causes, ii. 62 ----, not contagious, ii. 79 ----, tracheal, described, ii. 84 ----, its remedies, ii. 87 ----, premonitory signs, ii. ibid. ----, of the remedies for its inflammatory state, ii. 89 ----, of blood-letting, ii. ibid. ----, of a vegetable diet, ii. 104 ----, of the remedies for its hectic state, ii. 107 ----, for its typhus state, ii. 108 ----, of its radical remedies, ii. 128 ----, of exercise, ii. ibid. ----, of travelling, ii. 137 ----, signs of its long or short duration, and of its issue in life and death, ii. 144 ----, its different ways of terminating in death, ii. 147 college of physicians, their letter to the citizens of philadelphia, declaring the existence of the yellow fever in the city, &c. in 1793, iii. 82 ----, their letter to the governor of the state, on the origin of the yellow fever in 1793, iii. 197 ----, their opinion of the origin of the fever in 1799, iv. 100 d. diseases of the indians, i. 16 ----, from civilization, i. 30 ----, produced by ardent spirits, i. 343 ----, of the military hospitals, during the revolutionary war between great-britain and the united states, i. 269 ----, of old age, i. 446 drunkenness, a fit of it described, i. 338 ----, remedies for it, i. 374 disease, summer and autumnal, its sources, iv. 163 ----, means of preventing it in its malignant forms, iv. 173 ----, in its mild forms, iv. 198 ----, in its intestinal forms, iv. 200 ----, of preserving cities and communities from them, iv. 202 ----, of exterminating them, iv. 210 ----, from drinking cold water, i. 186 ----, ----, how prevented, i. ibid. ----, ----, its cure, i. 185 dropsies, their causes, ii. 151 ----, divided into inflammatory, and of weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. 157 ----, remedies for the inflammatory state of, ii. 160 ----, ----, with weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. 176 dropsy of the brain, internal, ii. 192 ----, its history, ii. 195 ----, its causes, ii. 203 ----, its cure, ii. 210 distress, familiarity with it, its moral effects, ii. 46 death, its proximate cause, ii. 447 e. emetics, useful in the bilious fever of 1780, i. 186 ----, in the scarlatina anginosa of 1783 and 1784, i. 144 ----, in the yellow fever of 1798, iv. 79 ----, in the yellow fever of 1799, iv. 97 ----, hurtful in the yellow fever of 1797, iv. 44 exhalations, putrid, their sources and effects in producing the summer and autumnal disease, iv. 163 f. faculty, moral, inquiry into the influence of physical causes on, ii. 3 fruits, summer, useful in destroying worms, i. 229 fever, bilious, history of it in 1780, i. 117 ----, outlines of a theory of, iii. 3 ----, its unity asserted, iii. 17 ----, unity of its exciting causes, iii. 16 ----, objections to a nosological arrangement of its different forms, iii. 33 ----, effects of, iii. 39 ----, different states of, enumerated, iii. 41 ----, objections to putrefaction in, iii. 43 ----, bilious yellow, history of, in 1793, iii. 69 ----, ----, its exciting causes, iii. 88 ----, ----, its premonitory signs, iii. 93 ----, ----, its first symptoms, iii. 95 ----, ----, symptoms of it in the blood-vessels, iii. 97 ----, ----, ----, in the liver, lungs, and brain, iii. 104 ----, ----, ----, in the stomach and bowels, iii. 108 ----, ----, ----, in the secretions and excretions, iii. 110 fever, bilious yellow, symptoms of it, in the nervous system, iii. 116 ----, ----, ----, in the senses and appetites, iii. 122 ----, ----, ----, in the lymphatic and glandular system, iii. 124 ----, ----, ----, on the skin, iii. 125 ----, ----, ----, in the blood, iii. 128 ----, ----, nature of the black vomit, iii. 111 ----, ----, types of the, iii. 135 ----, ----, the empire of, over all other diseases, iii. 139 ----, ----, who most subject to it, iii. 148 ----, ----, negroes affected by it in common with white people, iii. 151 ----, ----, state of the atmosphere during the prevalence of, iii. 158 ----, ----, signs of the presence of miasmata in the body, universal, iii. 157 ----, ----, cases of re-infection, iii. 164 ----, ----, external appearances of the body after death in, iii. 165 ----, ----, appearances of the body by dissection, iii. 167 ----, ----, account of the distress of the city, iii. 175 ----, ----, its moral effects upon the inhabitants, iii. 179 ----, ----, number of deaths from it, iii. 181 ----, ----, is checked and destroyed by rain, iii. 184 ----, ----, inquiry into its origin by the governor of the state, iii. 196 ----, ----, said to be imported by the college of physicians, iii. 197 ----, ----, objections to their opinion, and proofs of its domestic origin, iii. 198 ----, the sameness of its origin with the plague, iii. 211 ----, state of the weather in 1793, iii. 215 ----, method of cure, iii. 223 ----, dissentions of the physicians, iii. 235 ----, of purging, iii. 239 ----, its salutary effects, iii. 241 ----, objections to it answered, iii. 243 ----, blood-letting, its utility, iii. 253 ----, salivation, its utility, iii. 284 ----, convalescence, iii. 289 ----, remarks on the use of stimulating remedies in this fever, iii. 292 ----, comparative view of the success of all the modes of practice employed in the fever, iii. 298 fever, yellow, of 1794, history of, iii. 357 ----, its exciting causes, iii. 367 ----, symptoms in the different systems of the body, iii. 369 ----, in the blood-vessels, iii. ibid. ----, in the viscera, iii. 371 ----, in the alimentary canal, iii. 373 ----, in the secretions and excretions, iii. 375 ----, in the nervous system, iii. 379 ----, in the senses and appetites, iii. 383 ----, in the lymphatic system, iii. ibid. ----, in the blood, iii. 387 ----, different forms of the fever, iii. 388 ----, its origin, iii. 397 ----, method of cure, iii. 401 ----, bleeding, iii. 402 fever, yellow, of 1794, good effects of cool air and cold water in, iii. 409 ----, of a salivation, iii. 411 ----, of blisters, iii. 413 ----, of tonic remedies, iii. 415 ----, of the inefficacy of bark, iii. ibid. ----, of the effects of wine, iii. 418 ----, ----, of opium, iii. 419 ----, ----, of nitre, iii. 421 ----, ----, of antimonials, iii. ibid. fever, yellow, sporadic cases of, in the years 1795 and 1796, iii. 437 fever, yellow, of 1797, iv. 3 ----, symptoms of, iv. 13 ----, type of, iv. 20 ----, different forms of, iv. 21 ----, influence of the moon upon it, iv. 27 ----, number of deaths, particularly of physicians, iv. 30 ----, origin of it, iv. 33 ----, its remedies, iv. ibid. ----, of bleeding, iv. ibid. ----, of purging medicines, iv. 37 ----, of a salivation, iv. 39 ----, different ways in which mercury acted upon the mouth and throat, iv. 40 ----, of emetics, iv. 44 ----, of diet and drinks, iv. 45 ----, of tonic remedies, iv. 49 ----, of blisters, iv. ibid. ----, of sweet oil, iv. 51 fever, yellow, of 1797, relative success of different modes of practice, iv. 53 ----, signs of a favourable and unfavourable issue of the fever, iv. 55 fever, yellow, of 1798, account of, iv. 67 ----, symptoms of, iv. 68 ----, in the blood-vessels, iv. ibid. ----, alimentary canal, iv. ibid. ----, on the tongue, iv. 69 ----, in the nervous system, iv. ibid. ----, in the eyes, lymphatics, and blood, iv. 71 ----, different modes in which it terminated in death, iv. 74 ----, state of the weather in 1798, iv. 77 ----, origin of the fever, iv. 78 ----, remedies for it, iv. ibid. ----, bleeding, iv. ibid. ----, emetics, iv. 79 ----, purges, iv. 81 ----, of a salivation, iv. ibid. ----, of sweats, iv. 82 ----, of bark, iv. 83 ----, of blisters, iv. ibid. ----, symptoms which indicated a favourable and unfavourable issue of the disease, iv. 84 ----, different modes of practice in this fever, and their different success, iv. 85 fever, bilious, of 1799, iv. 91 ----, sickliness among certain animals, iv. 94 ----, its symptoms, iv. 95 ----, its remedies, iv. 97 fever, yellow, of 1799, signs of a favourable and unfavourable issue of it, iv. 99 ----, its origin, iv. 100 fever, yellow, sporadic cases of, in 1800, iv. 103 ----, ----, in 1801, iv. 111 fever, yellow, of 1802, account of, iv. 123 ----, its origin, iv. 123 ----, its types, iv. 127 fever, yellow, as it appeared in 1803, iv. 133 ----, symptoms of, iv. 136 ----, remedies for, iv. 139 fever, yellow, sporadic cases in 1804, iv. 147 fever, yellow, as it appeared in 1805, iv. 153 ----, its origin, iv. 155 ----, its remedies, iv. 156 ----, not contagious, iv. 223 g. gout, peculiarities belonging to it, ii. 227 ----, its remote causes, ii. 230 ----, women most subject to it, ii. 232 ----, its exciting causes, ii. ibid. ----, its symptoms, ii. 234 ----, method of cure, ii. 251 ----, remedies in its forming state, ii. 253 ----, in a paroxysm, when attended with great morbid or inflammatory action in the blood-vessels, ii. 252 ----, when attended with weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. 269 ----, remedies for its symptoms, ii. 275 ----, means for preventing the return of inflammatory, ii. 285 ----, with weak morbid action, ii. 293 h. hospitals, their origin, i. 55 ----, military, their evils, i. 276 ----, constructed with ground floors, to be preferred in fevers, i. 275 heat, greatest in philadelphia, i. 87 habit, its effects upon morals, ii. 43 hæmoptysis, observations on, i. 191 hydrophobia, observations on, ii. 301 ----, its causes, ii. 302 ----, its symptoms in rabid animals, ii. 306 ----, ----, in the human species, ii. 308 ----, supposed to be a malignant fever, ii. ibid. ----, remedies to prevent it, ii. 315 ----, ----, to cure it in its malignant or inflammatory state, ii. 317 ----, ----, to cure it when attended with weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. 323 ----, death from it, supposed to be from suffocation, ii. 326 ----, laryngotomy suggested to prevent it, ii. 332 i. indians, oration on their diseases and remedies, i. 3 ----, peculiar customs of their women, i. 9 ----, ----, of their men, i. 11 ----, ----, of both sexes, i. 12 indians, their diseases, i. 16 ----, their remedies, i. 20 ----, comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations, i. 39 iron, its preparations useful in destroying worms, i. 232 imitation, its effects upon morals, ii. 42 influenza, account of it, as it appeared in philadelphia in 1789, 1790, and 1791, ii. 353 ----, history of its symptoms, ii. 354 ----, mode of treatment, ii. 360 jaw-fall, or trismus, in infants, i. 254 l. laudanum, its efficacy in the disease brought on by drinking cold water in hot weather, i. 185 legs, sore, observations on, i. 411 ----, classes of people most subject to them, i. 412 ----, their remedies, i. 416 longevity, circumstances which favour it, i. 428 life, animal, inquiry into its causes, ii. 371 ----, a forced state, or the effects of impressions, ii. 377 ----, enumeration of those impressions, ii. 378 ----, how supported in sleep, ii. 397 ----, in the f[oe]tus in utero, ii. 404 ----, in infancy, ii. 405 ----, in youth, ii. 409 ----, in middle life, ii. 410 ----, in old age, ii. ibid. ----, in persons blind, or deaf and dumb from their birth, ii. 414 ----, in idiots, ii. 416 ----, after long abstinence, ii. 417 ----, in asphyxia, ii. 419 ----, in the indians of north-america, ii. 427 ----, in the africans, ii. 428 ----, in the turkish empire, ii. 429 ----, in china and the east-indies, ii. 431 ----, in the poor inhabitants of europe, ii. 432 ----, stimuli which act alike in promoting it upon all nations, ii. 434 ----, how supported in sundry animals, ii. 441 ----, its extinction in death, how effected, ii. 447 m. midwifery, the practice of it more successful by men than by women, i. 53 manufactures, sedentary, unfriendly to the health of men, i. 65 measles, history of, in 1789, ii. 338 ----, their symptoms, ii. 339 ----, a spurious, or external form of them described, ii. 342 ----, remedies used in them, ii. 346 ----, history of them, as they appeared in 1801, iv. 117 medicine, an inquiry into its comparative state, in philadelphia, between 1760 and 1766, and 1805, iv. 365 diet of the inhabitants between 1760 and 1766, iv. 366 dresses, iv. 368 customs which had an influence on health, iv. 369 diseases, iv. 370 n. nature, meaning of the term, i. 35 ----, the extent of her powers in curing diseases, i. 20 nosology, objections to it, iii. 33 negroes subject to the yellow fever in common with the white people, iii. 366 o. opium, useful in the bilious fever of 1780, i. 130 ----, the disease induced by it cured by blood-letting, iv. 357 onion juice, useful in destroying worms, i. 231 p. philadelphia, its situation, i. 74 ----, population, i. 76 ----, diseases between 1760 and 1766, and 1805, iv. 365 purges, useful in the bilious fever of 1780, i. 127 ----, ----, in the yellow fever of 1793, iii. 231 ----, objections to them answered, iii. 243 pulse, state of, in old people, i. 439 ----, in the yellow fever of 1793, in persons not confined with it, iii. 157 ----, in fevers, when it indicates blood-letting, iv. 316 putrefaction, does not take place in the blood, iii. 43 pregnancy, a morbid state of the system, iv. 349 ----, effects of blood-letting in relieving its diseases, iv. ibid. parturition, a disease, iv. 353 ----, effects of blood-letting in lessening its pains, iv. ibid. q. quarantine laws, their inefficacy to prevent a yellow fever, iv. 218 ----, their evils, iv. ibid. r. rain, usual quantity in pennsylvania, i. 72 revolution, american, its influence upon the human body and mind, i. 279 s. snow, common depth in pennsylvania, i. 91 sweating described among the indians of north-america, i. 22 scarlatina anginosa of 1783 and 1784 described, i. 138 ----, additional observations on, i. 147 ----, prevented by gentle purges, i. 151 ----, cured by emetics in its forming state, i. 150 salt, common, useful in the hæmoptysis, i. 192 ----, in destroying worms, i. 230 sugar, useful in destroying worms, i. ibid. spirits, ardent, their effects upon the human body and mind, i. 337 ----, diseases produced by them, i. 343 ----, their effects on property, i. 347 ----, substitutes for them, i. 353 ----, persons predisposed to their use, i. 360 ----, their influence upon the population of the united states, i. 364 sweats, useful in the yellow fever of 1803, iv. 140 salivation, its usefulness in the yellow fever of 1793, iii. 284 ----, ----, of 1794, iii. 411 ----, ----, of 1797, iv. 49 ----, ----, of 1798, iv. 81 small-pox, new mode of inoculating for, i. 311 t. tetanus, its causes, i. 248 ----, its remedies when from wounds, i. 256 ----, ----, when from other causes, i. 259 w. winters, cold, in pennsylvania, i. 76, 77, 79 winds, common, in pennsylvania, i. 90 water, cold, disease from drinking it when the body is preternaturally heated, i. 184 worms, natural to young children, and to young animals, i. 218 ----, intended, probably, to prevent disease, i. 219 ----, destroyed by medicines that act mechanically and chemically upon them, i. 128 wounds, gun-shot, in joints, followed by death, i. 274 finis. * * * * * lately published, and for sale by conrad & co. at their stores in philadelphia, baltimore, washington, petersburg, and norfolk, _the philadelphia medical and physical journal_, collected and arranged by _benjamin smith barton_, professor of materia medica, natural history, and botany, in the university of pennsylvania. volume i. price, in boards, 2 dollars. _a system of surgery_. by _benjamin bell_, member of the royal colleges of surgeons of edinburgh and ireland, &c. &c. 4 vols. 8vo. price 14 dollars. _a treatise on the fevers of jamaica_, with some observations on the intermitting fever of america; and an appendix, containing some hints on the means of preserving the health of soldiers in hot climates. by _robert jackson_, m. d. * * * * * in the press, _the philadelphia medical and physical journal._ part i. vol. ii. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 58859-h.htm or 58859-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58859/58859-h/58859-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58859/58859-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b21935142_0001 project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58860 volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58861 volume iv: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58862 transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). text in bold face has been enclosed by equal signs (=text=). medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. i. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, 116, high-street. 1805. * * * * * preface. in this second edition of the following medical inquiries and observations, the reader will perceive many additions, some omissions, and a few alterations. a number of facts have been added to the inquiry into the effects of ardent spirits upon the body and mind, and to the observations upon the tetanus, cynanche trachealis, and old age, in the first volume; also to the observations upon dropsies, pulmonary consumption, and hydrophobia, contained in the second volume. the lectures upon animal life, which were published, a few years ago, in a pamphlet, have received no other additions than a few notes. the phænomena of fever have not only received a new title, but several new terms have been adopted in detailing them, chiefly to remove the mistake into which the use of dr. brown's terms had led some of the author's readers, respecting his principles. a new order has likewise been given, and some new facts added, to the inquiry upon this subject. in the account of the yellow fever of 1793, many documents, interesting to the public at the time of their first publication, are omitted; and many of the facts and observations, which related to the origin of the fevers of 1794 and 1797, now form a part of a separate inquiry upon that subject, in the fourth volume. the histories of the yellow fever as epidemics, and of its sporadic cases, have been published in the order in which they have appeared in philadelphia, to show the influence of the weather upon it, and the impropriety and danger of applying the same remedies for the same epidemic, in different and even successive seasons. the records of the first cases of yellow fever, which have appeared in each of the twelve years that have been noticed, are intended further to show the inefficacy of all the means, at present employed, to prevent its future recurrence. in the fourth volume, the reader will find a retraction of the author's former opinion of the yellow fever's spreading by contagion. he begs forgiveness of the friends of science and humanity, if the publication of that opinion has had any influence in increasing the misery and mortality attendant upon that disease. indeed, such is the pain he feels, in recollecting that he ever entertained or propagated it, that it will long, and perhaps always, deprive him of the pleasure he might otherwise have derived from a review of his attempts to fulfil the public duties of his profession. considerable additions are made to the facts and arguments in favour of the domestic origin of the yellow fever, and to the defence of blood-letting. the account of the means of preventing the usual forms of summer and autumnal disease, appears for the first time in this edition of the author's inquiries. part of the facts intended to prove the yellow fever not to be contagious, were published in the sixth volume of the new-york medical repository. the reader will perceive, among many additions to them, answers to all the arguments usually employed to defend the contrary opinion. the inquiry into the comparative state of medicine, in philadelphia, between the years 1760 and 1766, and 1805, was delivered, in the form of an oration, before the medical society of philadelphia, on the 18th of february, 1804. some things have been omitted, and a few added, in the form in which it is now offered to the public. if this edition of medical inquiries and observations should be less imperfect than the former, the reader is requested to ascribe it to the author having profited by the objections he encouraged his pupils to make to his principles, in their inaugural dissertations, and in conversation; and to the many useful facts which have been communicated to him by his medical brethren, whose names have been mentioned in the course of the work. for the departure, in the modes of practice adopted or recommended in these inquiries, from those which time and experience have sanctioned, in european and in east and west-indian countries, the author makes the same defence of himself, that dr. baglivi made, near a century ago, of his modes of practice in rome. "_vivo et scribo in aere romano_," said that illustrious physician. the author has lived and written in the climate of pennsylvania, and in the city of philadelphia. _november 18th, 1805._ * * * * * contents of volume i. _page_ _an inquiry into the natural history of medicine among the indians of north-america, and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations_ 1 _an account of the climate of pennsylvania, and its influence upon the human body_ 69 _an account of the bilious remitting fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in the summer and autumn of the year 1780_ 115 _an account of the scarlatina anginosa, as it appeared in philadelphia in the years 1783 and 1784_ 135 _an inquiry into the cause and cure of the cholera infantum_ 153 _observations on the cynanche trachealis_ 167 _an account of the efficacy of blisters and bleeding, in the cure of obstinate intermitting fevers_ 177 _an account of the disease occasioned by drinking cold water in warm weather, and the method of curing it_ 181 _an account of the efficacy of common salt in the cure of hæmoptysis_ 189 _thoughts on the cause and cure of pulmonary consumption_ 197 _observations upon worms in the alimentary canal, and upon anthelmintic medicines_ 215 _an account of the external use of arsenic in the cure of cancers_ 235 _observations on the tetanus_ 245 _the result of observations made upon the diseases which occurred in the military hospitals of the united states, during the revolutionary war_ 267 _an account of the influence of the military and political events of the american revolution upon the human body_ 277 _an inquiry into the relation of tastes and aliments to each other, and into the influence of this relation upon health and pleasure_ 295 _the new method of inoculating for the small-pox_ 309 _an inquiry into the effects of ardent spirits upon the human body and mind, with an account of the means of preventing, and the remedies for curing them_ 335 _observations on the duties of a physician, and the methods of improving medicine; accommodated to the present state of society and manners in the united states_ 385 _an inquiry into the causes and cure of sore legs_ 401 _an account of the state of the body and mind in old age, with observations on its diseases, and their remedies_ 425 * * * * * an inquiry into the _natural history of medicine_ among the indians of north-america; and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations. read before the american philosophical society, held at philadelphia, on the 4th of february, 1774. gentlemen[1], i rise with peculiar diffidence to address you upon this occasion, when i reflect upon the entertainment you proposed to yourselves from the eloquence of that learned member, mr. charles thompson, whom your suffrages appointed to this honour after the delivery of the last anniversary oration. unhappily for the interests of science, his want of health has not permitted him to comply with your appointment. i beg, therefore, that you would forget, for a while, the abilities necessary to execute this task with propriety, and listen with candour to the efforts of a member, whose attachment to the society was the only qualification that entitled him to the honour of your choice. [1] this inquiry was the subject of an anniversary oration. the style of an oration is therefore preserved in many parts of it. the subject i have chosen for this evening's entertainment, is "an inquiry into the natural history of medicine among the indians in north-america, and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies, with those of civilized nations." you will readily anticipate the difficulty of doing justice to this subject. how shall we distinguish between the original diseases of the indians and those contracted from their intercourse with the europeans? by what arts shall we persuade them to discover their remedies? and lastly, how shall we come at the knowledge of facts in that cloud of errors, in which the credulity of the europeans, and the superstition of the indians, have involved both their diseases and remedies? these difficulties serve to increase the importance of our subject. if i should not be able to solve them, perhaps i may lead the way to more successful endeavours for that purpose. i shall first limit the tribes of indians who are to be the objects of this inquiry, to those who inhabit that part of north-america which extends from the 30th to the 60th degree of latitude. when we exclude the esquimaux, who inhabit the shores of hudson's bay, we shall find a general resemblance in the colour, manners, and state of society, among all the tribes of indians who inhabit the extensive tract of country above-mentioned. civilians have divided nations into savage, barbarous, and civilized. the savage live by fishing and hunting; the barbarous, by pasturage or cattle; and the civilized, by agriculture. each of these is connected together in such a manner, that the whole appear to form different parts of a circle. even the manners of the most civilized nations partake of those of the savage. it would seem as if liberty and indolence were the highest pursuits of man; and these are enjoyed in their greatest perfection by savages, or in the practice of customs which resemble those of savages. the indians of north-america partake chiefly of the manner of savages. in the earliest accounts we have of them, we find them cultivating a spot of ground. the maize is an original grain among them. the different dishes of it which are in use among the white people still retain indian names. it will be unnecessary to show that the indians live in a state of society adapted to all the exigencies of their mode of life. those who look for the simplicity and perfection of the state of nature, must seek it in systems, as absurd in philosophy, as they are delightful in poetry. before we attempt to ascertain the number or history of the diseases of the indians, it will be necessary to inquire into those customs among them which we know influence diseases. for this purpose i shall, first, mention a few facts which relate to the birth and treatment of their children. secondly, i shall speak of their diet. thirdly, of the customs which are peculiar to the sexes, and, fourthly, of those customs which are common to them both[2]. [2] many of the facts contained in the natural history of medicine among the indians in this inquiry, are taken from la hontan and charlevoix's histories of canada; but the most material of them are taken from persons who had lived or travelled among the indians. the author acknowledges himself indebted in a particular manner to mr. edward hand, surgeon in the 18th regiment, afterwards brigadier-general in the army of the united states, who, during several years' residence at fort pitt, directed his inquiries into their customs, diseases, and remedies, with a success that does equal honour to his ingenuity and diligence. i. of the birth and treatment of their children. much of the future health of the body depends upon its original stamina. a child born of healthy parents always brings into the world a system formed by nature to resist the causes of diseases. the treatment of children among the indians, tends to secure this hereditary firmness of constitution. their first food is their mother's milk. to harden them against the action of heat and cold (the natural enemies of health and life among the indians) they are plunged every day into cold water. in order to facilitate their being moved from place to place, and at the same time to preserve their shape, they are tied to a board, where they lie on their backs for six, ten, or eighteen months. a child generally sucks its mother till it is two years old, and sometimes longer. it is easy to conceive how much vigour their bodies must acquire from this simple, but wholesome nourishment. the appetite we sometimes observe in children for flesh is altogether artificial. the peculiar irritability of the system in infancy forbids stimulating aliment of all kinds. nature never calls for animal food till she has provided the child with those teeth which are necessary to divide it. i shall not undertake to determine how far the wholesome quality of the mother's milk is increased by her refusing the embraces of her husband, during the time of giving suck. ii. the diet of the indians is of a mixed nature, being partly animal and partly vegetable. their animals are wild, and therefore easy of digestion. as the indians are naturally more disposed to the indolent employment of fishing than hunting, in summer, so we find them living more upon fish than land animals, in that season of the year.--their vegetables consist of roots and fruits, mild in themselves, or capable of being made so by the action of fire. although the interior parts of our continent abound with salt springs, yet i cannot find that the indians used salt in their diet, till they were instructed to do so by the europeans. the small quantity of fixed alkali contained in the ashes on which they roasted their meat, could not add much to its stimulating quality. they preserve their meat from putrefaction, by cutting it into small pieces, and exposing it in summer to the sun, and in winter to the frost. in the one case its moisture is dissipated, and in the other so frozen, that it cannot undergo the putrefactive process. in dressing their meat, they are careful to preserve its juices. they generally prefer it in the form of soups. hence we find, that among them the use of the spoon, preceded that of the knife and fork. they take the same pains to preserve the juice of their meat when they roast it, by turning it often. the efficacy of this animal juice, in dissolving meat in the stomach, has not been equalled by any of those sauces or liquors which modern luxury has mixed with it for that purpose. the indians have no set time for eating, but obey the gentle appetites of nature as often as they are called by them. after whole days spent in the chace or in war, they often commit those excesses in eating, to which long abstinence cannot fail of prompting them. it is common to see them spend three or four hours in satisfying their hunger. this is occasioned not more by the quantity they eat, than by the pains they take in masticating it. they carefully avoid drinking water in their marches, from an opinion that it lessens their ability to bear fatigue. iii. we now come to speak of those customs which are peculiar to the sexes. and, first, of those which belong to the women. they are doomed by their husbands to such domestic labour as gives a firmness to their bodies, bordering upon the masculine. their menses seldom begin to flow before they are eighteen or twenty years of age, and generally cease before they are forty. they have them in small quantities, but at regular intervals. they seldom marry till they are about twenty. the constitution has now acquired a vigour, which enables it the better to support the convulsions of child-bearing. this custom likewise guards against a premature old age. doctor bancroft ascribes the haggard looks, the loose hanging breasts, and the prominent bellies of the indian women at guiana, entirely to their bearing children too early[3]. where marriages are unfruitful (which is seldom the case) a separation is obtained by means of an easy divorce; so that they are unacquainted with the disquietudes which sometimes arise from barrenness. during pregnancy, the women are exempted from the more laborious parts of their duty: hence miscarriages rarely happen among them. nature is their only midwife. their labours are short, and accompanied with little pain. each woman is delivered in a private cabin, without so much as one of her own sex to attend her. after washing herself in cold water, she returns in a few days to her usual employments; so that she knows nothing of those accidents which proceed from the carelessness or ill management of midwives; or those weaknesses which arise from a month's confinement in a warm room. it is remarkable that there is hardly a period in the interval between the eruption and the ceasing of the menses, in which they are not pregnant, or giving suck. this is the most natural state of the constitution during that interval; and hence we often find it connected with the best state of health, in the women of civilized nations. [3] natural history of guiana. the customs peculiar to the indian men, consist chiefly in those employments which are necessary to preserve animal life, and to defend their nation. these employments are hunting and war, each of which is conducted in a manner that tends to call forth every fibre into exercise, and to ensure them the possession of the utmost possible health. in times of plenty and peace, we see them sometimes rising from their beloved indolence, and shaking off its influence by the salutary exercises of dancing and swimming. the indian men seldom marry before they are thirty years of age: they no doubt derive considerable vigour from this custom; for while they are secured by it from the enervating effects of the premature dalliance of love, they may insure more certain fruitfulness to their wives, and entail more certain health upon their children. tacitus describes the same custom among the germans, and attributes to it the same good effects. "sera juvenum venus, eoque inexhausta pubertas; nec virgines festinantur; eadem juventa, similis proceritas, pares validique miscentur; ac robora parentum liberi referunt[4]." [4] cæsar, in his history of the gallic war, gives the same account of the ancient germans. his words are "qui diutissimi impuberes permanserunt, maximam inter suos ferunt laudem: hoc ali staturam, ali vires, nervasque confirmari putant." lib. vi. xxi. among the indian men, it is deemed a mark of heroism to bear the most exquisite pain without complaining; upon this account they early inure themselves to burning part of their bodies with fire, or cutting them with sharp instruments. no young man can be admitted to the honours of manhood or war, who has not acquitted himself well in these trials of patience and fortitude. it is easy to conceive how much this contributes to give a tone to the nervous system, which renders it less subject to the occasional causes of diseases. iv. we come now to speak of those customs which are common to both sexes: these are painting, and the use of the cold bath. the practice of anointing the body with oil is common to the savages of all countries; in warm climates it is said to promote longevity, by checking excessive perspiration. the indians generally use bear's grease mixed with a clay, which bears the greatest resemblance to the colour of their skins. this pigment serves to lessen the sensibility of the extremities of the nerves; it moreover fortifies them against the action of those exhalations, which we shall mention hereafter, as a considerable source of their diseases. the cold bath likewise fortifies the body, and renders it less subject to those diseases which arise from the extremes and vicissitudes of heat and cold. we shall speak hereafter of the indian manner of using it. it is a practice among the indians never to drink before dinner, when they work or travel. experience teaches, that filling the stomach with cold water in the forenoon, weakens the appetite, and makes the system more sensible of heat and fatigue. the state of society among the indians excludes the influence of most of those passions which disorder the body. the turbulent effects of anger are concealed in deep and lasting resentments. envy and ambition are excluded by their equality of power and property. nor is it necessary that the perfections of the whole sex should be ascribed to one, to induce them to marry. "the weakness of love (says dr. adam smith) which is so much indulged in ages of humanity and politeness, is regarded among savages as the most unpardonable effeminacy. a young man would think himself disgraced for ever, if he showed the least preference of one woman above another, or did not express the most complete indifference, both about the time when, and the person to whom, he was to be married[5]." thus are they exempted from those violent or lasting diseases, which accompany the several stages of such passions in both sexes among civilized nations. [5] theory of moral sentiments. it is remarkable that there are no deformed indians. some have suspected, from this circumstance, that they put their deformed children to death; but nature here acts the part of an unnatural mother. the severity of the indian manners destroy them[6]. [6] since the intercourse of the white people with the indians, we find some of them deformed in their limbs. this deformity, upon inquiry, appears to be produced by those accidents, quarrels, &c. which have been introduced among them by spiritous liquors. from a review of the customs of the indians, we need not be surprised at the stateliness, regularity of features, and dignity of aspect by which they are characterized. where we observe these among ourselves, there is always a presumption of their being accompanied with health, and a strong constitution. the circulation of the blood is more languid in the indians, than in persons who are in the constant exercise of the habits of civilized life. out of eight indian men whose pulses i once examined at the wrists, i did not meet with one in whom the artery beat more than sixty strokes in a minute. the marks of old age appear more early among indian, than among civilized nations. having finished our inquiry into the physical customs of the indians, we shall now proceed to inquire into their diseases. a celebrated professor of anatomy has asserted, that we could not tell, by reasoning _à priori_, that the body was mortal, so intimately woven with its texture are the principles of life. lord bacon declares, that the only cause of death which is natural to man, is that from old age; and complains of the imperfection of physic, in not being able to guard the principle of life, until the whole of the oil that feeds it is consumed. we cannot as yet admit this proposition of our noble philosopher. in the inventory of the grave in every country, we find more of the spoils of youth and manhood than of age. this must be attributed to moral as well as physical causes. we need only recollect the custom among the indians, of sleeping in the open air in a variable climate; the alternate action of heat and cold upon their bodies, to which the warmth of their cabins exposes them; their long marches; their excessive exercise; their intemperance in eating, to which their long fasting and their public feasts naturally prompt them; and, lastly, the vicinity of their habitations to the banks of rivers, in order to discover the empire of diseases among them in every stage of their lives. they have in vain attempted to elude the general laws of mortality, while their mode of life subjects them to these remote, but certain causes of diseases. from what we know of the action of these powers upon the human body, it will hardly be necessary to appeal to facts to determine that fevers constitute the only diseases among the indians. these fevers are occasioned by the insensible qualities of the air. those which are produced by cold and heat are of the inflammatory kind, such as pleurisies, peripneumonies, and rheumatisms. those which are produced by the insensible qualities of the air, or by putrid exhalations, are intermitting, remitting, inflammatory, and malignant, according as the exhalations are combined with more or less heat or cold. the dysentery (which is an indian disease) comes under the class of fevers. it appears to be the febris introversa of dr. sydenham. the indians are subject to animal and vegetable poisons. the effects of these upon the body, are in some degree analogous to the exhalations we have mentioned. when they do not bring on sudden death, they produce, according to their force, either a common inflammatory, or a malignant fever. the small pox and the venereal disease were communicated to the indians of north-america by the europeans. nor can i find that they were ever subject to the scurvy. whether this was obviated by their method of preserving their flesh, or by their mixing it at all times with vegetables, i shall not undertake to determine. their peculiar customs and manners seem to have exempted them from this, as well as from the common diseases of the skin. i have heard of two or three cases of the gout among the indians, but it was only among those who had learned the use of rum from the white people. a question naturally occurs here, and that is, why does not the gout appear more frequently among that class of people, who consume the greatest quantity of rum among ourselves? to this i answer, that the effects of this liquor upon those enfeebled people, are too sudden and violent, to admit of their being thrown upon the extremities; as we know them to be among the indians. they appear only in visceral obstructions, and a complicated train of chronic diseases. thus putrid miasmata are sometimes too strong to bring on a fever, but produce instant debility and death. the gout is seldom heard of in russia, denmark, or poland. is this occasioned by the vigour of constitution peculiar to the inhabitants of those northern countries? or is it caused by their excessive use of spirituous liquors, which produce the same chronic complaints among them, which we said were common among the lower class of people in this country? the similarity of their diseases makes the last of these suppositions the most probable. the effects of wine, like tyranny in a well formed government, are felt first in the extremities; while spirits, like a bold invader, seize at once upon the vitals of the constitution. after much inquiry, i have not been able to find a single instance of fatuity among the indians, and but few instances of melancholy and madness; nor can i find any accounts of diseases from worms among them. worms are common to most animals; they produce diseases only in weak, or increase them in strong constitutions[7]. hence they have no place in the nosological systems of physic. nor is dentition accompanied by disease among the indians. the facility with which the healthy children of healthy parents cut their teeth among civilized nations, gives us reason to conclude that the indian children never suffer from this quarter. [7] indian children are not exempted from worms. it is common with the indians, when a fever in their children is ascribed by the white people to worms (from their being discharged occasionally in their stools), to say, "the fever makes the worms come, and not the worms the fever." the indians appear moreover to be strangers to diseases and pains in the teeth. the employments of the indians subject them to many accidents; hence we sometimes read of wounds, fractures, and luxations among them. having thus pointed out the natural diseases of the indians, and shown what diseases are foreign to them, we may venture to conclude, that fevers, old age, casualties, and war are the only natural outlets of human life. war is nothing but a disease; it is founded in the imperfection of political bodies, just as fevers are founded on the weakness of the animal body. providence in these diseases seems to act like a mild legislature, which mitigates the severity of death, by inflicting it in a manner the least painful, upon the whole, to the patient and the survivors. let us now inquire into the remedies of the indians. these, like their diseases, are simple, and few in number. among the first of them we shall mention the powers of nature. fevers, we said formerly, constituted the chief of the diseases among the indians; they are likewise, in the hands of nature, the principal instruments to remove the evils which threaten her dissolution; but the event of these efforts of nature, no doubt, soon convinced the indians of the danger of trusting her in all cases; and hence, in the earliest accounts we have of their manners, we read of persons who were intrusted with the office of physicians. it will be difficult to find out the exact order in which the indian remedies were suggested by nature or discovered by art; nor will it be easy to arrange them in proper order. i shall, however, attempt it, by reducing them to natural and artificial. to the class of natural remedies belongs the indian practice of abstracting from their patients all kinds of stimulating aliment. the compliance of the indians with the dictates of nature, in the early stage of a disease, no doubt, prevents, in many cases, their being obliged to use any other remedy. they follow nature still closer, in allowing their patients to drink plentifully of cold water; this being the only liquor a patient calls for in a fever. sweating is likewise a natural remedy. it was probably suggested by observing fevers to be terminated by it. i shall not inquire how far these sweats are essential to the crisis of a fever. the indian mode of procuring this evacuation is as follows: the patient is confined in a close tent, or wigwam, over a hole in the earth, in which a red hot stone is placed; a quantity of water is thrown upon this stone, which instantly involves the patient in a cloud of vapour and sweat; in this situation he rushes out, and plunges himself into a river, from whence he retires to his bed. if the remedy has been used with success, he rises from his bed in four and twenty hours, perfectly recovered from his indisposition. this remedy is used not only to cure fevers, but remove that uneasiness which arises from fatigue of body. a third natural remedy among the indians, is purging. the fruits of the earth, the flesh of birds, and other animals feeding upon particular vegetables, and, above all, the spontaneous efforts of nature, early led the indians to perceive the necessity and advantages of this evacuation. vomits constitute their fourth natural remedy. they were probably, like the former, suggested by nature, and accident. the ipecacuanha is one of the many roots they employ for that purpose. the artificial remedies made use of by the indians, are bleeding, caustics, and astringent medicines. they confine bleeding entirely to the part affected. to know that opening a vein in the arm, or foot, would relieve a pain in the head or side, supposes some knowledge of the animal economy, and therefore marks an advanced period in the history of medicine. sharp stones and thorns are the instruments they use to procure a discharge of blood. we have an account of the indians using something like a potential caustic, in obstinate pains. it consists of a piece of rotten wood called _punk_, which they place upon the part affected, and afterwards set it on fire: the fire gradually consumes the wood, and its ashes burn a hole in the flesh. the undue efforts of nature, in those fevers which are connected with a diarrh[oe]a, or dysentery, together with those hemorrhages to which their mode of life exposed them, necessarily led them to an early discovery of some astringent vegetables. i am uncertain whether the indians rely upon astringent, or any other vegetables, for the cure of the intermitting fever. this disease among them probably requires no other remedies than the cold bath, or cold air. its greater obstinacy, as well as frequency, among ourselves, must be sought for in the greater feebleness of our constitutions, and in that change which our country has undergone, from meadows, mill-dams, and the cutting down of woods; whereby morbid exhalations have been multiplied, and their passage rendered more free, through every part of country. this is a short account of the remedies of the indians. if they are simple, they are like their eloquence, full of strength; if they are few in number, they are accommodated, as their languages are to their ideas, to the whole of their diseases. we said, formerly, that the indians were subject to accidents, such as wounds, fractures, and the like. in these cases, nature performs the office of a surgeon. we may judge of her qualifications for this office, by observing the marks of wounds and fractures, which are sometimes discovered on wild animals. but further, what is the practice of our modern surgeons in these cases? is it not to lay aside plasters and ointments, and trust the whole to nature? those ulcers which require the assistance of mercury, bark, and a particular regimen are unknown to the indians. the hemorrhages which sometimes follow their wounds, are restrained by plunging themselves into cold water, and thereby producing a constriction upon the bleeding vessels. their practice of attempting to recover drowned people, is irrational and unsuccessful. it consists in suspending the patient by the heels, in order that the water may flow from his mouth. this practice is founded on a belief that the patient dies from swallowing an excessive quantity of water. but modern observations teach us that drowned people die from another cause. this discovery has suggested a method of cure, directly opposite to that in use among the indians; and has shown us that the practice of suspending by the heels is hurtful. i do not find that the indians ever suffer in their limbs from the action of cold upon them. their mokasons[8], by allowing their feet to move freely, and thereby promoting the circulation of the blood, defend their lower extremities in the day-time, and their practice of sleeping with their feet near a fire, defends them from the morbid effects of cold at night. in those cases where the motion of their feet in their mokasons is not sufficient to keep them warm, they break the ice, and restore their warmth by exposing them for a short time to the action of cold water[9]. [8] indian shoes. [9] it was remarked in canada, in the winter of the year 1759, during the war before last, that none of those soldiers who wore mokasons were frost-bitten, while few of those escaped that were much exposed to the cold who wore shoes. we have heard much of their specific antidotes to the venereal disease. in the accounts of these anti-venereal medicines, some abatement should be made for that love of the marvellous, and of novelty, which are apt to creep into the writings of travellers and physicians. how many medicines which were once thought infallible in this disease, are now rejected from the materia medica! i have found upon inquiry that the indians always assist their medicines in this disease, by a regimen which promotes perspiration. should we allow that mercury acts as a specific in destroying this disease, it does not follow that it is proof against the efficacy of medicines which act more mechanically upon the body[10]. [10] i cannot help suspecting the anti-venereal qualities of the lobelia, ceanothus and ranunculus, spoken of by mr. kalm, in the memoirs of the swedish academy. mr. hand informed me, that the indians rely chiefly upon a plentiful use of the decoctions of the pine-trees for the cure of the venereal disease. he added, moreover, that he had often known this disease prove fatal to them. there cannot be a stronger mark of the imperfect state of knowledge in medicine among the indians, than their method of treating the small-pox. we are told that they plunge themselves in cold water in the beginning of the disease, and that it often proves fatal to them. travellers speak in high terms of the indian antidotes to poisons. we must remember that many things have been thought poisonous, which later experience hath proved to possess no unwholesome quality. moreover, the uncertainty and variety in the operation of poisons, renders it extremely difficult to fix the certainty of the antidotes to them. how many specifics have derived their credit for preventing the hydrophobia, from persons being wounded by animals, who were not in a situation to produce that disease! if we may judge of all the indian antidotes to poisons, by those which have fallen into our hands, we have little reason to ascribe much to them in any cases whatever. i have heard of their performing several remarkable cures upon stiff joints, by an infusion of certain herbs in water. the mixture of several herbs together in this infusion calls in question the specific efficacy of each of them. i cannot help attributing the whole success of this remedy to the great heat of the water in which the herbs were boiled, and to its being applied for a long time to the part affected. we find the same medicine to vary frequently in its success, according to its strength, or to the continuance of its application. de haen attributes the good effects of electricity, entirely to its being used for several months. i have met with one case upon record of their aiding nature in parturition. captain carver gives us an account of an indian woman in a difficult labour, being suddenly delivered in consequence of a general convulsion induced upon her system, by stopping, for a short time, her mouth and nose, so as to obstruct her breathing. we are sometimes amused with accounts of indian remedies for the dropsy, epilepsy, colic, gravel, and gout. if, with all the advantages which modern physicians derive from their knowledge in anatomy, chemistry, botany, and philosophy; if, with the benefit of discoveries communicated from abroad, as well as handed down from our ancestors, by more certain methods than tradition, we are still ignorant of certain remedies for these diseases; what can we expect from the indians; who are not only deprived of these advantages, but want our chief motive, the sense of the pain and danger of those diseases, to prompt them to seek for such remedies to relieve them? there cannot be a stronger proof of their ignorance of proper remedies for new or difficult diseases, than their having recourse to enchantment. but to be more particular; i have taken pains to inquire into the success of some of these indian specifics, and have never heard of one well attested case of their efficacy. i believe they derive all their credit from our being ignorant of their composition. the influence of secrecy is well known in establishing the credit of a medicine. the sal seignette was supposed to be an infallible medicine for the intermitting fever, while the manufactory of it was confined to an apothecary at rochelle; but it lost its virtues as soon as it was found to be composed of the acid of tartar and the fossil alkali. dr. ward's famous pill and drop ceased to do wonders in scrophulous cases, as soon as he bequeathed to the world his receipts for making them. i foresee an objection to what has been said concerning the remedies of the indians, drawn from that knowledge which experience gives to a mind intent upon one subject. we have heard much of the perfection of their senses of seeing and hearing. an indian, we are told, will discover not only a particular tribe of indians by their footsteps, but the distance of time in which they were made. in those branches of knowledge which relate to hunting and war, the indians have acquired a degree of perfection that has not been equalled by civilized nations. but we must remember, that medicine among them does not possess the like advantages with the arts of war and hunting, of being the _chief_ object of their attention. the physician and the warrior are united in one character; to render him as able in the former as he is in the latter profession, would require an entire abstraction from every other employment, and a familiarity with external objects, which are incompatible with the wandering life of savages. thus have we finished our inquiry into the diseases and remedies of the indians in north-america. we come now to inquire into the diseases and remedies of civilized nations. nations differ in their degrees of civilization. we shall select one for the subject of our inquiries which is most familiar to us; i mean the british nation. here we behold subordination and classes of mankind established by government, commerce, manufactures, and certain customs common to most of the civilized nations of europe. we shall trace the origin of their diseases through their customs, in the same manner as we did those of the indians. i. it will be sufficient to name the degrees of heat, the improper aliment, the tight dresses, and the premature studies children are exposed to, in order to show the ample scope for diseases, which is added to the original defect of stamina they derive from their ancestors. ii. civilization rises in its demands upon the health of women. their fashions; their dress and diet; their eager pursuits and ardent enjoyment of pleasure; their indolence and undue evacuations in pregnancy; their cordials, hot regimen, and neglect, or use of art, in child-birth, are all so many inlets to disease. humanity would fain be silent, while philosophy calls upon us to mention the effects of interested marriages, and of disappointments in love, increased by that concealment which the tyranny of custom has imposed upon the sex[11]. each of these exaggerates the natural, and increases the number of artificial diseases among women. [11] "married women are more healthy and long-lived than single women. the registers, examined by mr. muret, confirm this observation; and show particularly, that of equal numbers of single and married women between fifteen and twenty-five years of age, more of the former died than of the latter, in the proportion of two to one: the consequence, therefore, of following nature must be favourable to health among the female sex." supplement to price's observations on reversionary payments. p. 357. iii. the diseases introduced by civilization extend themselves through every class and profession among men. how fatal are the effects of idleness and intemperance among the rich, and of hard labour and penury among the poor! what pallid looks are contracted by the votaries of science from hanging over the "sickly taper!" how many diseases are entailed upon manufacturers, by the materials in which they work, and the posture of their bodies! what monkish diseases do we observe from monkish continence and monkish vices! we pass over the increase of accidents from building, sailing, riding, and the like. war, as if too slow in destroying the human species, calls in a train of diseases peculiar to civilized nations. what havoc have the corruption and monopoly of provisions, a damp soil, and an unwholesome sky, made, in a few days, in an army! the achievements of british valour, at the havannah, in the last war, were obtained at the expence of 9,000 men, 7,000 of whom perished with the west-india fever[12]. even our modern discoveries in geography, by extending the empire of commerce, have likewise extended the empire of diseases. what desolation have the east and west-indies made of british subjects! it has been found, upon a nice calculation, than only ten of a hundred europeans, live above seven years after they arrive in the island of jamaica. [12] the modern writers upon the diseases of armies, wonder that the greek and roman physicians have left us nothing upon that subject. but may not _most_ of the diseases of armies be produced by the different manner in which wars are carried on by the modern nations? the discoveries in geography, by extending the field of war, expose soldiers to many diseases from long voyages, and a _sudden_ change of climate, which were unknown to the armies of former ages. moreover, the form of the weapons, and the variety in the military exercises of the grecian and roman armies, gave a vigour to the constitution, which can never be acquired by the use of muskets and artillery. iv. it would take up too much of our time to point out all the customs, both _physical_ and _moral_, which influence diseases among both sexes. the former have engendered the seeds of diseases in the human body itself: hence the origin of catarrhs, jail and miliary fevers, with a long train of other diseases, which compose so great a part of our books of medicine. the latter likewise have a large share in producing diseases. i am not one of those modern philosophers, who derive the vices of mankind from the influence of civilization; but i am safe in asserting, that their number and malignity increase with the refinements of polished life. to prove this, we need only survey a scene too familiar to affect us: it is a bedlam; which injustice, inhumanity, avarice, pride, vanity, and ambition, have filled with inhabitants. thus have i briefly pointed out the customs which influence the diseases of civilized nations. it remains now that we take notice of their diseases. without naming the many new fevers, fluxes, hemorrhages, swellings from water, wind, flesh, fat, pus, and blood; foulnesses on the skin, from cancers, leprosy, yawes, poxes, and itch; and, lastly, the gout, the hysteria, and the hypochondriasis, in all their variety of known and unknown shapes; i shall sum up all that is necessary upon this subject, by adding, that the number of diseases which belong to civilized nations, according to doctor cullen's nosology, amounts to 1387; the single class of nervous diseases form 612 of this number. before we proceed to speak of the remedies of civilized nations, we shall examine into the abilities of nature in curing their diseases. we found her active and successful in curing the diseases of the indians. are her strength, wisdom, or benignity, equal to the increase of those dangers which threaten her dissolution among civilized nations? in order to answer this question, it will be necessary to explain the meaning of the term nature. by nature, in the present case, i understand nothing but _physical necessity_. this at once excludes every thing like intelligence from her operations: these are all performed in obedience to the same laws which govern vegetation in plants, and the intestine motions of fossils. they are as truly mechanical as the laws of gravitation, electricity, or magnetism. a ship when laid on her broadside by a wave, or a sudden blast of wind, rises by the simple laws of her mechanism; but suppose this ship to be attacked by fire, or a water-spout, we are not to call in question the skill of the ship-builder, if she be consumed by the one, or sunk by the other. in like manner, the author of nature hath furnished the body with powers to preserve itself from its natural enemies; but when it is attacked by those civil foes which are bred by the peculiar customs of civilization, it resembles a company of indians, armed with bows and arrows, against the complicated and deadly machinery of fire-arms. to place this subject in a proper light, i shall deliver a history of the operations of nature in a few of the diseases of civilized nations. i. there are cases in which nature is still successful in curing diseases. in fevers she still deprives us of our appetite for animal food, and imparts to us a desire for cool air and cold water. in hemorrhages she produces a faintness, which occasions a coagulum in the open vessels; so that the further passage of blood through them is obstructed. in wounds of the flesh and bones she discharges foreign matter by exciting an inflammation, and supplies the waste of both with new flesh and bone. ii. there are cases where the efforts of nature are too feeble to do service, as in malignant and chronic fevers. iii. there are cases where the efforts of nature are over proportioned to the strength of the disease, as in the cholera morbus and dysentery. iv. there are cases where nature is idle, as in the atonic stages of the gout, the cancer, the epilepsy, the mania, the venereal disease, the apoplexy, and the tetanus[13]. [13] hoffman de hypothesium medicarum damno, sect. xv. v. there are cases in which nature does mischief. she wastes herself with an unnecessary fever, in a dropsy and consumption. she throws a plethora upon the brain and lungs in the apoplexy and peripneumonia notha. she ends a pleurisy and peripneumony in a vomica, or empyema. she creates an unnatural appetite for food in the hypochondriac disease. and, lastly, she drives the melancholy patient to solitude, where, by brooding over the subject of his insanity, he increases his disease. we are accustomed to hear of the salutary kindness of nature in alarming us with pain, to prompt us to seek for a remedy. but, vi. there are cases in which she refuses to send this harbinger of the evils which threaten her, as in the aneurism, schirrhous, and stone in the bladder. vii. there are cases where the pain is not proportioned to the danger, as in the tetanus, consumption, and dropsy of the head. and, viii. there are cases where the pain is over-proportioned to the danger, as in the paronychia and tooth-ach. this is a short account of the operations of nature, in the diseases of civilized nations. a lunatic might as well plead against the sequestration of his estate, because he once enjoyed the full exercise of his reason, or because he still had lucid intervals, as nature be exempted from the charges we have brought against her. but this subject will receive strength from considering the remedies of civilized nations. all the products of the vegetable, fossil, and animal kingdoms, tortured by heat and mixture into an almost infinite variety of forms; bleeding, cupping, artificial drains by setons, issues, and blisters; exercise, active and passive; voyages and journies; baths, warm and cold; waters, saline, aërial, and mineral; food by weight and measure; the royal touch; enchantment; miracles; in a word, the combined discoveries of natural history and philosophy, united into a system of materia medica, all show, that although physicians are in speculation the servants, yet in practice they are the masters of nature. the whole of their remedies seem contrived on purpose to arouse, assist, restrain, and controul her operations. there are some truths like certain liquors, which require strong heads to bear them. i feel myself protected from the prejudices of vulgar minds, when i reflect that i am delivering these sentiments in a society of philosophers. let us now take a comparative view of the diseases and remedies of the indians with those of civilized nations. we shall begin with their diseases. in our account of the diseases of the indians, we beheld death executing his commission, it is true; but then his dart was hid in a mantle, under which he concealed his shape. but among civilized nations we behold him multiplying his weapons in proportion to the number of organs and functions in the body; and pointing each of them in such a manner, as to render his messengers more terrible than himself. we said formerly that fevers constituted the chief diseases of the indians. according to doctor sydenham's computation, above 66,000 out of 100,000 died of fevers in london, about 100 years ago; but fevers now constitute but a little more than one-tenth part of the diseases of that city. out of 21,780 persons who died in london between december, 1770, and december, 1771, only 2273 died of simple fevers. i have more than once heard doctor huck complain, that he could find no marks of epidemic fevers in london, as described by dr. sydenham. london has undergone a revolution in its manners and customs since doctor sydenham's time. new diseases, the offspring of luxury, have supplanted fevers; and the few that are left are so complicated with other diseases, that their connection can no longer be discovered with an epidemic constitution of the year. the pleurisy and peripneumony, those inflammatory fevers of strong constitutions, are now lost in catarrhs, or colds, which, instead of challenging the powers of nature or art to a fair combat, insensibly undermine the constitution, and bring on an incurable consumption. out of 22,434 who died in london between december, 1769, and the same month in 1770, 4594 perished with that british disease. our countryman, doctor maclurg, has ventured to foretel that the gout will be lost in a few years, in a train of hypochondriac, hysteric, and bilious diseases. in like manner, may we not look for a season when fevers, the natural diseases of the human body, will be lost in an inundation of artificial diseases, brought on by the modish practices of civilization? it may not be improper to compare the prognosis of the indians, in diseases, with that of civilized nations, before we take a comparative view of their remedies. the indians are said to be successful in predicting the events of diseases. while diseases are simple, the marks which distinguish them, or characterize their several stages, are generally uniform and obvious to the most indifferent observer. these marks afford so much certainty, that the indians sometimes kill their physicians for a false prognosis, charging the death of the patient to their carelessness, or ignorance. they estimate the danger of their patients by the degrees of appetite; while an indian is able to eat, he is looked upon as free from danger. but when we consider the number and variety in the signs of diseases, among civilized nations, together with the shortness of life, the fallacy of memory, and the uncertainty of observation, where shall we find a physician willing to risk his reputation, much less his life, upon the prediction of the event of our acute diseases? we can derive no advantage from the simple sign, by which the indians estimate the danger of their patients; for we daily see a want of appetite for food in diseases which are attended with no danger; and we sometimes observe an unusual degree of this appetite to precede the agonies of death. i honour the name of hippocrates: but forgive me, ye votaries of antiquity, if i attempt to pluck a few grey hairs from his venerable head. i was once an idolater at his altar, nor did i turn apostate from his worship, till i was taught, that not a tenth part of his prognostics corresponded with modern experience, or observation. the pulse[14], urine, and sweats, from which the principal signs of life and death have been taken, are so variable, in most of the acute diseases of civilized nations, that the wisest physicians have in some measure excluded the prognosis from being a part of their profession. [14] doctor cullen used to inform his pupils, that after forty years' experience, he could find no relation between his own observations on the pulse, and those made by doctor solano. the climate and customs of the people in spain being so different from the climate and customs of the present inhabitants of britain, may account for the diversity of their observations. doctor heberden's remarks upon the pulse, in the second volume of the medical transactions, are calculated to show how little the issue of diseases can be learned from it. i am here insensibly led to make an apology for the instability of the theories and practice of physic. the theory of physic is founded upon the laws of the animal economy. these (unlike the laws of the mind, or the common laws of matter) do not appear at once, but are gradually brought to light by the phænomena of diseases. the success of nature in curing the simple diseases of saxony, laid the foundation for the anima medica of doctor stahl. the endemics of holland[15] led doctor boerhaave to seek for the causes of all diseases in the fluids. and the universal prevalence of diseases of the nerves, in great-britain, led doctor cullen to discover their peculiar laws, and to found a system upon them; a system, which will probably last till some new diseases are let loose upon the human species, which shall unfold other laws of the animal economy. [15] "the scurvy is very frequent in holland; and draws its origin partly from their strong food, sea-fish, and smoked flesh, and partly from their dense and moist air, together with their bad water." hoffman on endemical distempers. "we are now in north-holland; and i have never seen, among so few people, so many infected with the leprosy as here. they say the reason is, because they eat so much fish." howell's familiar letters. it is in consequence of this fluctuation in the principles and practice of physic, being so necessarily connected with the changes in the customs of civilized nations, that old and young physicians so often disagree in their opinions and practices. and it is by attending to the constant changes in these customs of civilized nations, that those physicians have generally become the most eminent, who have soonest emancipated themselves from the tyranny of the schools of physic; and have occasionally accommodated their principles and practice to the changes in diseases[16]. this variety in diseases, which is produced by the changes in the customs of civilized nations, will enable us to account for many of the contradictions which are to be found in authors of equal candour and abilities, who have written upon the materia medica. [16] we may learn from these observations, the great impropriety of those egyptian laws which oblige physicians to adopt, in all cases, the prescriptions which had been collected, and approved of, by the physicians of former ages. every change in the customs of civilized nations, produces a change in their diseases, which calls for a change in their remedies. what havoc would plentiful bleeding, purging, and small beer, formerly used with so much success by dr. sydenham in the cure of fevers, now make upon the enfeebled citizens of london! the fevers of the same, and of more southern latitudes, still admit of such antiphlogistic remedies. in the room of these, bark, wine, and other cordial medicines, are prescribed in london in almost every kind of fever. in forming a comparative view of the remedies of the indians, with those of civilized nations, we shall remark, that the want of success in a medicine is occasioned by one of the following causes: first, our ignorance of the disease. secondly, an ignorance of a suitable remedy. thirdly, a want of efficacy in the remedy. considering the violence of the diseases of the indians, it is probable their want of success is always occasioned by a want of efficacy in their medicines. but the case is very different among the civilized nations. dissections daily convince us of our ignorance of the seats of diseases, and cause us to blush at our prescriptions. how often are we disappointed in our expectation from the most certain and powerful of our remedies, by the negligence or obstinacy of our patients! what mischief have we done under the belief of false facts (if i may be allowed the expression) and false theories! we have assisted in multiplying diseases. we have done more--we have increased their mortality. i shall not pause to beg pardon of the faculty, for acknowledging, in this public manner, the weaknesses of our profession. i am pursuing truth, and while i can keep my eye fixed upon my guide, i am indifferent whether i am led, provided she is my leader. but further, the indian submits to his disease, without one fearful emotion from his doubtfulness of its event; and at last meets his fate without an an anxious wish for futurity; except it is of being admitted to an "equal sky," where "his faithful dog shall bear him company." but, among civilized nations, the influence of a false religion in good, and of a true religion in bad men, has converted even the fear of death into a disease. it is this original distemper of the imagination which renders the plague most fatal, upon his first appearance in a country. under all these disadvantages in the state of medicine, among civilized nations, do more in proportion die of the diseases peculiar to them, than of fevers, casualties, and old age, among the indians? if we take our account from the city of london, we shall find this to be the case. near a twentieth part of its inhabitants perish one year with another. nor does the natural increase of inhabitants supply this yearly waste. if we judge from the bills of mortality, the city of london contains fewer inhabitants, by several thousands, than it did forty years ago. it appears from this fact, and many others of a like nature, which might be adduced, that although the difficulty of supporting children, together with some peculiar customs of the indians, which we mentioned, limit their number, yet they multiply faster, and die in a smaller proportion than civilized nations, under the circumstances we have described. the indians, we are told, were numerous in this country, before the europeans settled among them. travellers agree likewise in describing numbers of both sexes who exhibited all the marks of extreme old age. it is remarkable that age seldom impairs the faculties of their minds. the mortality peculiar to those indian tribes who have mingled with the white people, must be ascribed to the extensive mischief of spiritous liquors. when these have not acted, they have suffered from having accommodated themselves too suddenly to the european diet, dress, and manners. it does not become us to pry too much into futurity; but if we may judge from the fate of the original natives of hispaniola, jamaica, and the provinces on the continent, we may venture to foretel, that, in proportion as the white people multiply, the indians will diminish; so that in a few centuries they will probably be entirely extirpated[17]. [17] even the influence of christian principles has not been able to put a stop to the mortality introduced among the indians, by their intercourse with the europeans. dr. cotton mather, in a letter to sir william ashurst, printed in boston, in the year 1705, says, "that about five years before there were about thirty indian congregations in the southern parts of the province of massachusetts-bay." the same author, in his history of new-england, says, "that in the islands of nantucket and martha's vineyard, there were 3000 _adult_ indians, 1600 of whom professed the christian religion." at present there is but _one_ indian congregation in the whole massachusetts province. it may serve to extend our knowledge of diseases, to remark, that epidemics were often observed to prevail among the indians in nantucket, without affecting the white people. it may be said, that health among the indians, like insensibility to cold and hunger, is proportioned to their need of it; and that the less degrees, or entire want of health, are no interruption to the ordinary business of civilized life. to obviate this supposition, we shall first attend to the effects of a single disease in those people who are the principal wheels in the machine of civil society. justice has stopt its current, victories have been lost, wars have been prolonged, and embassies delayed, by the principal actors in these departments of government being suddenly laid up by a fit of the gout. how many offences are daily committed against the rules of good breeding, by the tedious histories of our diseases, which compose so great a part of modern conversation! what sums of money have been lavished in foreign countries in pursuit of health[18]! families have been ruined by the unavoidable expences of medicines and watering-places. in a word, the swarms of beggars which infest so many of the european countries, urge their petitions for charity chiefly by arguments derived from real or counterfeit diseases, which render them incapable of supporting themselves[19]. [18] it is said, there are seldom less than 20,000 british subjects in france and italy; one half of whom reside or travel in those countries upon the account of their health. [19] templeman computes, that scotland contains 1,500,000 inhabitants; 100,000 of whom, according to mr. fletcher, are supported at the public expence. the proportion of poor people is much greater in england, ireland, france, and italy. but may not civilization, while it abates the violence of natural diseases, increase the lenity of those that are artificial, in the same manner that it lessens the strength of natural vices by multiplying them? to answer this question, it will only be necessary to ask another: who should exchange the heat, thirst, and uneasiness of a fever, for one fit of the colic or stone? the history of the number, combination, and fashions of the remedies we have given, may serve to humble the pride of philosophy; and to convince us, that with all the advantages of the whole circle of sciences, we are still ignorant of antidotes to many of the diseases of civilized nations. we sometimes sooth our ignorance, by reproaching our idleness in not investigating the remedies peculiar to this country. we are taught to believe that every herb that grows in our woods is possessed of some medicinal virtue, and that heaven would be wanting in benignity, if our country did not produce remedies for all the different diseases of its inhabitants. it would be arrogating too much to suppose that man was the only creature in our world for whom vegetables grow. the beasts, birds, and insects, derive their sustenance either directly or indirectly from them; while many of them were probably intended, from their variety in figure, foliage, and colour, only to serve as ornaments for our globe. it would seem strange that the author of nature should furnish every spot of ground with medicines adapted to the diseases of its inhabitants, and at the same time deny it the more necessary articles of food and clothing. i know not whether heaven has provided every country with antidotes even to the _natural_ diseases of its inhabitants. the intermitting fever is common in almost every corner of the globe; but a sovereign remedy for it has been discovered only in south-america. the combination of bitter and astringent substances, which serve as a succedaneum to the peruvian bark, is as much a preparation of art, as calomel or tartar emetic. societies stand in need of each other as much as individuals; and the goodness of the deity remains unimpeached when we suppose, that he intended medicines to serve (with other articles) to promote that knowledge, humanity, and politeness among the inhabitants of the earth, which have been so justly attributed to commerce. we have no discoveries in the materia medica to hope for from the indians in north-america. it would be a reproach to our schools of physic, if modern physicians were not more successful than the indians, even in the treatment of their own diseases. do the blessings of civilization compensate for the sacrifice we make of natural health, as well as of natural liberty? this question must be answered under some limitations. when natural liberty is given up for laws which enslave instead of protecting us, we are immense losers by the exchange. thus, if we arm the whole elements against our health, and render every pore in the body an avenue for a disease, we pay too high a price for the blessings of civilization. in governments which have departed entirely from their simplicity, partial evils are to be cured by nothing but an entire renovation of their constitution. let the world bear with the professions of law, physic, and divinity; and let the lawyer, physician, and divine yet learn to bear with each other. they are all necessary, in the present state of society. in like manner, let the woman of fashion forget the delicacy of her sex, and submit to be delivered by a man-midwife[20]. let her snatch her offspring from her breast, and send it to repair the weakness of its stamina, with the milk of a ruddy cottager[21]. let art supply the place of nature in the preparation and digestion of all our aliment. let our fine ladies keep up their colour with carmine, and their spirits with ratifia; and let our fine gentlemen defend themselves from the excesses of heat and cold, with lavender and hartshorn. these customs have become necessary in the corrupt stages of society. we must imitate, in these cases, the practice of those physicians who consult the appetite only, in diseases which do not admit of a remedy. [20] in the enervated age of athens, a law was passed which confined the practice of midwifery only to the men. it was, however, repealed, upon a woman's dying in childbirth, rather than be delivered by a man-midwife. it appears from the bills of mortality in london and dublin, that about one in seventy of those women die in childbirth, who are in the hands of midwives; but from the accounts of the lying-in hospitals in those cities, which are under the care of man-midwives, only one in a hundred and forty perishes in childbirth. [21] there has been much common-place declamation against the custom among the great, of not suckling their children. nurses were common in rome, in the declension of the empire: hence we find cornelia commended as a rare example of maternal virtue, as much for suckling her sons, as for teaching them eloquence. that nurses were common in egypt, is probable from the contract which pharaoh's daughter made with the unknown mother of moses, to allow her wages for suckling her own child. the same degrees of civilization require the same customs. a woman whose times for eating and sleeping are constantly interrupted by the calls of enervating pleasures, must always afford milk of an unwholesome nature. it may truly be said of a child doomed to live on this aliment, that, as soon as it receives its ------"breath, it sucks in "the lurking principles of death." the state of a country in point of population, temperance, and industry, is so connected with its diseases, that a tolerable idea may be formed of it, by looking over its bills of mortality. hospitals, with all their boasted advantages, exhibit at the same time monuments of the charity and depravity of a people[22]. the opulence of physicians, and the divisions of their offices, into those of surgery, pharmacy, and midwifery, are likewise proofs of the declining state of a country. in the infancy of the roman empire, the priest performed the office of a physician; so simple were the principles and practice of physic. it was only in the declension of the empire that physicians vied with the emperors of rome in magnificence and splendour[23]. [22] "aurengezebe, emperor of persia, being asked, why he did not build hospitals? said, _i will make my empire so rich, that there shall be no need of hospitals_. he ought to have said, i will begin by rendering my subjects rich, and then i will build hospitals. "at rome, the hospitals place every one at his ease, except those who labour, those who are industrious, those who have lands, and those who are engaged in trade. "i have observed, that wealthy nations have need of hospitals, because fortune subjects them to a thousand accidents; but it is plain, that transient assistances are better than perpetual foundations. the evil is momentary; it is necessary, therefore, that the succour should be of the same nature, and that it be applied to particular accidents." spirit of laws, b. xxiii. ch. 29. it was reserved for the present generation to substitute in the room of public hospitals private dispensaries for the relief of the sick. philosophy and christianity alike concur in deriving praise and benefit from these excellent institutions. they exhibit something like an application of the mechanical powers to the purposes of benevolence; for in what other charitable institutions do we perceive so great a _quantity_ of distress relieved by so small an expence? [23] the first regular practitioners of physic in rome, were women and slaves. the profession was confined to them above six hundred years. the romans, during this period, lived chiefly upon vegetables, particularly upon pulse; and hence they were called, by their neighbours, pultifagi. they were likewise early inured to the healthy employments of war and husbandry. their diseases, of course, were too few and simple to render the cure of them an object of liberal profession. when their diseases became more numerous and complicated, their investigation and cure required the aids of philosophy. the profession from this time became liberal; and maintained a rank with the other professions which are founded upon the imperfection and depravity of human institutions. physicians are as necessary in the advanced stages of society as surgeons, although their office is less ancient and certain. there are many artificial diseases, in which they give certain relief; and even where their art fails, their prescriptions are still necessary, in order to smooth the avenues of death. i am sorry to add, in this place, that the number of patients in the hospital, and incurables in the almshouse of this city, show that we are treading in the enervated steps of our fellow subjects in britain. our bills of mortality likewise show the encroachments of british diseases upon us. the nervous fever has become so familiar to us, that we look upon it as a natural disease. dr. sydenham, so faithful in his history of fevers, takes no notice of it. dr. cadwallader informed me, that it made its first appearance in this city about five and twenty years ago. it will be impossible to name the consumption without recalling to our minds the memory of some friend or relation, who has perished within these few years by that disease. its rapid progress among us has been unjustly attributed to the growing resemblance of our climate to that of great-britain. the hysteric and hypochondriac diseases, once peculiar to the chambers of the great, are now to be found in our kitchens and workshops. all these diseases have been produced by our having deserted the simple diet and manners of our ancestors. the blessings of literature, commerce, and religion were not _originally_ purchased at the expence of health. the complete enjoyment of health is as compatible with civilization, as the enjoyment of civil liberty. we read of countries, rich in every thing that can form national happiness and national grandeur, the diseases of which are nearly as few and simple as those of the indians. we hear of no diseases among the jews, while they were under their democratical form of government, except such as were inflicted by a supernatural power[24]. we should be tempted to doubt the accounts given of the populousness of that people, did we not see the practice of their simple customs producing nearly the same populousness in egypt, rome, and other countries of antiquity. the empire of china, it is said, contains more inhabitants than the whole of europe. the political institutions of that country have exempted its inhabitants from a large share of the diseases of other civilized nations. the inhabitants of switzerland, denmark, norway[25], and sweden, enjoy the chief advantages of civilization without having surrendered for them the blessings of natural health. but it is unnecessary to appeal to ancient or remote nations to prove, that health is not incompatible with civilization. the inhabitants of many parts of new-england, particularly of the province of connecticut, are but little affected by artificial diseases. some of you may remember the time, and our fathers have told those of us who do not, when the diseases of pennsylvania were as few and as simple as those of the indians. the food of the inhabitants was then simple; their only drink was water; their appetites were restrained by labour; religion excluded the influence of sickening passions; private hospitality supplied the want of a public hospital; nature was their only nurse, and temperance their principal physician. but i must not dwell upon this retrospect of primæval manners; and i am too strongly impressed with a hope of a revival of such happy days, to pronounce them the golden age of our province. [24] the principal employments of the jews, like those of the romans in their simple ages, consisted in war and husbandry. their diet was plain, consisting chiefly of vegetables. their only remedies were plasters and ointments; which were calculated for those diseases which are produced by accidents. in proportion as they receded from their simple customs, we find artificial diseases prevail among them. the leprosy made its appearance in their journey through the wilderness. king asa's pains in his feet, were probably brought on by a fit of the gout. saul and nebuchadnezzar were afflicted with a melancholy. in the time of our saviour, we find an account of all those diseases in judea, which mark the declension of a people; such as, the palsy, epilepsy, mania, blindness, hæmorrhagia uterina, &c. it is unnecessary to suppose, that they were let loose at this juncture, on purpose to give our saviour an opportunity of making them the chief subject of his miracles. they had been produced from natural causes, by the gradual depravity of their manners. it is remarkable, that our saviour chose those artificial diseases for the subject of his miracles, in preference to natural diseases. the efforts of nature, and the operation of medicines, are too slow and uncertain in these cases to detract in the least from the validity of the miracle. he cured peter's mother-in-law, it is true, of a fever; but to show that the cure was miraculous, the sacred historian adds (contrary to what is common after a fever), "that she arose _immediately_, and ministered unto them." [25] in the city of bergen, which consists of 30,000 inhabitants, there is but one physician; who is supported at the expense of the public. pontoppidan's nat. hist. of norway. our esteem for the customs of our savage neighbours will be lessened, when we add, that civilization does not preclude the honours of old age. the proportion of old people is much greater among civilized, than among savage nations. it would be easy to decide this assertion in our favour, by appealing to facts in the natural histories of britain, norway, sweden, north-america[26], and several of the west-india islands. [26] it has been urged against the state of longevity in america, that the europeans, who settle among us, generally arrive to a greater age than the americans. this is not occasioned so much by a peculiar firmness in their stamina, as by an increase of vigour which the constitution acquires by a change of climate. a frenchman (cæteris paribus) outlives an englishman in england. a hollander prolongs his life by removing to the cape of good hope. a portuguese gains fifteen or twenty years by removing to brazil. and there are good reasons to believe, that a north-american would derive the same advantages, in point of health and longevity, by removing to europe, which a european derives from coming to this country. from a calculation made by an ingenious foreigner, it appears, that a greater proportion of old people are to be found in connecticut, than in any colony in north-america. this colony contains 180,000 inhabitants. they have no public hospitals or poor-houses; nor is a beggar to be seen among them. there cannot be more striking proofs than these facts of the simplicity of their manners. the laws of decency and nature are not necessarily abolished by the customs of civilized nations. in many of these, we read of women among whom nature alone still performs the office of a midwife[27], and who feel the obligations of suckling their children to be equally binding with the common obligations of morality. [27] parturition, in the simple ages of all countries, is performed by nature. the israelitish women were delivered even without the help of the egyptian midwives. we read of but two women who died in child-birth in the whole history of the jews. dr. bancroft says, that child-bearing is attended with so little pain in guiana, that the women seem to be exempted from the curse inflicted upon eve. these easy births are not confined to warm climates. they are equally safe and easy in norway and iceland, according to pontoppidan and anderson's histories of those countries. civilization does not render us less fit for the necessary hardships of war. we read of armies of civilized nations, who have endured degrees of cold, hunger, and fatigue, which have not been exceeded by the savages of any country[28]. [28] civilized nations have, in the end, always conquered savages as much by their ability to bear hardships, as by their superior military skill. soldiers are not to be chosen indiscriminately. the greatest generals have looked upon sound constitutions to be as essential to soldiers, as bravery or military discipline. count saxe refused soldiers born and bred in large cities; and sought for such only as were bred in mountainous countries. the king of prussia calls young soldiers only to the dangers and honours of the field, in his elegant poem, sur l'art de la guerre, chant 1. old soldiers generally lose the advantages of their veteranism, by their habits of idleness and debauchery. an able general, and experienced officers, will always supply the defects of age in young soldiers. civilization does not always multiply the avenues of death. it appears from the bills of mortality, of many countries, that fewer in proportion die among civilized, than among savage nations. even the charms of beauty are heightened by civilization. we read of stateliness, proportion, line teeth[29] and complexions, in both sexes, forming the principal outlines of national characters. [29] bad teeth are observed chiefly in middle latitudes, which are subject to alternate heats and colds. the inhabitants of norway and russia are as remarkable for their fine teeth as the inhabitants of africa. we observe fine teeth to be universal likewise among the inhabitants of france, who live in a _variable_ climate. these have been ascribed to their protecting their heads from the action of the night air by means of woollen night-caps, and to the extraordinary attention to the teeth of their children. these precautions secure good teeth; and are absolutely necessary in all variable climates, where people do not adopt all the customs of the savage life. the danger of many diseases is not proportioned to their violence, but to their duration. america has advanced but a few paces in luxury and effeminacy. there is yet strength enough in her vitals to give life to those parts which are decayed. she may tread back her steps. for this purpose, i. let our children be educated in a manner more agreeable to nature. ii. let the common people (who constitute the wealth and strength of our country) be preserved from the effects of ardent spirits. had i a double portion of all that eloquence which has been employed in describing the political evils that lately threatened our country, it would be too little to set forth the numerous and complicated _physical_ and _moral_ evils which these liquors have introduced among us. to encounter this _hydra_ requires an arm accustomed, like that of hercules, to vanquish monsters. sir william temple tells us, that formerly in spain no man could be admitted as an evidence in a court, who had once been convicted of drunkenness. i do not call for so severe a law in this country. let us first try the force of severe manners. lycurgus governed more by these, than by his laws. "boni mores non bonæ leges," according to tacitus, were the bulwarks of virtue among the ancient germans. iii. i despair of being able to call the votaries of bacchus from their bottle, and shall therefore leave them to be roused by the more eloquent twinges of the gout. iv. let us be cautious what kind of manufactures we admit among us. the rickets made their first appearance in the manufacturing towns in england. dr. fothergill informed me, that he had often observed, when a pupil, that the greatest part of the chronic patients in the london hospital were spittal-field weavers. i would not be understood, from these facts, to discourage those manufactures which employ women and children: these suffer few inconveniences from a sedentary life: nor do i mean to offer the least restraint to those manufactories among men, which admit of free air, and the exercise of all their limbs. perhaps a pure air, and the abstraction of spiritous liquors, might render sedentary employments less unhealthy in america, even among men, than in the populous towns of great-britain. the population of a country is not to be accomplished by rewards and punishments. and it is happy for america, that the universal prevalence of the protestant religion, the checks lately given to negro slavery, the general unwillingness among us to acknowledge the usurpations of primogeniture, the universal practice of inoculation for the small-pox, and the absence of the plague, render the interposition of government for that purpose unnecessary. these advantages can only be secured to our country by agriculture. this is the true basis of national health, riches, and populousness. nations, like individuals, never rise higher than when they are ignorant whether they are tending. it is impossible to tell from history what will be the effects of agriculture, industry, temperance, and commerce, urged on by the competition of colonies, united in the same general pursuits, in a country, which for extent, variety of soil, climate, and number of navigable rivers, has never been equalled in any quarter of the globe. america is the theatre where human nature will probably receive her last and principal literary, moral, and political honours. but i recall myself from the ages of futurity. the province of pennsylvania has already shown to her sister colonies, the influence of agriculture and commerce upon the number and happiness of a people. it is scarcely a hundred years since our illustrious legislator, with a handful of men, landed upon these shores. although the perfection of our government, the healthiness of our climate, and the fertility of our soil, seemed to ensure a rapid settlement of the province; yet it would have required a prescience bordering upon divine, to have foretold, that in such a short space of time, the province would contain above 300,000 inhabitants; and that nearly 30,000 of this number should compose a city, which should be the third, if not the second in commerce in the british empire. the pursuits of literature require leisure and a total recess from clearing forests, planting, building, and all the common toils of settling a new country: but before these arduous works were accomplished, the sciences, ever fond of the company of liberty and industry, chose this spot for the seat of their empire in this new world. our college, so catholic in its foundation, and extensive in its objects, already sees her sons executing offices in the highest departments of society. i have now the honour of speaking in the presence of a most respectable number of philosophers, physicians, astronomers, botanists, patriots, and legislators; many of whom have already seized the prizes of honour, which their ancestors had allotted to a much later posterity. our first offering had scarcely found its way into the temple of fame, when the oldest societies in europe turned their eyes upon us, expecting with impatience to see the mighty fabric of science, which, like a well-built arch, can only rest upon the whole of its materials, completely finished from the treasures of this unexplored quarter of the globe. it reflects equal honour upon our society and the honourable assembly of our province, to acknowledge, that we have always found the latter willing to encourage by their patronage, and reward by their liberality, all our schemes for promoting useful knowledge. what may we not expect from this harmony between the sciences and government! methinks i see canals cut, rivers once impassable rendered navigable, bridges erected, and roads improved, to facilitate the exportation of grain. i see the banks of our rivers vying in fruitfulness with the banks of the river of egypt. i behold our farmers nobles; our merchants princes. but i forbear--imagination cannot swell with the subject. i beg leave to conclude, by deriving an argument from our connection with the legislature, to remind my auditors of the duty they owe to the society. patriotism and literature are here connected together; and a man cannot neglect the one, without being destitute of the other. nature and our ancestors have completed their works among us; and have left us nothing to do, but to enlarge and perpetuate our own happiness. an account of the _climate of pennsylvania_, and its influence upon the human body. in order to render the observations upon the epidemic diseases which compose the following volumes more useful, it will be necessary to prefix to them a short account of the climate of pennsylvania, and of its influence upon the human body. this account may perhaps serve further, to lead to future discoveries, and more extensive observations, upon this subject. the state of pennsylvania lies between 39° 43' 25", and 42° north latitude, including, of course, 2° 16' 35", equal to 157 miles from its southern to its northern boundary. the western extremity of the state is in the longitude of 5° 23' 40", and the eastern, is that of 27' from the meridian of philadelphia, comprehending in a due west course 311 miles, exclusive of the territory lately purchased by pennsylvania from the united states, of which as yet no accurate surveys have been obtained. the state is bounded on the south by part of the state of delaware, by the whole state of maryland, and by virginia to her western extremity. the last named state, the territory lately ceded to connecticut, and lake erie, (part of which is included in pennsylvania) form the western and north-western boundaries of the state. part of new-york, and the territory lately ceded to pennsylvania, with a part of lake erie, compose the northern, and another part of new-york, with a large extent of new-jersey (separated from pennsylvania by the river delaware), compose the eastern boundaries of the state. the lands which form these boundaries (except a part of the states of delaware, maryland, and new-jersey) are in a state of nature. a large tract of the western and north-eastern parts of pennsylvania are nearly in the same uncultivated situation. the state of pennsylvania is intersected and diversified with numerous rivers and mountains. to describe, or even to name them all, would far exceed the limits i have proposed to this account of our climate. it will be sufficient only to remark, that one of these rivers, viz. the susquehannah, begins at the northern boundary of the state, twelve miles from the river delaware, and winding several hundred miles, through a variegated country, enters the state of maryland on the southern line, fifty-eight miles westward of philadelphia; that each of these rivers is supplied by numerous streams of various sizes; that tides flow in parts of two of them, viz. in the delaware and schuylkill; that the rest rise and fall alternately in wet and dry weather; and that they descend with great rapidity, over prominent beds of rocks in many places, until they empty themselves into the bays of delaware and chesapeak on the east, and into the ohio on the western part of the state. the mountains form a considerable part of the state of pennsylvania. many of them appear to be reserved as perpetual marks of the original empire of nature in this country. the allegany, which crosses the state about two hundred miles from philadelphia, in a north, inclining to an eastern course, is the most considerable and extensive of these mountains. it is called by the indians the back-bone of the continent. its height, in different places, is supposed to be about 1,300 feet from the adjacent plains. the soil of pennsylvania is diversified by its vicinity to mountains and rivers. the vallies and bottoms consist of a black mould, which extends from a foot to four feet in depth. but in general a deep clay forms the surface of the earth. immense beds of limestone lie beneath this clay in many parts of the state. this account of the soil of pennsylvania is confined wholly to the lands on the east side of the allegany mountain. the soil on the west side of this mountain, shall be described in another place. the city of philadelphia lies in the latitude of 39° 57', in longitude 75° 8' from greenwich, and fifty-five miles west from the atlantic ocean. it is situated about four miles due north from the conflux of the rivers delaware and schuylkill. the buildings, which consist chiefly of brick, extend nearly three miles north and south along the delaware, and above half a mile due west towards the schuylkill, to which river the limits of the city extend, the whole of which includes a distance of two miles from the delaware. the land near the rivers, between the city and the conflux of the rivers, is in general low, moist, and subject to be overflowed. the greatest part of it is meadow ground. the land to the northward and westward, in the vicinity of the city, is high, and in general well cultivated. before the year 1778, the ground between the present improvements of the city, and the river schuylkill, was covered with woods. these, together with large tracts of wood to the northward of the city, were cut down during the winter the british army had possession of philadelphia. i shall hereafter mention the influence which the cutting down of these woods, and the subsequent cultivation of the grounds in the neighbourhood of the city, have had upon the health of its inhabitants. the mean height of the ground on which the city stands, is about forty feet above the river delaware. one of the longest and most populous streets in the city rises only a few feet above the river. the air at the north is much purer than at the south end of the city; hence the lamps exhibit a fainter flame in its southern than its northern parts. the tide of the delaware seldom rises more than six feet. it flows four miles in an hour. the width of the river near the city is about a mile. the city, with the adjoining districts of southwark and the northern liberties, contains between 70 and 80,000 inhabitants. from the accounts which have been handed down to us by our ancestors, there is reason to believe that the climate of pennsylvania has undergone a material change. thunder and lightning are less frequent, and the cold of our winters and heat of our summers are less uniform, than they were forty or fifty years ago. nor is this all. the springs are much colder, and the autumns more temperate than formerly, insomuch that cattle are not housed so soon by one month as they were in former years. within the last eight years, there have been some exceptions to part of these observations. the winter of the year 1779-80, was uniformly and uncommonly cold. the river delaware was frozen near three months during this winter, and public roads for waggons and sleighs connected the city of philadelphia in many places with the jersey shore. the thickness of the ice in the river near the city, was from sixteen to nineteen inches, and the depth of the frost in the ground was from four to five feet, according to the exposure of the ground, and the quality of the soil. this extraordinary depth of the frost in the earth, compared with its depth in more northern and colder countries, is occasioned by the long delay of snow, which leaves the earth without a covering during the last autumnal and the first winter months. many plants were destroyed by the intenseness of the cold during this winter. the ears of horned cattle and the feet of hogs exposed to the air, were frost-bitten; squirrels perished in their holes, and partridges were often found dead in the neighbourhood of farm houses. the mercury in january stood for several hours at 5° below 0, in fahrenheit's thermometer; and during the whole of this month (except on one day), it never rose in the city of philadelphia so high as to the freezing point. the cold in the winter of the year 1783-4 was as intense, but not so steady, as it was in the winter that has been described. it differed from it materially in one particular, viz. there was a thaw in the month of january, which opened all our rivers for a few days. the summer which succeeded the winter of 1779-80, was uniformly warm. the mercury in the thermometer, during this summer, stood on one day (the 15th of august) at 95°, and fluctuated between 93°, and 80° for many weeks. the thermometer, in every reference that has been, or shall be made to it, stood in the shade in the open air. i know it has been said by many old people, that the winters in pennsylvania are less cold, and the summers less warm, than they were forty or fifty years ago. the want of thermometrical observations before, and during those years, renders it difficult to decide this question. perhaps the difference of clothing and sensation between youth and old age, in winter and summer, may have laid the foundation of this opinion. i suspect the mean temperature of the air in pennsylvania has not altered, but that the principal change in our climate consists in the heat and cold being less confined than formerly to their natural seasons. i adopt the opinion of doctor williamson[30] respecting the diminution of the cold in the southern, being occasioned by the cultivation of the northern parts of europe; but no such cultivation has taken place in the countries which lie to the north-west of pennsylvania, nor do the partial and imperfect improvements which have been made in the north-west parts of the state, appear to be sufficient to lessen the cold, even in the city of philadelphia. i have been able to collect no facts, which dispose me to believe that the winters were colder before the year 1740, than they have been since. in the memorable winter of 1739-40, the delaware was crossed on the ice, in sleighs, on the 5th of march, old style, and did not open till the 13th of the same month. the ground was covered during this winter with a deep snow, and the rays of the sun were constantly obscured by a mist, which hung in the upper regions of the air. in the winter of 1779-80, the river was navigable on the 4th of march; the depth of the snow was moderate, and the gloominess of the cold was sometime suspended for a few days by a cheerful sun. from these facts, it is probable the winter of 1739-40 was colder than the winter of 1779-80. [30] american philosophical transactions, vol. i. the winter of 1804-5 exhibited so many peculiarities that it deserves a place in the history of the climate of pennsylvania. the navigation of the delaware was obstructed on the 18th of december. the weather partook of every disagreeable and distressing property of every cold climate on the globe. these were intense cold, deep snows, hail, sleet, high winds, and heavy rains. they generally occurred in succession, but sometimes most of them took place in the course of four and twenty hours. a serene and star-light evening, often preceded a tempestuous day. the mercury stood for many days, in philadelphia, at 4° and 6° above 0 in fahrenheit's thermometer. the medium depth of the snow was two feet, but from its fall being accompanied with high winds, its height in many places was three and four feet, particularly in roads, which it rendered so impassable, as to interrupt business and social intercourse, in many parts of the state. from the great depth of the snow, the ground was so much protected from the cold, that the frost extended but six inches below its surface. the newspapers daily furnished distressing accounts of persons perishing with the cold by land and water, and of shipwrecks on every part of the coast of the united states. poultry were found dead, or with frozen feet, in their coops, in many places. this intense cold was not confined to pennsylvania. in norfolk, in virginia, the mercury stood at 18° above 0 on the 22d of january. at lexington, in kentucky, it stood at 0 on the 21st of the same month. in lower canada the snow was seven feet in depth, which is three feet deeper than in common years. and such was the quantity of ice collected in the northern seas, that a ship was destroyed, and several vessels injured, by large masses of it, floating between the 41st and 42d degrees of north latitude. great fears were entertained of an inundation in pennsylvania, from a sudden thaw of the immense quantities of snow and ice that had accumulated during the winter, in every part of the state; but happily they both dissolved away so gradually, as scarcely to injure a bridge or a road. on the 28th of february the delaware was navigable, and on the 2d of march no ice was to be seen in it. having premised these general remarks, i proceed to observe, that there are seldom more than twenty or thirty days in summer or winter, in pennsylvania, in which the mercury rises above 80° in the former, or falls below 30° in the latter season. some old people have remarked, that the number of _extremely_ cold and warm days in successive summers and winters, bears an exact proportion to each other. this was strictly true in the years 1787 and 1788. the warmest part of the day in summer is at two, in ordinary, and at three o'clock in the afternoon, in extremely warm weather. from these hours, the heat gradually diminishes till the ensuing morning. the coolest part of the four and twenty hours, is at the break of day. there are seldom more than three or four nights in a summer in which the heat of the air is nearly the same as in the preceding day. after the warmest days, the evenings are generally agreeable, and often delightful. the higher the mercury rises in the day time, the lower it falls the succeeding night. the mercury at 80° generally falls to 68°, while it descends, when at 60°, but to 56°. this disproportion between the temperature of the day and night, in summer is always greatest in the month of august. the dews at this time are heavy in proportion to the coolness of the evening. they are sometimes so considerable as to wet the clothes; and there are instances in which marsh-meadows, and even creeks, which have been dry during the summer, have been supplied with their usual waters from no other source, than the dews which have fallen in this month, or in the first weeks of september. there is another circumstance connected with the one just mentioned, which contributes very much to mitigate the heat of summer, and that is, it seldom continues more than two or three days without being succeeded with showers of rain, accompanied sometimes by thunder and lightning, and afterwards by a north-west wind, which produces a coolness in the air that is highly invigorating and agreeable. the warmest weather is _generally_ in the month of july. but intensely warm days are often felt in may, june, august, and september. in the annexed table of the weather for the year 1787, there is an exception to the first of these remarks. it shows that the mean heat of august was greater by a few degrees than that of july. the transitions from heat to cold are often very sudden, and sometimes to very distant degrees. after a day in which the mercury has stood at 86° and even 90°, it sometimes falls, in the course of a single night, to the 65th, and even to the 60th degree, insomuch that fires have been found necessary the ensuing morning, especially if the change in the temperature of the air has been accompanied by rain and a south-east wind. in a summer month, in the year 1775, the mercury was observed to fall 20° in an hour and a half. there are few summers in which fires are not agreeable during some parts of them. my ingenious friend, mr. david rittenhouse, whose talent for accurate observation extends alike to all subjects, informed me, that he had never passed a summer, during his residence in the country, without discovering frost in every month of the year, except july. the weather is equally variable in pennsylvania during the greatest part of the winter. the mercury fell from 37° to 4-1/2° below 0 in four and twenty hours, between the fourth and fifth of february, 1788. in this season nature seems to play at cross purposes. heavy falls of snow are often succeeded in a few days by a general thaw, which frequently in a short time leaves no vestige of the snow. the rivers delaware, schuylkill, and susquehannah have sometimes been frozen (so as to bear horses and carriages of all kinds) and thawed so as to be passable in boats, two or three times in the course of the same winter. the ice is formed for the most part in a gradual manner, and seldom till the water has been previously chilled by a fall of snow. sometimes its production is more sudden. on the night of the 31st of december, 1764, the delaware was completely frozen over between ten o'clock at night and eight the next morning, so as to bear the weight of a man. an unusual vapour like a fog was seen to rise from the water, in its passage from a fluid to a solid state. this account of the variableness of the weather in winter, does not apply to every part of pennsylvania. there is a line about the 41° of the state, beyond which the winters are steady and regular, insomuch that the earth there is seldom without a covering of snow during the three winter months. in this line the climate of pennsylvania forms a union with the climate of the eastern and northern states. the time in which frost and ice begin to show themselves in the neighbourhood of philadelphia, is generally about the latter end of october or the beginning of november. but the intense cold seldom sets in till about the the 20th or 25th of december; hence the common saying, "as the day lengthens, the cold strengthens." the coldest weather is commonly in january. the navigation of the river delaware, after being frozen, is seldom practicable for large vessels, before the first week in march. as in summer there are often days in which fires are agreeable, so there are sometimes days in winter in which they are disagreeable. vegetation has been observed in all the winter months. garlic was tasted in butter in january, 1781. the leaves of the willow, the blossoms of the peach tree, and the flowers of the dandelion and the crocus, were all seen in february, 1779; and i well recollect, when a school-boy, to have seen an apple orchard in full bloom, and small apples on many of the trees, in the month of december. a cold day in winter is often succeeded by a moderate evening. the coldest part of the four and twenty hours, is generally at the break of day. in the most intense cold which has been recorded in philadelphia, within the last twenty years, the mercury stood at 5° below 0. but it appears from the accounts published by messieurs mason and dixon, in the 58th volume of the transactions of the royal society of london, that the mercury stood at 22° below 0, on the 2d of january, 1767, at brandywine, about thirty miles to the westward of philadelphia. they inform us, that on the 1st of the same month, the mercury stood at 20°, and on the day before at 7° below 0. i have to lament that i am not able to procure any record of the temperature of the air in the same year in philadelphia. from the variety in the height and quality of the soil, and from the difference in the currents of winds and the quantity of rain and snow which fall in different parts of the state, it is very probable this excessive cold may not have extended thirty miles from the place where it was first perceived. the greatest degree of heat upon record in philadelphia, is 95°. the standard temperature of the air in the city of philadelphia is 52-1/2°, which is the temperature of our deepest wells, as also the mean heat of our common spring water. the spring in pennsylvania is generally less pleasant than in many other countries. in march the weather is stormy, variable, and cold. in april, and sometimes in the beginning of may, it is moist, and accompanied by a degree of cold which has been called _rawness_, and which, from its disagreeable effects upon the temper, has been called the _sirocco_ of this country. from the variable nature of the weather in the spring, vegetation advances very differently in different years. the colder the spring, the more favourable it proves to the fruits of the earth. the hopes of the farmer from his fruit-trees in a warm spring are often blasted by a frost in april and may. a fall of snow is remembered with regret by many of them, on the night between the 3d and 4th of may, in the year 1774; also on the morning of the 8th of may, 1803. such was its quantity on the latter day, that it broke down the limbs of many poplar trees. this effect was ascribed to its not being accompanied with any wind. the colder the winter, the greater delay we generally observe in the return of the ensuing spring. sometimes the weather during the spring months is cloudy and damp, attended occasionally with a gentle fall of rain resembling the spray from a cataract of water. a day of this kind of weather is called, from its resemblance to a damp day in great-britain, "an english day." this damp weather seldom continues more than three or four days. the month of may, 1786, will long be remembered, for having furnished a very uncommon instance of the absence of the sun for fourteen days, and of constant damp or rainy weather. the month of june is the only month in the year which resembles a spring month in the southern countries of europe. the weather is then generally temperate, the sky is serene, and the verdure of the country is universal and delightful. the autumn is the most agreeable season in the year in pennsylvania. the cool evenings and mornings, which generally begin about the first week in september, are succeeded by a moderate temperature of the air during the day. this kind of weather continues with an increase of cold scarcely perceptible, till the middle of october, when the autumn is closed by rain, which sometimes falls in such quantities as to produce destructive freshes in the rivers and creeks, and sometimes descends in gentle showers, which continue, with occasional interruptions by a few fair days, for two or three weeks. these rains are the harbingers of the winter; and the indians have long ago taught the inhabitants of pennsylvania, that the degrees of cold during the winter, are in proportion to the quantity of rain which falls during the autumn[31]. [31] i cannot help agreeing with mr. kirwan, in one of his remarks upon the science of meteorology, in the preface to his estimate of the temperature of different latitudes. "this science (says he), if brought to perfection, would enable us at least to foresee those changes in the weather which we could not prevent. great as is the distance between such knowledge and our own present attainments, we have no reason to think it above the level of the powers of the human mind. the motions of the planets must have appeared as perplexed and intricate to those who first contemplated them; yet, by persevering industry, they are now known to the utmost precision. the present is (as the great leibnitz expresses it) in every case pregnant with the future, and the connection must be found by long and attentive observation." the influence which the perfection of this science must have upon health, agriculture, navigation, and commerce, is too obvious to be mentioned. from this account of the temperature of the air in pennsylvania, it is evident that there are seldom more than four months in which the weather is agreeable without a fire. in winter the winds generally come from the north-west in _fair_, and from the north-east in _wet_ weather. the north-west winds are uncommonly dry as well as cold. it is in consequence of the violent action of these winds that trees have uniformly a thicker and more compact bark on their northern than on their southern exposures. even brick houses are affected by the force and dryness of these north-west winds: hence it is much more difficult to demolish the northern than the southern walls of an old brick house. this fact was communicated to me by an eminent bricklayer in the city of philadelphia. the winds in fair weather in the spring, and in warm weather in the summer, blow from the south-west and from west-north-west. the _raw_ air before-mentioned comes from the north-east. the south-west winds likewise usually bring with them those showers of rain in the spring and summer which refresh the earth. they moreover moderate the heat of the weather, provided they are succeeded by a north-west wind. now and then showers of rain come from the west-north-west. there is a common fact connected with the account of the usual winds in pennsylvania, which it may not be improper to mention in this place. while the clouds are seen flying from the south-west, the _scud_, as it is called, or a light vapour, is seen at the same time flying below the clouds from the north-east. the moisture of the air is much greater than formerly, occasioned probably by the exhalations which in former years fell in the form of snow, now descending in the form of rain. the depth of the snow is sometimes between two and three feet, but in general seldom exceeds between six and nine inches. hail frequently descends with snow in winter. once in four or five years large and heavy showers of hail fall in the spring and summer. they generally run in narrow veins (as they are called) of thirty or forty miles in length, and two or three miles in breadth. the heaviest shower of hail that is remembered in philadelphia, did not extend in breadth more than half a mile north and south. some of the stones weighed half an ounce. the windows of many houses were broken by them. this shower fell in may, 1783. from sudden changes in the air, rain and snow often fall together, forming what is commonly called _sleet_. in the uncultivated parts of the state, the snow sometimes lies on the ground till the first week in april. the backwardness of the spring has been ascribed to the passage of the air over the undissolved beds of snow and ice which usually remain, after the winter months are past, on the north-west grounds and waters of the state, and of the adjacent country. the dissolution of the ice and snow in the spring is sometimes so sudden as to swell the creeks and rivers in every part of the state to such a degree, as not only to lay waste the hopes of the husbandman from the produce of his lands, but in some instances to sweep his barns, stables, and even his dwelling house into their currents[32]. the wind, during a general thaw, comes from the south-west or south-east. [32] the following account of the thaw of the river susquehannah, in the spring of 1784, was published by the author in the columbian magazine, for november, 1786. it may serve to illustrate a fact related formerly in the history of the winters in pennsylvania, as well as to exhibit an extraordinary instance of the destructive effects of a sudden thaw. "the winter of 1783-4 was uncommonly cold, insomuch that the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood several times at 5 degrees below 0. the snows were frequent, and, in many places, from two to three feet deep, during the greatest part of the winter. all the rivers in pennsylvania were frozen, so as to bear waggons and sleds with immense weights. in the month of january a thaw came on suddenly, which opened our rivers so as to set the ice a-driving, to use the phrase of the country. in the course of one night, during the thaw, the wind shifted suddenly to the north-west, and the weather became intensely cold. the ice, which had floated the day before, was suddenly obstructed; and in the river susquehannah, the obstructions were formed in those places where the water was most shallow, or where it had been accustomed to fall. this river is several hundred miles in length, and from half a mile to a mile and a half in breadth, and winds through a hilly, and in many places a fertile and highly cultivated country. it has as yet a most difficult communication with our bays and the sea, occasioned by the number and height of the falls which occur near the mouth of the river. the ice in many places, especially where there were falls, formed a kind of dam, of a most stupendous height. about the middle of march our weather moderated, and a thaw became general. the effects of it were remarkable in all our rivers; but in none so much as in the river i have mentioned. i shall therefore endeavour in a few words to describe them. unfortunately the dams of ice did not give way all at once, nor those which lay nearest to the mouth of the river, first. while the upper dams were set afloat by the warm weather, the lower ones, which were the largest, and in which, of course, the ice was most impacted, remained fixed. in consequence of this, the river rose in a few hours, in many places, above 30 feet, rolling upon its surface large lumps of ice, from 10 to 40 cubic feet in size. the effects of this sudden inundation were terrible. whole farms were laid under water. barns, stables, horses, cattle, fences, mills of every kind, and, in one instance, a large stone house, 40 by 30 feet, were carried down the stream. large trees were torn up by the roots; several small islands, covered with woods, were swept away, and not a vestige of them was left behind. on the barns which preserved their shape, in some instances, for many miles were to be seen living fowls; and, in one dwelling, a candle was seen to burn for some time, after it was swept from its foundation. where the shore was level, the lumps of ice, and the ruins of houses and farms, were thrown a quarter of a mile from the ordinary height of the river. in some instances, farms were ruined by the mould being swept from them by the cakes of ice, or by depositions of sand; while others were enriched by large depositions of mud. the damage, upon the whole, done to the state of pennsylvania by this fresh, was very great. in most places it happened in the day time, or the consequences must have been fatal to many thousands." "i know of but one use that can be derived from recording the history of this inundation. in case of similar obstructions of rivers, from the causes such as have been described, the terrible effects of their being set in motion by means of a general thaw may in part be obviated, by removing such things out of the course of the water and ice as are within our power; particularly cattle, hay, grain, fences, and farming utensils of all kinds." the air, when dry in pennsylvania, has a peculiar elasticity, which renders the heat and cold less insupportable than the same degrees of both are in moister countries. it is in those cases only when summer showers are not succeeded by north-west winds, that the heat of the air becomes oppressive and distressing, from being combined with moisture. from tradition, as well as living observation, it is evident, that the waters in many of the creeks in pennsylvania have diminished considerably within the last fifty years. hence many mills, erected upon large and deep streams of water, now stand idle in dry weather; and many creeks, once navigable in large boats, are now impassable even in canoes. this diminution of the waters has been ascribed to the application of a part of them to the purpose of making meadows. the mean elevation of the barometer in philadelphia, is about 30 inches. the variations in the barometer are very inconsiderable in the greatest changes of the weather, which occur in the city of philadelphia. during the violent and destructive storm which blew from the south-west on the 11th of november, 1788, it suddenly fell from 30 to 29-3/10. mr. rittenhouse informs me, that long and faithful observations have satisfied him, that the alterations in the height of the mercury in the barometer do not _precede_ but always _succeed_ changes in the weather. it falls with the south and south-west, and rises with the north and north-west winds. the quantity of water which falls in rain and snow, one year with another, amounts to from 24 to 36 inches. but to complete the account of variable qualities in the climate, it will be necessary to add, that our summers and autumns are sometimes marked by a _deficiency_, and sometimes by an _excessive_ quantity of rain. the summer and autumn of 1782 were uncommonly dry. near two months elapsed without a single shower of rain. there were only two showers in the whole months of september and october. in consequence of this dry weather, there was no second crop of hay. the indian corn failed of its increase in many places, and was cut down for food for cattle. trees newly planted, died. the pasture fields not only lost their verdure, but threw up small clouds of dust when agitated by the feet of men, or beasts. cattle in some instances were driven many miles to be watered, every morning and evening. it was remarked during this dry weather, that the sheep were uncommonly fat, and their flesh well tasted, while all the other domestic animals languished from the want of grass and water. the earth became so inflammable in some places, as to burn above a foot below its surface. a complete consumption of the turf by an accidental fire kindled in the adjoining state of new-jersey, spread terror and distress through a large tract of country. springs of water and large creeks were dried up in many parts of the state. rocks appeared in the river schuylkill, which had never been observed before, by the oldest persons then alive. on one of them were cut the figures 1701. the atmosphere, during part of this dry weather, was often filled, especially in the mornings, with a thin mist, which, while it deceived with the expectation of rain, served the valuable purpose of abating the heat of the sun. a similar mist was observed in france by dr. franklin, in the summer of 1782. the winter which succeeded it was uncommonly cold in france, as well as in pennsylvania. i am sorry that i am not able to furnish the mean heat of each of the summer months. my notes of the weather enable me to add nothing further upon this subject, than that the summer was "uncommonly cool." the summer of the year 1788 afforded a remarkable instance of _excess_ in the quantity of rain which sometimes falls in pennsylvania. thirteen days are marked with rain in july, in the records of the weather kept at spring-mill. there fell on the 18th and 19th of august seven inches of rain in the city of philadelphia. the wheat suffered greatly by the constant rains of july in the eastern and middle parts of the state. so unproductive a harvest in grain, from wet weather, had not been known, it is said, in the course of the last 70 years. the heat of the air, during these summer months was very moderate. its mean temperature at spring-mill was 67,8 in june, 74,7 in july, and only 70,6 in august. it is some consolation to a citizen of pennsylvania, in recording facts which seem to militate against our climate, to reflect that the difference of the weather, in different parts of the state, at the same season, is happily accommodated to promote an increase of the same objects of agriculture; and hence a deficiency of crops has never been known in any one year throughout the _whole_ state. the aurora borealis and meteors are seen occasionally in pennsylvania. in the present imperfect state of our knowledge of their influence upon the human body, it will be foreign to the design of this history of our climate to describe them. storms and hurricanes are not unknown in pennsylvania. they occur once in four or five years, but they are most frequent and destructive in the autumn. they are generally accompanied by rain. trees are torn up by the roots, and the rivers and creeks are sometimes swelled so suddenly as to do considerable damage to the adjoining farms. the wind, during these storms, generally blows from the south-east and south-west. in the storms which occurred in september, 1769, and in the same month of the year 1785, the wind veered round contrary to its usual course, and blew from the north. after what has been said, the character of the climate of pennsylvania may be summed up in a few words. there are no two successive years alike. even the same successive seasons and months differ from each other every year. perhaps there is but one steady trait in the character of our climate, and that is, it is uniformly variable. to furnish the reader with a succinct view of the weather in pennsylvania, that includes all the articles that have been mentioned, i shall here sub-join a table containing the result of meteorological observations made near the river schuylkill, for one year, in the neighbourhood of philadelphia, by an ingenious french gentleman, mr. legeaux, who divides his time between rural employments, and useful philosophical pursuits. this table is extracted from the columbian magazine, for february, 1788. the height of spring-mill above the city of philadelphia, is supposed to be about 70 feet. |====================================================================| | meteorological observations, made at spring-mill, | | 13 miles nnw of philadelphia. result of the year 1787. | |====================================================================| | | thermometer. | barometer. | prevailing | | | of | de | | wind. | | month. |_fahrenheit_,| _reaumur_, | mean height | | | | mean degree |degrés moyens| | | | | d. 1/16 o | d. 1/10 o |in. pts. 1/16| | |----------+-------------+-------------+-------------+---------------| |january | 35 1 | 1 4 | 29 9 9 |variable still | |february | 33 8 | 8 | 29 9 9 |ne | |march | 45 1 | 5 8 | 29 9 7 |w | |april | 54 3 | 9 9 | 29 9 6 |still, sw | |may | 61 2 | 13 | 29 9 2 |still, wsw | |june | 70 7 | 17 2 | 29 8 2 |wnw | |july | 72 2 | 17 9 | 29 9 10 |wwsw var. | |august | 74 5 | 18 9 | 29 10 6 |w | |september | 64 7 | 14 5 | 29 10 4 |wnw | |october | 51 1 | 8 5 | 29 11 9 |wnw vari. | |november | 45 1 | 5 8 | 29 11 1 |still, vari. | |december | 34 | 9 | 29 7 7 |wnw | |----------+-------------+-------------+-------------+---------------| | |10 feb. |10 feb. d. du| 8 mar. | | | result. |greatest d. |plus. gr. | greatest | | | |of cold. |froid. | elevation. | | | | 5 | 12 0 | 30 10 | | | |-------------+-------------+-------------| | | |3 july |3 july plus |2 febr. least| wnw | | |greatest d. |g. d. de |elevation. | | | |of heat. |chaud. | | | | | 96 1 | 28 5 | 29 | | | |-------------+-------------+-------------| | | |variation. | variation. |variation. | | | | 91 1 | 40 5 | 1 10 | | |----------|-------------+-------------+-------------|---------------| | |temperature. |temperature. |mean elevat. | | | | 53 5 | 9 6 | 20 9 9 | | |====================================================================| | month. | days of | water | weather. key for left | | | [key | of rain | a=aur. bor. | | | at right] | and snow. | r=rain th=thunder | | |a|r |th|s |t|in. pts. 1/16| s=snow t=tempest | |----------+-+--+--+--+-+-------------+------------------------------| |january | | 7| 1| 4| | 3 10 10 |fair, still, cold, and snow. | |february | | 3| | 3|2| 3 7 3 |fair, overcast. | |march | | 6| | 3| | 2 4 2 |fair, windy. | |april | | 3| 2| 1|2| 1 2 13 |fair, and very dry. | |may |1|14| 6| |2| 4 11 4 |foggy, cold, and wet. | |june | | 9| 1| | | 1 10 4 |very fair & growing weather. | |july |1| 5| 2| | | 3 1 11 |fair, and overcast. | |august | |11| 4| |1| 5 2 3 |very fair, and cloudy. | |september | | 6| 1| |1| 2 7 8 |fair weather. | |october |1| 4| | | | 7 10 |foggy, fair, and dry weather. | |november |1| 5| | | | 2 6 10 |very fair. | |december | | | | 1|1| 9 |very fair, and very dry. | |----------+-+--+--+--+-+-------------+------------------------------| | result. |4|73|17|12|9|32 8 14 |temperature of the year 1787. | | | | | very fair, dry, abundant in | | | | | every thing, and healthy. | |====================================================================| it is worthy of notice, how near the mean heat of the year, and of the month of april, in two successive years, are to each other in the same place. the mean heat of april, 1787, was 54°3, that of april, 1788, was 52°2. by the table of the mean heat of each month in the year, it appears that the mean heat of 1787 was 53°5 at spring-mill. the following accounts of the climates of pekin and madrid, which lie within a few minutes of the same latitude as philadelphia, may serve to show how much climates are altered by local and relative circumstances. the account of the temperature of the air at pekin will serve further to show, that with all the advantages of the highest degrees of cultivation which have taken place in china, the winters are colder, and the summers warmer there than in pennsylvania, principally from a cause which will probably operate upon the winters of pennsylvania for many centuries to come, viz. the vicinity of an uncultivated north-west country. "pekin, lat. 39° 54', long. 116° 29' w. "by five years observations, its annual mean temperature was found to be 55° 5'. january 20°,75 july 84°,8 february 32 august 83 march 48 september 63 april 59 october 52 may 72 november 41 june 83°,75 december 27 "the temperature of the atlantic under this parallel is 62, but the standard of this part of the globe is the north pacific, which is here 4 or 5 degrees colder than the atlantic. the yellow sea is the nearest to pekin, being about 200 miles distant from it; but it is itself cooled by the mountainous country of corea, which interposes between it and the ocean, for a considerable part of its extent. besides, all the northern parts of china (in which pekin lies) must be cooled by the vicinity of the mountains of chinese tartary, among which the cold is said to be excessive. "the greatest cold usually experienced during this period was 5°, the greatest heat, 98°: on the 25th of july, 1773, the heat arose to 108° and 110°: a n. e. or n. w. wind produces the greatest cold, a s. or s. w. or s. e. the greatest heat[33]." [33] "6. mem. scav. etrang. p. 528." "madrid, lat. 40° 25', long. 3° 20' e. the usual heat in summer is said to be from 75° to 85°; even at night it seldom falls below 70°; the mean height of the barometer is 27,96. it seems to be about 1900 feet above the level of the sea[34]." [34] "mem. par. 1777, p. 146." the above accounts are extracted from mr. kirwan's useful and elaborate estimate of the temperature of different latitudes. the history which has been given of the climate of pennsylvania, is confined chiefly to the country on the east side of the allegany mountain. on the west side of this mountain, the climate differs materially from that of the south-eastern parts of the state in the temperature of the air, in the effects of the winds upon the weather, and in the quantity of rain and snow which falls every year. the winter seldom breaks up on the mountains before the 25th of march. a fall of snow was once perceived upon it, which measured an inch and a half, on the 11th day of june. the trees which grow upon it are small, and indian corn is with difficulty brought to maturity, even at the foot of the east side of it. the south-west winds on the west side of the mountain are accompanied by cold and rain. the soil is rich, consisting of near a foot, in many places, of black mould. the roads in this country are muddy in winter, but seldom dusty in summer. the arrangement of strata of the earth on the west side, differs materially from their arrangement on the east side the mountain. "the country (says mr. rittenhouse, in a letter to a friend in philadelphia[35]), when viewed from the western ridge of the allegany, appears to be one vast extended plain. all the various strata of stone seem to lie undisturbed in the situation in which they were first formed, and the layers of stone, sand, clay, and coal, are nearly _horizontal_." [35] columbian magazine, for october, 1786. the temperature of the air on the west is seldom so hot, or so cold, as on the east side of the mountain. by comparing the state of a thermometer examined by dr. bedford at pittsburg, 284 miles from philadelphia, it appears that the weather was not so cold by twelve degrees in that town, as it was in philadelphia, on the 5th of february, 1788. to show the difference between the weather at spring-mill and in pittsburg, i shall here sub-join an account of it, in both places, the first taken by mr. legeaux, and the other by doctor bedford. +----------------------------------------------------------+ | meteorological observations, made at spring-mill, | | 13 miles nnw. of philadelphia. april, 1788. | +-------+------------------------+-------------+-----------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | thermometer | | | | |-------------+----------| barometer. | | | | of | de | | | | |_fahrenheit_,|_reaumur_,| mean | | | d. | mean | degrés | height | | | of the| degree | moyens | |prevailing | | month.| d. 1/10 o | d. 1/10 o|in. pts. 1/10| wind. | +-------+-------------+--------+-+-------------+-----------+ | 1 | 58 1 | | 11 6 | | 29 10 5 |w. | | 2 | 46 9 | | 6 9 | | 30 1 |calm. | | 3 | 40 3 | | 3 7 | | 30 3 |changeable.| | 4 | 51 3 | | 8 6 | | 29 11 7 |sw. | | 5 | 51 1 | | 8 5 | | 30 7 |e. | | 6 | 55 7 | | 10 5 | | 29 11 7 |calm. | | 7 | 51 3 | | 8 6 | | 30 2 |ne. | | 8 | 42 1 | | 4 5 | | 29 11 |e. | | 9 | 63 5 | | 14 | | 29 8 |w. | | 10 | 46 7 | | 6 5 | | 29 10 |w. | | 11 | 53 8 | | 9 7 | | 30 2 |w. | | 12 | 44 5 | | 5 5 | | 29 10 |calm. | | 13 | 60 5 | | 12 7 | | 29 10 3 |sw. | | 14 | 50 2 | | 8 1 | | 29 9 |e. | | 15 | 58 1 | | 11 6 | | 29 9 7 |sw. | +-------+---- --+---+------+-+-------------+-----------+ | meteorological observations, made at pittsburg, | | 284 miles west of philadelphia. april, 1788. | +-------+---------+---+--------+-+-------------+-----------+ | 1 | 46 | | | | |sw. | | 2 | 42 | | | | |ne. by n. | | 3 | 43 | | | | |se. | | 4 | 64 | | | | |calm. | | 5 | 80 | | | | |se. by s. | | 6 | 52 | | | | |sw. | | 7 | 48 | | | | |ne. by n. | | 8 | 66 | | | | |se. by s. | | 9 | 56 | | | | |nw. by n. | | 10 | 60 | | | | |sw. | | 11 | 62 | | | | |calm. | | 12 | 67 | | | | |sw. | | 13 | 62 | | | | |calm. | | 14 | 60 | | | | |variable. | | 15 | 52 | | | | |w. | +-------+---------+---+--------+-+-------------+-----------+ +------------------------------------------------------+ | meteorological observations, made at spring-mill, | | 13 miles nnw. of philadelphia. april, 1788. | +-------+-----------------------+----------------------+ | | days of | | | |aur. boreal. | | | | |rain. | | | | | |thunder. | | | | | | |snow. | | | | | | | | +-------------| | | | | | | | | water. | | | d. | | | | | | of rain | | | of the| | | | | | and snow. | | | month.| | | | | |in. pts. 1/16| weather. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ | 1 | | | | | | |overcast, fair. | | 2 | | | | | | |overcast and windy. | | 3 | |1| | | | 1 15 |overcast, rainy. | | 4 | | | | | | |overcast. | | 5 | | | | | | |overcast, fair. | | 6 | |1| | | | 1 3 |overcast, rainy. | | 7 | |1| | | | 2 7 |overcast, rainy. | | 8 | |1| | | | 1 4 |rainy. | | 9 | | | | | | |overcast, windy. | | 10 | | | | | | |fair. | | 11 | | | | | | |very fair. | | 12 | |1| | | | 1 11 |overcast, rainy. | | 13 | | | | | | |very fair. | | 14 | |1| | | | 1 14 |fair, overcast, rainy.| | 15 | |1| | | | 2 13 |foggy, rainy. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ | meteorological observations, made at pittsburg, | | 284 miles west of philadelphia. april, 1788. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ | 1 | |1| | | | |cloudy. | | 2 | | | | | | |clear. | | 3 | |1| | | | |cloudy. | | 4 | | | | | | |clear. | | 5 | |1|1| | | |cloudy. | | 6 | |1| | | | |cloudy. | | 7 | | | | | | |cloudy. | | 8 | |1|1| | | |cloudy. | | 9 | | | | | | |cloudy. | | 10 | | | | | | |cloudy, with wind. | | 11 | | | | | | |clear. | | 12 | | | | | | |cloudy, with wind. | | 13 | | | | | | |clear. | | 14 | |1| | | | |cloudy. | | 15 | | | | | | |cloudy. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ from a review of all the facts which have been mentioned, it appears that the climate of pennsylvania is a compound of most of the climates in the world. here we have the moisture of britain in the spring, the heat of africa in summer, the temperature of italy in june, the sky of egypt in the autumn, the cold and snows of norway and the ice of holland in the winter, the tempests (in a certain degree) of the west-indies in every season, and the variable winds and weather of great-britain in every month of the year. from this history of the climate of pennsylvania, it is easy to ascertain what degrees of health, and what diseases prevail in the state. as we have the climates, so we have the health, and the acute diseases, of all the countries that have been mentioned. without attempting to enumerate the diseases, i shall only add a few words upon the _time_ and _manner_ in which they are produced. i. it appears from the testimonies of many aged persons, that pleurisies and inflammatory diseases of all kinds, are less frequent now than they were forty or fifty years ago. ii. it is a well known fact, that intermitting and bilious fevers have increased in pennsylvania in proportion as the country has been _cleared of its wood_, in many parts of the state. iii. it is equally certain that these fevers have lessened, or disappeared, in proportion as the country has been _cultivated_. iv. heavy rains and freshes in the spring seldom produce fevers, unless they are succeeded by unseasonably warm weather. v. sudden changes from great heat to cold, or cool weather, if they occur before the 20th of august, seldom produce fevers. after that time, they are generally followed by them. vi. the same state of the atmosphere, whether cold or warm, moist or dry, continued for a long time, without any material changes, is always healthy. acute and inflammatory fevers were in vain looked for in the cold winter of 1779-80. the dry summer of 1782, and the wet summer of 1788, were likewise uncommonly healthy in the city of philadelphia. these facts extend only to those diseases which depend upon the sensible qualities of the air, for diseases from miasmata and contagion, are less influenced by the uniformity of the weather. the autumn of 1780 was very sickly in philadelphia, from the peculiar situation of the grounds in the neighbourhood of the city, while the country was uncommonly healthy. the dry summer and autumn of 1782 were uncommonly sickly in the country, from the extensive sources of morbid exhalations which were left by the diminution of the waters in the creeks and rivers. vii. diseases are often _generated_ in one season and _produced_ in another. hence we frequently observe fevers of different kinds to _follow_ every species of the weather that was mentioned in the last observation. viii. the excessive heat in pennsylvania has sometimes proved fatal to persons who have been much exposed to it. its morbid effects discover themselves by a difficulty of breathing, a general languor, and, in some instances, by a numbness and an immobility of the extremities. the excessive cold in pennsylvania has more frequently proved fatal, but it has been chiefly to those persons who have sought a defence from it, by large draughts of spiritous liquors. its operation in bringing on sleepiness previous to death, is well known. on the 5th of february, 1788, many people were affected by the cold. it produced a violent pain in the head; and, in one instance, a sickness at the stomach, and a vomiting appeared to be the consequence of it. i have frequently observed that a greater number of old people die, during the continuance of extreme cold and warm weather, than in the same number of days in moderate weather. ix. may and june are usually the healthiest months in the year. x. the influence of the winds upon health, depends very much upon the nature of the country over which they pass. winds which pass over mill-dams and marshes in august and september, generally carry with them the seeds of fevers. xi. the country in the neighbourhood of philadelphia was formerly more sickly than the central parts of the city, after the 20th of august. since the year 1793, the reverse of this has been the case. xii. the night-air is always unwholesome from the 20th of august, especially during the passive state of the system in _sleep_. the frequent and sudden changes of the air from heat to cold render it unsafe to sleep with open windows, during the autumnal months. xiii. valetudinarians always enjoy the most health in pennsylvania in the summer and winter months. the spring, in a particular manner, is very unfavourable to them. i shall conclude the account of the influence of the climate of pennsylvania upon the human body, with the following observations. 1. the sensations of heat and cold are influenced so much by outward circumstances, that we often mistake the degrees of them by neglecting to use such conveniences as are calculated to obviate the effects of their excess. a native of jamaica often complains less of the heat, and a native of canada of the cold, in their respective countries, than they do under certain circumstances in pennsylvania. even a pennsylvanian frequently complains less of the heat in jamaica, and of the cold in canada, than in his native state. the reason of this is plain. in countries where heat and cold are intense and regular, the inhabitants guard themselves, by accommodating their houses and dresses to each of them. the instability and short duration of excessive heat and cold in pennsylvania, have unfortunately led its inhabitants, in many instances, to neglect adopting customs, which are used in hot and cold countries to guard against them. where houses are built with a southern or south-western front exposure, and where other accommodations to the climate are observed in their construction, the disagreeable excesses of heat and cold are rendered much less perceptible in pennsylvania. perhaps the application of the principles of philosophy and taste to the construction of our houses, within the last thirty or forty years, may be another reason why some old people have supposed that the degrees of heat and cold are less in pennsylvania than they were in former years. 2. the variable nature of the climate of pennsylvania does not render it _necessarily_ unhealthy. doctor huxham has taught us, that the healthiest seasons in great-britain have often been accompanied by the most variable weather. his words upon this subject convey a reason for the fact. "when the constitutions of the year are frequently changing, so that by the _contrast_ a sort of _equilibrium_ is kept up, and health with it; and that especially if persons are careful to guard themselves well against these sudden changes[36]." perhaps no climate or country is unhealthy, where men acquire from experience, or tradition, the arts of accommodating themselves to it. the history of all the nations of the world, whether savage, barbarous, or civilized, previously to a mixture of their manners by an intercourse with strangers, seems to favour this opinion. the climate of china appears, in many particulars, to resemble that of pennsylvania. the chinese wear loose garments of different lengths, and increase or diminish the number of them, according to the frequent and sudden changes of their weather; hence they have very few acute diseases among them. those inhabitants of pennsylvania who have acquired the arts of conforming to the changes and extremes of our weather in dress, diet, and manners, escape most of those acute diseases which are occasioned by the sensible qualities of the air; and faithful inquiries and observations have proved, that they attain to as great ages as the same number of people in any part of the world. [36] observations on the air and epidemic diseases, vol. i. p. 5. an account of the bilious remitting fever, as it appeared _in philadelphia_, in the summer and autumn of the year 1780. before i proceed to describe this fever, it will be necessary to give a short account of the weather, and of the diseases which preceded its appearance. the spring of 1780 was dry and cool. a catarrh appeared among children between one year, and seven years of age. it was accompanied by a defluxion from the eyes and nose, and by a cough and dyspn[oe]a, resembling, in some instances, the cynanche trachealis, and in others a peripneumony. in some cases it was complicated with the symptoms of a bilious remitting, and intermitting fever. the exacerbations of this fever were always attended with dyspn[oe]a and cough. a few patients expectorated blood. some had swellings behind their ears, and others were affected with small ulcers in the throat. i met with only one case of this fever in which the pulse indicated bleeding. the rest yielded in a few days to emetics, blisters, and the bark, assisted by the usual more simple remedies in such diseases. an intermittent prevailed among adults in the month of may. july and august were uncommonly warm. the mercury stood on the 6th of august at 94-1/2°, on the 15th of the same month at 95°, and for several days afterwards at 90°. many labouring people perished during this month by the heat, and by drinking, not only cold water, but cold liquors of several kinds, while they were under the violent impressions of the heat. the vomiting and purging prevailed universally, during these two warm months, among the children, and with uncommon degrees of mortality. children from one year to eight and nine years old were likewise very generally affected by blotches and little boils, especially in their faces. an eruption on the skin, called by the common people the prickly heat, was very common at this time among persons of all ages. the winds during these months blew chiefly from the south, and south-west. of course they passed over the land which lies between the city, and the conflux of the rivers delaware and schuylkill, the peculiar situation of which, at that time, has been already described. the dock, and the streets of philadelphia, supplied the winds at this season, likewise, with a portion of their unwholesome exhalations. the muschetoes were uncommonly numerous during the autumn. a certain sign (says dr. lind) of an unwholesome atmosphere. the remitting fever made its first appearance in july and august, but its symptoms were so mild, and its extent so confined, that it excited no apprehensions of its subsequent more general prevalence throughout the city. on the 19th of august the air became suddenly very cool. many hundred people in the city complained, the next day, of different degrees of indisposition, from a sense of lassitude, to a fever of the remitting type. this was the signal of the epidemic. the weather continued cool during the remaining part of the month, and during the whole month of september. from the exposure of the district of southwark (which is often distinguished by the name of the _hill_) to the south-west winds, the fever made its first appearance in that appendage of the city. scarcely a family, and, in many families, scarcely a member of them, escaped it. from the hill it gradually travelled along the second street from the delaware, improperly called front-street. for a while it was confined to this street only, after it entered the city, and hence it was called by some people the _front-street fever_. it gradually spread through other parts of the city, but with very different degrees of violence. it prevailed but little in the northern liberties. it was scarcely known beyond fourth-street from the delaware. intemperance in eating or drinking, riding in the sun or rain, watching, fatigue, or even a fright, but more frequently cold, all served to excite the seeds of this fever into action, where-ever they existed. all ages and both sexes were affected by this fever. seven of the practitioners of physic were confined by it nearly at the same time. the city, during the prevalence of the fever, was filled with an unusual number of strangers, many of whom, particularly the friends (whose yearly meeting was held in the month of september), were affected by it. no other febrile disease was observed during this time in the city. this fever generally came on with rigour, but seldom with a regular chilly fit, and often without any sensation of cold. in some persons it was introduced by a slight sore throat, and in others by a hoarseness which was mistaken for a common cold. a giddiness in the head was the forerunner of the disease in some people. this giddiness attacked so suddenly, as to produce, in several instances, a faintness, and even symptoms of apoplexy. it was remarkable, that all those persons who were affected in this violent manner, recovered in two or three days. i met with one instance of this fever attacking with coma, and another with convulsions, and with many instances, in which it was introduced by a delirium. the pains which accompanied this fever were exquisitely severe in the head, back, and limbs. the pains in the head were sometimes in the back parts of it, and at other times they occupied only the eyeballs. in some people, the pains were so acute in their backs and hips, that they could not lie in bed. in others, the pains affected the neck and arms, so as to produce in one instance a difficulty of moving the fingers of the right hand. they all complained more or less of a soreness in the seats of these pains, particularly when they occupied the head and eyeballs. a few complained of their flesh being sore to the touch, in every part of the body. from these circumstances, the disease was sometimes believed to be a rheumatism; but its more general name among all classes of people was, the _break-bone fever_. i met with one case of pain in the back, and another of an acute ear-ach, both of which returned periodically every night, and without any fever. a nausea universally, and in some instances a vomiting, accompanied by a disagreeable taste in the mouth, attended this fever. the bowels were, in most cases, regular, except where the disease fell with its whole force upon them, producing a dysentery. the tongue was generally moist, and tinctured of a yellow colour. the urine was high coloured, and in its usual quantity in fevers. the skin was generally moist, especially where the disease terminated on the third or fourth day. the pulse was quick and full, but never hard, in a single patient that came under my care, till the 28th of september. it was remarkable, that little, and, in some instances, no thirst attended this fever. a screatus, or constant hawking and spitting, attended in many cases through the whole disease, and was a favourable symptom. there were generally remissions in this fever every morning, and sometimes in the evening. the exacerbations were more severe every other day, and two exacerbations were often observed in one day. a rash often appeared on the third and fourth days, which proved favourable. this rash was accompanied, in some cases, by a burning in the palms of the hands and soles of the feet. many people at this time, who were not confined to their beds, and some, who had no fever, had an efflorescence on their skins. in several persons the force of the disease seemed to fall upon the face, producing swellings under the jaw and in the ears, which in some instances terminated in abscesses. when the fever did not terminate on the third or fourth day, it frequently ran on to the eleventh, fourteenth, and even twentieth days, assuming in its progress, according to its duration, the usual symptoms of the typhus gravior, or mitior, of doctor cullen. in some cases, the discharge of a few spoons-full of blood from the nose accompanied a solution of the fever on the third or fourth day; while in others, a profuse hæmorrhage from the nose, mouth, and bowels, on the tenth and eleventh days, preceded a fatal issue of the disease. several cases came under my care, in which the fever was succeeded by a jaundice. the disease terminated in some cases without sweating, or a sediment in the urine; nor did i observe such patients more disposed to relapse than others, provided they took a sufficient quantity of the bark. about the beginning of october the weather became cool, accompanied by rain and an easterly wind. this cool and wet weather continued for four days. the mercury in the thermometer fell to 60°, and fires became agreeable. from this time the fever evidently declined, or was accompanied by inflammatory symptoms. on the 16th of october, i met with a case of inflammatory angina; and on the next day i visited a patient who had a complication of the bilious fever with a pleurisy, and whose blood discovered strong marks of the presence of the inflammatory diathesis. his stools were of a green and black colour. on the third day of his disease a rash appeared on his skin, and on the fourth, in consequence of a second bleeding, his fever terminated with the common symptoms of a crisis. during the latter end of october, and the first weeks in november, the mercury in the thermometer fluctuated between 50° and 60°. pleurisies and inflammatory diseases of all kinds now made their appearance. they were more numerous and more acute, than in this stage of the autumn, in former years. i met with one case of pleurisy in november, which did not yield to less than four plentiful bleedings. i shall now add a short account of the method i pursued in the treatment of this fever. i generally began by giving a gentle vomit of tartar emetic. this medicine, if given while the fever was in its forming state, frequently produced an immediate cure; and if given after its formation, on the _first_ day, seldom failed of producing a crisis on the third or fourth day. the vomit always discharged more or less bile. if a nausea, or an ineffectual attempt to vomit continued after the exhibition of the tartar emetic, i gave a second dose of it with the happiest effects. if the vomit failed of opening the bowels, i gave gentle doses of salts and cream of tartar[37], or of the butter-nut pill[38], so as to procure two or three plentiful stools. the matter discharged from the bowels was of a highly bilious nature. it was sometimes so acrid as to excoriate the rectum, and so offensive, as to occasion, in some cases, sickness and faintness both in the patients and in their attendants. in every instance, the patients found relief by these evacuations, especially from the pains in the head and limbs. [37] i have found that cream of tartar renders the purging neutral salts less disagreeable to the taste and stomach; but accident has lately taught me, that the juice of two limes or of one lemon, with about half an ounce of loaf sugar, added to six drachms of glauber or epsom salt, in half a pint of boiling water, form a mixture that is nearly as pleasant as strong beverage. [38] this pill is made from an extract of a strong decoction of the bark of the white walnut-tree. in those cases, where the prejudices of the patients against an emetic, or where an advanced state of pregnancy, or a habitual predisposition to a vomiting of blood occurred, i discharged the bile entirely by means of the lenient purges that have been mentioned. in this practice i had the example of doctor cleghorn, who prescribed purges with great success in a fever of the same kind in minorca, with that which has been described[39]. doctor lining prescribed purges with equal success in an autumnal pleurisy in south carolina, which i take to have been a form of a bilious remittent, accompanied by an inflammatory affection of the breast. [39] the tertiana interposita remissione tantum of dr. cullen. after evacuating the contents of the stomach and bowels, i gave small doses of tartar emetic, mixed with glauber's salt. this medicine excited a general perspiration. it likewise kept the bowels gently open, by which means the bile was discharged as fast as it was accumulated. i constantly recommended to my patients, in this stage of the disorder, to _lie in bed_. this favoured the eruption of the rash, and the solution of the disease by perspiration. persons who struggled against the fever by _sitting up_, or who attempted to shake it off by labour or exercise, either sunk under it, or had a slow recovery. a clergyman of a respectable character from the country, who was attacked by the disease in the city, returned home, from a desire of being attended by his own family, and died in a few days afterwards. this is only one, of many cases, in which i have observed travelling, even in the easiest carriages, to prove fatal in fevers after they were formed, or after the first symptoms had shown themselves. the quickest and most effectual way of conquering a fever, in most cases, is, by an early submission to it. the drinks i recommended to my patients were sage and balm teas, weak punch, lemonade, wine whey, tamarind and apple water. the apple water should be made by pouring boiling water upon slices of raw apples. it is more lively than that which is made by pouring the water on roasted apples. i found obvious advantages, in many cases, from the use of pediluvia, every night. in every case, i found the patients refreshed and relieved by frequent changes of their linen. on the third or fourth day, in the forenoon, the pains in the head and back generally abated, with a sweat which was diffused over the whole body. the pulse at this time remained quick and weak. this was, however, no objection to the use of the bark, a few doses of which immediately abated its quickness, and prevented a return of the fever. if the fever continued beyond the third or fourth day without an intermission, i always had recourse to blisters. those which were applied to the neck, and behind the ears, produced the most immediate good effects. they seldom failed of producing an intermission in the fever, the day after they were applied. where delirium or coma attended, i applied the blister to the neck on the _first_ day of the disease. a worthy family in this city will always ascribe the life of a promising boy, of ten years old, to the early application of a blister to the neck, in this fever. where the fever did not yield to blisters, and assumed malignant, or typhus symptoms, i gave the medicines usually exhibited in both those states of fever. i took notice, in the history of this fever, that it was sometimes accompanied with symptoms of a dysentery. where this disease appeared, i prescribed lenient purges and opiates. where these failed of success, i gave the bark in the intermissions of the pain in the bowels, and applied blisters to the wrists. the good effects of these remedies led me to conclude, that the dysentery was the febris introversa of dr. sydenham. i am happy in having an opportunity, in this place, of bearing a testimony in favour of the usefulness of opium in this disease, after the necessary evacuations had been made. i yielded, in prescribing it at first, to the earnest solicitations of my patients for something to give them relief from their insupportable pains, particularly when they were seated in the eyeballs and head. its salutary effects in procuring sweat, and a remission of the fever, led me to prescribe it afterwards in almost every case, and always with the happiest effects. those physicians enjoy but little pleasure in practising physic, who know not how much of the pain and anguish of fevers, of a certain kind, may be lessened by the judicious use of opium. in treating of the remedies used in this disease, i have taken no notice of blood-letting. out of several hundred patients whom i visited in this fever, i did not meet with a single case, before the 27th of september, in which the state of the pulse indicated this evacuation. it is true, the pulse was _full_, but never _hard_. i acknowledge that i was called to several patients who had been bled without the advice of a physician, who recovered afterwards on the usual days of the solution of the fever. this only can be ascribed to that disposition which doctor cleghorn attributes to fevers, to preserve their types under every variety of treatment, as well as constitution. but i am bound to declare further, that i heard of several cases in which bleeding was followed by a fatal termination of the disease. in this fever relapses were very frequent, from exposure to the rain, sun, or night air, and from an excess in eating or drinking. the convalescence from this disease was marked by a number of extraordinary symptoms, which rendered patients the subjects of medical attention for many days after the pulse became perfectly regular, and after the crisis of the disease. a bitter taste in the mouth, accompanied by a yellow colour on the tongue, continued for near a week. most of those who recovered complained of nausea, and a total want of appetite. a faintness, especially upon sitting up in bed, or in a chair, followed this fever. a weakness in the knees was universal. i met with two patients, who were most sensible of this weakness in the right knee. an inflammation in one eye, and in some instances in both eyes, occurred in several patients after their recovery. but the most remarkable symptom of the convalescence from this fever, was an uncommon dejection of the spirits. i attended two young ladies, who shed tears while they vented their complaints of their sickness and weakness. one of them very aptly proposed to me to change the name of the disease, and to call it, in its present stage, instead of the break-bone, the _break-heart fever_. to remove these symptoms, i gave the tincture of bark and elixir of vitriol in frequent doses. i likewise recommended the plentiful use of ripe fruits; but i saw the best effects from temperate meals of oysters, and a liberal use of porter. to these was added, gentle exercise in the open air, which gradually completed the cure. an account of the _scarlatina anginosa_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the years 1783 and 1784. the beginning of the month of july was unusually cool; insomuch that the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood at 61° in the day time, and fires were very comfortable, especially in the evening. in the last week but one of this month, the weather suddenly became so warm, that the mercury rose to 94-1/2°, at which it remained for three days. as this heat was accompanied by no breeze from any quarter, the sense of it was extremely distressing to many people. upwards of twenty persons died in the course of those three days, from the excess of the heat, and from drinking cold water. three old people died suddenly within this space of time. this extreme heat was succeeded by cool weather, the mercury having fallen to 60°, and the month closed with producing a few intermitting and remitting fevers, together with several cases of inflammatory angina. the weather in the month of august was extremely variable. the mercury, after standing for several days at 92°, suddenly fell so low, as not only to render fires necessary, but in many places to produce frost. every form of fever made its appearance in this month. the synocha was so acute, in several cases, as to require from three to four bleedings. the remitting fever was accompanied by an uncommon degree of nausea and faintness. several people died, after a few days' illness, of the malignant bilious fever, or typhus gravior, of dr. cullen. the intermittents had nothing peculiar in them, in their symptoms or method of cure. towards the close of the month, the scarlatina anginosa made its appearance, chiefly among children. the month of september was cool and dry, and the scarlatina anginosa became epidemic among adults as well as young people. in most of the patients who were affected by it, it came on with a chilliness and a sickness at the stomach, or a vomiting; which last was so invariably present, that it was with me a pathognomonic sign of the disease. the matter discharged from the stomach was always bile. the swelling of the throat was in some instances so great, as to produce a difficulty of speaking, swallowing, and breathing. in a few instances, the speech was accompanied by a squeaking voice, resembling that which attends the cynanche trachealis. the ulcers on the tonsils were deep, and covered with white, and, in some instances, with black sloughs. in several cases, there was a discharge of a thick mucus from the nose, from the beginning, but it oftener occurred in the decline of the disease, which most frequently happened on the fifth day. sometimes the subsiding of the swelling of the throat was followed by a swelling behind the ears. an eruption on the skin generally attended the symptoms which have been described. but this symptom appeared with considerable variety. in some people it preceded, and in others it followed the ulcers and swelling of the throat. in some, it appeared only on the outside of the throat, and on the breast; in others, it appeared chiefly on the limbs. in a few it appeared on the second or third day of the disease, and never returned afterwards. i saw two cases of eruption without a single symptom of sore throat. the face of one of those patients was swelled, as in the erisypelas. in the other, a young girl of seven years old, there was only a slight redness on the skin. she was seized with a vomiting, and died delirious in fifty-four hours. soon after her death, a livid colour appeared on the outside of her throat. the bowels, in this degree of the disease, were in general regular. i can recollect but few cases which were attended by a diarrh[oe]a. the fever which accompanied the disease was generally the typhus mitior of doctor cullen. in a few cases it assumed symptoms of great malignity. the disease frequently went off with a swelling of the hands and feet. i saw one instance in a gentlewoman, in whom this swelling was absent, who complained of very acute pains in her limbs, resembling those of the rheumatism. in two cases which terminated fatally, there were large abscesses; the one on the outside, and the other on the inside of the throat. the first of these cases was accompanied by troublesome sores on the ends of the fingers. one of these patients lived twenty-eight, and the other above thirty days, and both appeared to die from the discharge which followed the opening of their abscesses. between the degrees of the disease which i have described, there were many intermediate degrees of indisposition which belonged to this disease. i saw in several cases a discharge from behind the ears, and from the nose, with a slight eruption, and no sore throat. all these patients were able to sit up, and walk about. i saw one instance of a discharge from the inside of one of the ears in a child, who had ulcers in his throat, and the squeaking voice. in some, a pain in the jaw, with swellings behind the ears, and a slight fever, constituted the whole of the disease. in one case, the disease came on with a coma, and in several patients it went off with this symptom. a few instances occurred of adults, who walked about, and even transacted business, until a few hours before they died. the intermitting fever, which made its appearance in august, was not lost during the month of september. it continued to prevail, but with several peculiar symptoms. in many persons it was accompanied by an eruption on the skin, and a swelling of the hands and feet. in some, it was attended by a sore throat and pains behind the ears. indeed, such was the predominance of the scarlatina anginosa, that many hundred people complained of sore throats, without any other symptom of indisposition. the slightest occasional or exciting cause, and particularly cold, seldom failed of producing the disease. the month of october was much cooler than september, and the disease continued, but with less alarming symptoms. in several adults, who were seized with it, the hardness of the pulse indicated blood-letting. the blood, in one case, was covered with a buffy coat, but beneath its surface it was dissolved. in the month of november, the disease assumed several inflammatory symptoms, and was attended with much less danger than formerly. i visited one patient whose symptoms were so inflammatory as to require two bleedings. during the decline of the disease, many people complained of troublesome sores on the ends of their fingers. a number of children likewise had sore throats and fevers, with eruptions on their skins, which resembled the chicken-pox. i am disposed to suspect that this eruption was the effect of a spice of the scarlatina anginosa, as several instances occurred of patients who had all the symptoms of this disease, in whom an eruption of white blisters succeeded their recovery. this form of the disease has been called by sauvage, the scarlatina variolosa. i saw one case of sore throat, which was succeeded not only by swellings in the abdomen and limbs, but by a catarrh, which brought on a fatal consumption. a considerable shock of an earthquake was felt on the 29th of this month, at ten o'clock at night, in the city of philadelphia; but no change was perceived in the disease, in consequence of it. in december, january, and february, the weather was intensely cold. there was a thaw for a few days in january, which broke the ice of the delaware, but it was followed by cold so excessive, as to close the river till the beginning of march. the mercury, on the 28th and 29th of february, stood below 0 in fahrenheit's thermometer. for a few weeks in the beginning of december, the disease disappeared in the circle of my patients, but it broke out with great violence the latter end of that month, and in the january following. some of the worst cases that i met with (three of which proved fatal) were in those two months. the disease disappeared in the spring, but it spread afterwards through the neighbouring states of new-jersey, delaware, and maryland. i shall now add an account of the remedies which i administered in this disease. in every case that i was called to, i began the cure by giving a vomit joined with calomel. the vomit was either tartar emetic or ipecacuanha, according to the prejudices, habits, or constitutions of my patients. a quantity of bile was generally discharged by this medicine. besides evacuating the contents of the stomach, it cleansed the throat in its passage downwards. to ensure this effect from the calomel, i always directed it to be given mixed with syrup or sugar and water, so as to diffuse it generally over every part of the throat. the calomel seldom failed to produce two or three stools. in several cases i was obliged, by the continuance of nausea, to repeat the emetics, and always with immediate and obvious advantage. i gave the calomel in moderate doses in every stage of the disease. to restrain its purgative effects, when necessary, i added to it a small quantity of opium. during the whole course of the disease, where the calomel failed of opening the bowels, i gave lenient purges, when a disposition to costiveness required them. the throat was kept clean by detergent gargles. in several instances i saw evident advantages from adding a few grains of calomel to them. in cases of great difficulty of swallowing or breathing, the patients found relief from receiving the steams of warm water mixed with a little vinegar, through a funnel into the throat. a perspiration kept up by gentle doses of antimonials, and diluting drinks, impregnated with wine, always gave relief. in every case which did not yield to the above remedies on the third day, i applied a blister behind each ear, or one to the neck, and, i think, always with good effects. i met with no cases in which the bark appeared to be indicated, except the three in which the disease proved fatal. where the sore throat was blended with the intermitting fever, the bark was given with advantage. but in common cases it was unnecessary. subsequent observations have led me to believe, with doctor withering, that it is sometimes hurtful in this disease. it proved fatal in many parts of the country, upon its first appearance; but wherever the mode of treatment here delivered was adopted, its mortality was soon checked. the calomel was used very generally in new-jersey and new-york. in the delaware state, a physician of character made it a practice not only to give calomel, but to anoint the outside of the throat with mercurial ointment. additional observations upon the _scarlatina anginosa_. this disease has prevailed in philadelphia, at different seasons, ever since the year 1783. it has blended itself occasionally with all our epidemics. many cases have come under my notice since its first appearance, in which dropsical swellings have succeeded the fever. in some instances there appeared to be effusions of water not only in the limbs and abdomen, but in the thorax. they yielded, in every case that i attended, to purges of calomel and jalap. where these swellings were neglected, they sometimes proved fatal. in the winter of 1786-7, the scarlatina anginosa was blended with the cynanche parotidea, and in one instance with a typhus mitior. the last was in a young girl of nine years of age. she was seized with a vomiting of bile and an efflorescence on her breast, but discovered no other symptoms of the scarlatina anginosa till the sixteenth day of her fever, when a swelling appeared on the outside of her throat, and after her recovery, a pain and swelling in one of her knees. in the month of july, 1787, a number of people were affected by sudden swellings of their lips and eyelids. these swellings generally came on in the night, were attended with little or no pain, and went off in two or three days. i met with only one case in which there was a different issue to these symptoms. it was in a patient in the pennsylvania hospital, in whom a swelling in the lips ended in a suppuration, which, notwithstanding the liberal use of bark and wine, proved fatal in the course of twelve days. in the months of june and july, 1788, a number of people were affected by sudden swellings, not only of the lips, but of the cheeks and throat. at the same time many persons were affected by an inflammation of the eyes. the swellings were attended with more pain than they were the year before, and some of them required one or two purges to remove them; but in general they went without medicine, in two or three days. is it proper to refer these complaints to the same cause which produces the scarlatina anginosa? the prevalence of the scarlatina anginosa at the _same time_ in this city; its disposition to produce swellings in different parts of the body; and the analogy of the intermitting fever, which often conceals itself under symptoms that are foreign to its usual type; all seem to render this conjecture probable. in one of the cases of an inflammation of the eye, which came under my notice, the patient was affected by a vomiting a few hours before the inflammation appeared, and complained of a sickness at his stomach for two or three days afterwards. now a vomiting and nausea appear to be very generally symptoms of the scarlatina anginosa. in the autumn of 1788, the scarlatina anginosa appeared with different degrees of violence in many parts of the city. in two instances it appeared with an obstinate diarrh[oe]a; but it was in young subjects, and not in adults, as described by doctor withering. in both cases, the disease proved fatal; the one on the third, the other on the fifth day. in the month of december of the same year, i saw one case in which a running from one of the ears, and a deafness came on, on the fifth day, immediately after the discharge of mucus from the nose had ceased. this case terminated favourably on the ninth day, but was succeeded, for several days afterwards, by a troublesome cough. i shall conclude this essay by the following remarks: 1. camphor has often been suspended in a bag from the neck, as a preservative against this disease. repeated observations have taught me, that it possesses little or no efficacy for this purpose. i have had reason to entertain a more favourable opinion of the benefit of washing the hands and face with vinegar, and of rinsing the mouth and throat with vinegar and water every morning, as means of preventing this disease. 2. whenever i have been called to a patient where the scarlatina appeared to be in a _forming_ state, a vomit of ipecacuanha or tartar emetic, mixed with a few grains of calomel, has never failed of completely checking the disease, or of so far mitigating its violence, as to dispose it to a favourable issue in a few days; and if these observations should serve no other purpose than to awaken the early attention of patients and physicians to this speedy and effectual remedy, they will not have been recorded in vain. 3. when the matter which produces this disease has been received into the body, a purge has prevented its being excited into action, or rendered it mild, throughout a whole family. for this practice i am indebted to some observations on the scarlatina, published by dr. sims in the first volume of the medical memoirs. 4. during the prevalence of the inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere, between the years 1793 and 1800, this disease occurred occasionally in philadelphia, and yielded, like the other epidemics of those years, to copious blood-letting, and other depleting remedies. an inquiry into the cause and cure of _the cholera infantum_. by this name i mean to designate a disease, called, in philadelphia, the "vomiting and purging of children." from the regularity of its appearance in the summer months, it is likewise known by the name of "the disease of the season." it prevails in most of the large towns of the united states. it is distinguished in charleston, in south carolina, by the name of "the april and may disease," from making its first appearance in those two months. it seldom appears in philadelphia till the middle of june, or the beginning of july, and generally continues till near the middle of september. its frequency and danger are always in proportion to the heat of the weather. it affects children from the first or second week after their birth, till they are two years old. it sometimes begins with a diarrh[oe]a, which continues for several days without any other symptom of indisposition; but it more frequently comes on with a violent vomiting and purging, and a high fever. the matter discharged from the stomach and bowels is generally yellow or green, but the stools are sometimes slimy and bloody, without any tincture of bile. in some instances they are nearly as limpid as water. worms are frequently discharged in each kind of the stools that has been described. the children, in this stage of the disease, appear to suffer a good deal of pain. they draw up their feet, and are never easy in one posture. the pulse is quick and weak. the head is unusually warm, while the extremities retain their natural heat, or incline to be cold. the fever is of the remitting kind, and discovers evident exacerbations, especially in the evenings. the disease affects the head so much, as in some instances to produce symptoms not only of delirium, but of mania, insomuch that the children throw their heads backwards and forwards, and sometimes make attempts to scratch, and to bite their parents, nurses, and even themselves. a swelling frequently occurs in the abdomen, and in the face and limbs. an intense thirst attends every stage of the disease. the eyes appear languid and hollow, and the children generally sleep with them half closed. such is the insensibility of the system in some instances in this disease, that flies have been seen to alight upon the eyes when open, without exciting a motion in the eyelids to remove them. sometimes the vomiting continues without the purging, but more generally the purging continues without the vomiting, through the whole course of the disease. the stools are frequently large, and extremely f[oe]tid, but in some instances they are without smell, and resemble drinks and aliment which have been taken into the body. the disease is sometimes fatal in a few days. i once saw it carry off a child in four and twenty hours. its duration is varied by the season of the year, and by the changes in the temperature of the weather. a cool day frequently abates its violence, and disposes it to a favourable termination. it often continues, with occasional variations in its appearance, for six weeks or two months. where the disease has been of long continuance, the approach of death is gradual, and attended by a number of distressing symptoms. an emaciation of the body to such a degree, as that the bones come through the skin, livid spots, a singultus, convulsions, a strongly marked hippocratic countenance, and a sore mouth, generally precede the fatal termination of this disease. few children ever recover, after the last symptoms which have been mentioned make their appearance. this disease has been ascribed to several causes; of each of which i shall take notice in order. i. it has been attributed to dentition. to refute this opinion, it will be necessary to observe, that it appears only in one season of the year. dentition, i acknowledge, sometimes aggravates it; hence we find it is most severe in that period of life, when the greatest number of teeth make their appearance, which is generally about the 10th month. i think i have observed more children to die of this disease at that age, than at any other. ii. worms have likewise been suspected of being the cause of this disease. to this opinion, i object the uncertainty of worms ever producing an idiopathic fever, and the improbability of their combining in such a manner as to produce an annual epidemic disease of any kind. but further, we often see the disease in all its force, before that age, in which worms usually produce diseases; we likewise often see it resist the most powerful anthelmintic medicines; and, lastly, it appears from dissection, where the disease has proved fatal, that not a single worm has been discovered in the bowels. it is true, worms are in some instances discharged in this disease, but they are frequently discharged in greater numbers in the hydrocephalus internus, and in the small-pox, and yet who will assert either of those diseases to be produced by worms. iii. the summer fruits have been accused of producing this disease. to this opinion i object, that the disease is but little known in country places, where children eat much more fruit than in cities. as far as i have observed, i am disposed to believe, that the moderate use of ripe fruits, rather tends to prevent, than to induce the disease. from the discharge of bile which generally introduces the disease, from the remissions and exacerbations of the fever which accompanies it, and from its occurring nearly in the same season with the cholera and remitting fever in adults, i am disposed to consider it as a modification of the same diseases. its appearance earlier in the season than the cholera and remitting fever in adults, must be ascribed to the constitutions of children being more predisposed from weakness to be acted upon, by the remote causes which produce those diseases. i shall now mention the remedies which are proper and useful in this disease. i. the first indication of cure is to evacuate the bile from the stomach and bowels. this should be done by gentle doses of ipecacuanha, or tartar emetic. the vomits should be repeated occasionally, if indicated, in every stage of the disease. the bowels should be opened by means of calomel, manna, castor oil, or magnesia. i have generally found rhubarb improper for this purpose, while the stomach was in a very irritable state. in those cases, where there is reason to believe that the offending contents of the primæ viæ have been discharged by nature (which is often the case), the emetics and purges should by no means be given; but, instead of them, recourse must be had to ii. opiates. a few drops of liquid laudanum, combined in a testaceous julep, with peppermint or cinnamon-water, seldom fail of composing the stomach and bowels. in some instances, this medicine alone subdues the disease in two or three days; but where it does not prove so successful, it produces a remission of pain, and of other distressing symptoms, in every stage of the disease. iii. demulcent and diluting drinks have an agreeable effect in this disease. mint and mallow teas, or a tea made of blackberry roots infused in cold water, together with a decoction of the shavings of hartshorn and gum arabic with cinnamon, should all be given in their turns for this purpose. iv. glysters made of flaxseed tea, or of mutton broth, or of starch dissolved in water, with a few drops of liquid laudanum in them, give ease, and produce other useful effects. v. plasters of venice treacle applied to the region of the stomach, and flannels dipped in infusions of bitter and aromatic herbs in warm spirits, or madeira wine, and applied to the region of the abdomen, often afford considerable relief. vi. as soon as the more violent symptoms of the disease are composed, tonic and cordial medicines should be given. the bark in decoction, or in substance (where it can be retained in that form), mixed with a little nutmeg, often produces the most salutary effects. port wine or claret mixed with water are likewise proper in this stage of the disease. after the disease has continued for some time, we often see an appetite suddenly awakened for articles of diet of a stimulating nature. i have seen many children recover from being gratified in an inclination to eat salted fish, and the different kinds of salted meat. in some instances they discover an appetite for butter, and the richest gravies of roasted meats, and eat them with obvious relief to all their symptoms. i once saw a child of sixteen months old, perfectly restored, from the lowest stage of this disease, by eating large quantities of rancid english cheese, and drinking two or three glasses of port wine every day. she would in no instance eat bread with the cheese, nor taste the wine, if it was mixed with water. we sometimes see relief given by the use of the warm bath, in cases of obstinate pain. the bath is more effectual, if warm wine is used, instead of water. i have had but few opportunities of trying the effects of cold water applied to the body in this disease; but from the benefit which attended its use in the cases in which it was prescribed, i am disposed to believe that it would do great service, could we overcome the prejudices which subsist in the minds of parents against it. after all that has been said in favour of the remedies that have been mentioned, i am sorry to add, that i have very often seen them all administered without effect. my principal dependence, therefore, for many years, has been placed upon vii. country air. out of many hundred children whom i have sent into the country, in every stage of this disease, i have lost but three; two of whom were sent, contrary to my advice, into that unhealthy part of the neighbourhood of philadelphia called the _neck_, which lies between the city and the conflux of the rivers delaware and schuylkill. i have seen one cure performed by this remedy, after convulsions had taken place. to derive the utmost benefit from the country air, children should be carried out on horseback, or in a carriage, every day; and they should be exposed to the open air as much as possible in fair weather, in the day time. where the convenience of the constant benefit of country air cannot be obtained, i have seen evident advantages from taking children out of the city once or twice a day. it is extremely agreeable to see the little sufferers revive as soon as they escape from the city air, and inspire the pure air of the country. i shall conclude this inquiry, by recommending the following methods of preventing this disease, all of which have been found by experience to be useful. 1. the daily use of the cold bath. 2. a faithful and attentive accommodation of the dresses of children, to the state and changes of the air. 3. a moderate quantity of salted meat taken occasionally in those months in which this disease usually prevails. it is perhaps in part from the daily use of salted meat in diet, that the children of country people escape this disease. 4. the use of sound old wine in the summer months. from a tea-spoon-full, to half a wine glass full, according to the age of the child, may be given every day. it is remarkable, that the children of persons in easy circumstances, who sip occasionally with their parents the remains of a glass of wine after dinner, are much less subject to this disease, than the children of poor people, who are without the benefit of that article of diet. 5. cleanliness, both with respect to the skin and clothing of children. perhaps the neglect of this direction may be another reason why the children of the poor, are most subject to this disease. 6. the removal of children into the country before the approach of warm weather. this advice is peculiarly necessary during the whole period of dentition. i have never known but one instance of a child being affected by this disease, who had been carried into the country in order to avoid it. i have only to add to the above observations, that since the prevalence of the yellow fever in philadelphia after the year 1793, the cholera infantum has assumed symptoms of such malignity, as to require bleeding to cure it. in some cases, two and three bleedings were necessary for that purpose. observations on the _cynanche trachealis_. the vulgar name of this disease in pennsylvania is hives. it is a corruption of the word _heaves_, which took its rise from the manner in which the lungs heave in breathing. the worst degree of the disease is called the bowel hives, from the great motion of the abdominal muscles in respiration. it has been called suffocatio stridula by dr. home, and cynanche trachealis by dr. cullen. professor frank calls it trachitis, and dr. darwin considers it as a pleurisy of the windpipe. by the two latter names, the authors mean to convey the correct idea, that the disease is the same in its nature with the common diseases of other internal parts of the body. it is brought on by the same causes which induce fever, particularly by cold. i have seen it accompany, as well as succeed, the small-pox, measles, scarlet-fever, and apthous sore throat. in the late dr. foulke it succeeded acute rheumatism. the late dr. sayre informed me, he had seen it occur in a case of yellow fever, in the year 1798. it sometimes comes on suddenly, but it more frequently creeps on in the form of a common cold. its symptoms are sometimes constant, but they more generally remit, particularly during the day. it attacks children of all ages, from three months to five years old. but it occasionally attacks adults. it generally runs its course in three or four days, but we now and then see it protracted in a chronic and feeble form, for eight and ten days. dissections show the following appearances in the trachea. 1. a slight degree of inflammation. 2. a thick matter resembling mucus. 3. a membrane similar to that which succeeds inflammation in the pleura and bowels, formed from the coagulating lymph of the blood. 4. in some cases the trachea exhibits no marks of disease of any kind. these cases are generally violent, and terminate suddenly. the morbid excitement here transcends inflammation. similar instances of the absence of the common signs of disease after death, occur in other parts of the body. where the cynanche trachealis has appeared in the high grade which has been last mentioned, it has been called spasmodic. where the serous vessels of the trachea have been tinged with red blood, it has been considered as inflammatory. where a liquid matter has been found in the trachea, it has been called humoral; and where a membrane has been seen adhering to the trachea, it has received from dr. michaelis the name of angina polyposa. but all these different issues of the cynanche trachealis are the effects of a difference only in its force, or in its duration: they all depend upon one remote, and one proximate cause. in the _forming_ state of this disease, which may be easily known by a hoarseness, and a slight degree of stertorous cough, a puke of antimonial wine, tartar emetic, ipecacuanha, or oxymel of squills, is for the most part an immediate cure. to be effectual, it should operate four or five times. happily children are seldom injured by a little excess in the operation of this class of medicines. i have prevented the formation of this disease many hundred times, and frequently in my own family, by means of this remedy. after the disease is completely formed, and appears with the usual symptoms described by authors, the remedies should be 1. blood-letting. the late dr. bailie of new-york used to bleed until fainting was induced. his practice has been followed by dr. dick of alexandria, and with great success. i have generally preferred small, but frequent, to copious bleedings. i once drew twelve ounces of blood, at four bleedings, in one day, from a son of mr. john carrol, then in the fourth year of his age. dr. physick bled a child, of but three months old, three times in one day. life was saved in both these cases. powerful as the lancet is, in this disease, its violence and danger require that it should be aided by 2. vomits. these should be given every day, or oftener, during the continuance of the disease. their good effects are much more obvious and certain in a disease of the trachea, than of the lungs, and hence their greater utility, as i shall say hereafter, in a consumption from a catarrh, than from any other of its causes. 3. purges. these should consist of calomel and jalap, or rhubarb, and should always follow the use of emetics, if they fail of opening the bowels. 4. calomel should likewise be given in large doses. dr. physick gave half a drachm of this medicine, in one day, to the infant whose case has been mentioned. i have never known it excite a salivation when given to children whose ages rendered them subjects of it, probably because it has been given in such large quantities as to pass rapidly through the bowels. its good effects seem to depend upon its exciting a counter-action in the whole intestinal canal, and thereby lessening the disposition of the tracheal blood-vessels to discharge the mucus, or form the membrane, which have been described. 5. blisters should be applied to the throat, breast, neck, and even to the limbs. 6. dr. archer of maryland commends, in high terms, the use of polygola, or seneka snake-root, in this disease. i can say nothing in favour of its exclusive use, from my own experience, having never given it, but as an auxiliary to other remedies. 7. i have seen great relief given by the use of the warm bath, especially when it has been followed by a gentle perspiration. 8. towards the close of the disease, after the symptoms of great morbid action begin to decline, a few drops of liquid laudanum, by quieting the cough which generally succeeds it, often produce the most salutary effects. they should be given in flaxseed, or bran, or onion tea, of which drinks the patient should drink freely in every stage of the disease. the cynanche trachealis is attended with most danger, when the patient labours under a _constant_ and audible stertorous breathing. the danger is less, when a dry stertorous cough attends, with _easy_ respiration in its intervals. the danger is nearly over, when the cough, though stertorous, is _loose_, and accompanied with a _discharge_ of mucus from the trachea. an eruption of little red blotches, which frequently appears and disappears two or three times in the course of this disease, is always a favourable symptom. i once attended a man from virginia, of the name of bampfield, who, after an attack of this disease, was much distressed with the stertorous breathing and cough which belong to it. i suspected both to arise from a membrane formed by inflammation in his trachea. this membrane i supposed to be in part detached from the trachea, from the rattling noise which attended his breathing. he had used many remedies for it to no purpose. i advised a salivation, which in less than three weeks perfectly cured him. since the general adoption of the remedies which have been enumerated, for the cynanche trachealis, instances of its mortality have become very uncommon in the city of philadelphia. an account of the efficacy of blisters and bleeding, in the cure of obstinate _intermitting fevers_. the efficacy of these remedies will probably be disputed by every regular-bred physician, who has not been a witness of their utility in the above disease; but it becomes such physicians, before they decide upon this subject, to remember, that many things are true in medicine, as well as in other branches of philosophy, which are very improbable. in all those cases of _autumnal_ intermittents, whether quotidian, tertian, or quartan, in which the bark did not succeed after three or four days trial, i have seldom found it fail after the application of blisters to the wrists. but in those cases where blisters had been neglected, or applied without effect, and where the disease had been protracted into the _winter_ months, i have generally cured it by means of one or two moderate bleedings. the pulse in those cases is generally full, and sometimes a little hard, and the blood when drawn for the most part appears sizy. the bark is seldom necessary to prevent the return of the disease. it is always ineffectual, where blood-letting is indicated. i have known several instances where pounds of that medicine have been taken without effect, in which the loss of ten or twelve ounces of blood has immediately cured the disease. i once intended to have added to this account of the efficacy of blisters and bleeding in curing obstinate intermittents, testimonies from a number of medical gentlemen, of the success with which they have used them; but these vouchers have become so numerous, that they would swell this essay far beyond the limits i wish to prescribe to it. an account of the disease occasioned by _drinking cold water_ in warm weather, and the method of curing it. few summers elapse in philadelphia, in which there are not instances of many persons being diseased by drinking cold water. in some seasons, four or five persons have died suddenly from this cause, in one day. this mortality falls chiefly upon the labouring part of the community, who seek to allay their thirst by drinking the water from the pumps in the streets, and who are too impatient, or too ignorant, to use the necessary precautions for preventing its morbid or deadly effects upon them. these accidents seldom happen, except when the mercury rises above 85° in fahrenheit's thermometer. three circumstances generally concur to produce disease or death, from drinking cold water. 1. the patient is extremely warm. 2. the water is extremely cold. and 3. a large quantity of it is suddenly taken into the body. the danger from drinking the cold water is always in proportion to the degrees of combination which occur in the three circumstances that have been mentioned. the following symptoms generally follow, where cold water has been taken, under the above circumstances, into the body: in a few minutes after the patient has swallowed the water, he is affected by a dimness of sight; he staggers in attempting to walk, and, unless supported, falls to the ground; he breathes with difficulty; a rattling is heard in his throat; his nostrils and cheeks expand and contract in every act of respiration; his face appears suffused with blood, and of a livid colour; his extremities become cold, and his pulse imperceptible; and, unless relief be speedily obtained, the disease terminates in death, in four or five minutes. this description includes only the less common cases of the effects of drinking a _large_ quantity of _cold_ water, when the body is _preternaturally_ heated. more frequently, patients are seized with acute spasms in the breast and stomach. these spasms are so painful as to produce syncope, and even asphyxia. they are sometimes of the tonic, but more frequently of the clonic kind. in the intervals of the spasms, the patient appears to be perfectly well. the intervals between each spasm become longer or shorter, according as the disease tends to life or death. it may not be improper to take notice, that punch, beer, and even toddy, when drunken under the same circumstances as cold water, have all been known to produce the same morbid and fatal effects. i know of but one certain remedy for this disease, and that is liquid laudanum. the doses of it, as in other cases of spasm, should be proportioned to the violence of the disease. from a tea-spoonful to near a table-spoonful have been given in some instances, before relief has been obtained. where the powers of life appear to be suddenly suspended, the same remedies should be used, which have been so successfully employed in recovering persons supposed to be dead from drowning. care should be taken in every case of disease, or apparent death, from drinking cold water, to prevent the patient's suffering from being surrounded, or even attended by too many people. persons who have been recovered from the immediate danger which attends this disease, are sometimes affected after it, by inflammations and obstructions in the breast or liver. these generally yield to the usual remedies which are administered in those complaints, when they arise from other causes. if neither the voice of reason, nor the fatal examples of those who have perished from this cause, are sufficient to produce restraint in drinking a _large_ quantity of _cold_ liquors, when the body is _preternaturally_ heated, then let me advise to 1. grasp the vessel out of which you are about to drink for a minute or longer, with both your hands. this will abstract a portion of heat from the body, and impart it at the same time to the cold liquor, provided the vessel be made of metal, glass, or earth; for heat follows the same laws, in many instances, in passing through bodies, with regard to its relative velocity, which we observe to take place in electricity. 2. if you are not furnished with a cup, and are obliged to drink by bringing your mouth in contact with the stream which issues from a pump, or a spring, always wash your hands and face, previously to your drinking, with a little of the cold water. by receiving the shock of the water first upon those parts of the body, a portion of its heat is conveyed away, and the vital parts are thereby defended from the action of the cold. by the use of these preventives, inculcated by advertisements pasted upon pumps by the humane society, death from drinking cold water has become a rare occurrence for many years past in philadelphia. an account of the _efficacy of common salt_, in the cure of hæmoptysis. from the present established opinions and practice respecting the cause and cure of hæmoptysis, the last medicine that would occur to a regular-bred physician for the cure of it, is common salt; and yet i have seen and heard of a great number of cases, in which it has been administered with success. the mode of giving it is to pour down from a tea to a table-spoonful of clean fine salt, as soon as possible after the hæmorrhage begins from the lungs. this quantity generally stops it; but the dose must be repeated daily for three or four days, to prevent a return of the disease. if the bleeding continue, the salt must be continued till it is checked, but in larger doses. i have heard of several instances in which two table spoons-full were taken at one time for several days. it sometimes excites a sickness at the stomach, and never fails to produce a burning sensation in the throat, in its passage into the stomach, and considerable thirst afterwards. i have found this remedy to succeed equally well in hæmorrhages, whether they occurred in young or in old people, or with a weak or active pulse. i had prescribed it for several years before i could satisfy myself with a theory, to account for its extraordinary action upon the human body. my inquiries led me to attend more particularly to the following facts: 1. those persons who have been early instructed in vocal music, and who use their vocal organs moderately through life, are seldom affected by a hæmorrhage from the lungs. 2. lawyers, players, public cryers, and city watchmen, all of whom exercise their lungs either by long or loud speaking, are less affected by this disease, than persons of other occupations. i acknowledge i cannot extend this observation to the public teachers of religion. i have known several instances of their being affected by hæmoptysis; but never but one in which the disease came on in the pulpit, and that was in a person who had been recently cured of it. the cases which i have seen, have generally been brought on by catarrhs. to this disease, the practice of some of our american preachers disposes them in a peculiar manner; for it is very common with this class of them, to expose themselves to the cold or evening air, immediately after taking what a celebrated and eloquent preacher used to call a _pulpit sweat_. 3. this hæmorrhage chiefly occurs in debilitated habits, or in persons afflicted by such a predisposition to consumption, as indicates a weak and relaxed state of the lungs. 4. it generally occurs when the lungs are in a passive state; as in sitting, walking, and more frequently in lying. many of the cases that i have known, have occurred during _sleep_, in the middle of the night. from these facts, is it not probable that the common salt, by acting primarily and with great force upon the throat, extends its stimulus to the bleeding vessel, and by giving it a tone, checks the further effusion of blood? i shall only add to this conjecture the following observations: 1. i have never known the common salt perform a cure, where the hæmorrhage from the lungs has been a symptom of a confirmed consumption. but even in this case it gives a certain temporary relief. 2. the exhibition of common salt in the hæmoptysis, should by no means supersede the use of occasional bleeding when indicated by plethora, nor of that diet which the state of the pulse, or of the stomach, may require. 3. i have given the common salt in one case with success, in a hæmorrhage from the stomach, accompanied by a vomiting; and have heard of several cases in which it has been supposed to have checked a discharge of blood from the nose and uterus, but i can say nothing further in its favour in these last hæmorrhages, from my own experience. it may perhaps serve to lessen the prejudices of physicians against adopting improvements in medicine, that are not recommended by the authority of colleges or universities, to add, that we are indebted to an old woman, for the discovery of the efficacy of common salt in the cure of hæmoptysis. thoughts upon the cause and cure of the _pulmonary consumption_. the ancient jews used to say, that a man does not fulfil his duties in life, who passes through it, without building a house, planting a tree, and leaving a child behind him. a physician, in like manner, should consider his obligations to his profession and society as undischarged, who has not attempted to lessen the number of incurable diseases. this is my apology for presuming to make the consumption the object of a medical inquiry. perhaps i may suggest an idea, or fact, that may awaken the ideas and facts which now lie useless in the memories or common-place books of other physicians; or i may direct their attention to some useful experiments upon this subject. i shall begin my observations upon the consumption, by remarking, 1. that it is unknown among the indians in north-america. 2. it is scarcely known by those citizens of the united states, who live in the _first_ stage of civilized life, and who have lately obtained the title of the _first settlers_. the principal occupations of the indian consist in war, fishing, and hunting. those of the first settler, are fishing, hunting, and the laborious employments of subduing the earth, cutting down forests, building a house and barn, and distant excursions, in all kinds of weather, to mills and courts, all of which tend to excite and preserve in the system, something like the indian vigour of constitution. 3. it is less common in country places than in cities, and increases in both, with intemperance and sedentary modes of life. 4. ship and house carpenters, smiths, and all those artificers whose business requires great exertions of strength in the _open_ air, in _all_ seasons of the year, are less subject to this disease, than men who work under cover, and at occupations which do not require the constant action of their limbs. 5. women, who sit more than men, and whose work is connected with less exertion, are most subject to the consumption. from these facts it would seem, that the most probable method of curing the consumption, is to revive in the constitution, by means of exercise or labour, that vigour which belongs to the indians, or to mankind in their first stage of civilization. the efficacy of these means of curing consumption will appear, when we inquire into the relative merit of the several remedies which have been used by physicians in this disease. i shall not produce among these remedies the numerous receipts for syrups, boluses, electuaries, decoctions, infusions, pills, medicated waters, powders, draughts, mixtures, and diet-drinks, which have so long and so steadily been used in this disease; nor shall i mention as a remedy, the best accommodated diet, submitted to with the most patient self-denial; for not one of them all, without the aid of exercise, has ever, i believe, cured a single consumption. 1. sea-voyages have cured consumptions; but it has been only when they have been so long, or so frequent, as to substitute the long continuance of gentle, to violent degrees of exercise of a shorter duration, or where they have been accompanied by some degree of the labour and care of navigating the ship. 2. a change of climate has often been prescribed for the cure of consumptions, but i do not recollect an instance of its having succeeded, except when it has been accompanied by exercise, as in travelling, or by some active laborious pursuit. doctor gordon of madeira, ascribes the inefficacy of the air of madeira in the consumption, in part to the difficulty patients find of using exercise in carriages, or even on horseback, from the badness of the roads in that island. 3. journies have often performed cures in the consumption, but it has been chiefly when they have been long, and accompanied by difficulties which have roused and invigorated the powers of the mind and body. 4. vomits and nauseating medicines have been much celebrated for the cure of consumptions. these, by procuring a temporary determination to the surface of the body, so far lessen the pain and cough, as to enable patients to use profitable exercise. where this has not accompanied or succeeded the exhibition of vomits, i believe they have seldom afforded any _permanent_ relief. 5. blood-letting has often relieved consumptions; but it has been only by removing the troublesome symptoms of inflammatory diathesis, and thereby enabling the patients to use exercise, or labour, with advantage. 6. vegetable bitters and some of the stimulating gums have in some instances afforded relief in consumptions; but they have done so only in those cases where there was great debility, accompanied by a total absence of inflammatory diathesis. they have most probably acted by their tonic qualities, as substitutes for labour and exercise. 7. a plentiful and regular perspiration, excited by means of a flannel shirt, worn next to the skin, or by means of a stove-room, or by a warm climate, has in many instances _prolonged_ life in consumptive habits; but all these remedies have acted as palliatives only, and thereby have enabled the consumptive patients to enjoy the more beneficial effects of exercise. 8. blisters, setons, and issues, by determining the perspirable matter from the lungs to the surface of the body, lessen pain and cough, and thereby prepare the system for the more salutary effects of exercise. 9. the effects of swinging upon the pulse and respiration, leave us no room to doubt of its being a tonic remedy, and therefore a safe and agreeable substitute for exercise. from all these facts it is evident, that the remedies for consumptions must be sought for in those _exercises and employments which give the greatest vigour to the constitution_. and here i am happy in being able to produce several facts which demonstrate the safety and certainty of this method of cure. during the late war, i saw three instances of persons in confirmed consumptions, who were perfectly cured by the hardships of a military life. they had been my patients previously to their entering into the army. besides these, i have heard of four well-attested cases of similar recoveries from nearly the same remedies. one of these was the son of a farmer in new-jersey, who was sent to sea as the last resource for a consumption. soon after he left the american shore, he was taken by a british cruiser, and compelled to share in all the duties and hardships of a common sailor. after serving in this capacity for twenty-two months, he made his escape, and landed at boston, from whence he travelled on foot to his father's house (nearly four hundred miles), where he arrived in perfect health. doctor way of wilmington informed me, that a certain abner cloud, who was reduced so low by a pulmonary consumption as to be beyond all relief from medicine, was so much relieved by sleeping in the open air, and by the usual toils of building a hut, and improving a farm, in the unsettled parts of a new country in pennsylvania, that he thought him in a fair way of a perfect recovery. doctor latimer of wilmington had been long afflicted with a cough and an occasional hæmoptysis. he entered into the american army as a surgeon, and served in that capacity till near the end of the war; during which time he was perfectly free from all pulmonary disease. the spitting of blood returned soon after he settled in private practice. to remedy this complaint, he had recourse to a low diet, but finding it ineffectual, he partook liberally of the usual diet of healthy men, and he now enjoys a perfect exemption from it. it would be very easy to add many other cases, in which labour, the employments of agriculture, and a life of hardship by sea and land, have prevented, relieved, or cured, not only the consumption, but pulmonary diseases of all kinds. to the cases that have been mentioned, i shall add only one more, which was communicated to me by the venerable doctor franklin, whose conversation at all times conveyed instruction, and not less in medicine than upon other subjects. in travelling, many years ago, through new-england, the doctor overtook the post-rider; and after some inquiries into the history of his life, he informed him that he was bred a shoe-maker; that his confinement, and other circumstances, had brought on a consumption, for which he was ordered by a physician to ride on horseback. finding this mode of exercise too expensive, he made interest, upon the death of an old post-rider, to succeed to his appointment, in which he perfectly recovered his health in two years. after this he returned to his old trade, upon which his consumption returned. he again mounted his horse, and rode post in all seasons and weathers, between new-york and connecticut river (about 140 miles), in which employment he continued upwards of thirty years, in perfect health. these facts, i hope, are sufficient to establish the advantages of restoring the original vigour of the constitution, in every attempt to effect a radical cure of consumption. but how shall these remedies be applied in the time of peace, or in a country where the want of woods, and brooks without bridges, forbid the attainment of the laborious pleasures of the indian mode of hunting; or where the universal extent of civilization does not admit of our advising the toils of a new settlement, and improvements upon bare creation? under these circumstances, i conceive substitutes may be obtained for each of them, nearly of equal efficacy, and attainable with much less trouble. 1. doctor sydenham pronounced riding on horseback, to be as certain a cure for consumptions as bark is for an intermitting fever. i have no more doubt of the truth of this assertion, than i have that inflammatory fevers are now less frequent in london than they were in the time of doctor sydenham. if riding on horseback in consumptions has ceased to be a remedy in britain, the fault is in the patient, and not in the remedy. "it is a sign that the stomach requires milk (says doctor cadogan), when it cannot bear it." in like manner, the inability of the patient to bear this manly and wholesome exercise, serves only to demonstrate the necessity and advantages of it. i suspect the same objections to this exercise which have been made in britain, will not occur in the united states of america; for the americans, with respect to the symptoms and degrees of epidemic and chronic diseases, appear to be nearly in the same state that the inhabitants of england were in the seventeenth century. we find, in proportion to the decline of the vigour of the body, that many occasional causes produce fever and inflammation, which would not have done it a hundred years ago. 2. the laborious employments of agriculture, if steadily pursued, and accompanied at the same time by the simple, but wholesome diet of a farmhouse, and a hard bed, would probably afford a good substitute for the toils of a savage or military life. 3. such occupations or professions as require constant labour or exercise in the open air, in all kinds of weather, may easily be chosen for a young man who, either from hereditary predisposition, or an accidental affection of the lungs, is in danger of falling into a consumption. in this we should imitate the advice given by some wise men, always to prefer those professions for our sons, which are the least favourable to the corrupt inclinations of their hearts. for example, where an undue passion for money, or a crafty disposition, discover themselves in early life, we are directed to oppose them by the less profitable and more disinterested professions of divinity or physic, rather than cherish them by trade, or the practice of the law. agreeably to this analogy, weakly children should be trained to the laborious, and the robust, to the sedentary occupations. from a neglect of this practice, many hundred apprentices to taylors, shoemakers, conveyancers, watchmakers, silversmiths, and mantua-makers, perish every year by consumptions. 4. there is a case recorded by dr. smollet, of the efficacy of the cold bath in a consumption; and i have heard of its having been used with success, in the case of a negro man, in one of the west-india islands. to render this remedy useful, or even safe, it will be necessary to join it with labour, or to use it in degrees that shall prevent the alternation of the system with vigour and debility; for i take the cure of consumption ultimately to depend upon the simple and constant action of tonic remedies. it is to be lamented that it often requires so much time, or such remedies to remove the inflammatory diathesis, which attends the first stage of consumption, as to reduce the patient too low to make use of those tonic remedies afterwards, which would effect a radical cure. if it were possible to graduate the tone of the system by means of a scale, i would add, that to cure consumption, the system should be raised to the highest degree of this scale. nothing short of an equilibrium of tone, or a free and vigorous action of every muscle and viscus in the body, will fully come up to a radical cure of this disease. in regulating the diet of consumptive patients, i conceive it to be as necessary to feel the pulse, as it is in determining when and in what quantity to draw blood. where inflammatory diathesis prevails, a vegetable diet is certainly proper; but where the patient has _escaped_, or _passed_ this stage of the disease, i believe a vegetable diet alone to be injurious; and am sure a moderate quantity of animal food may be taken with advantage. the presence or absence of this inflammatory diathesis, furnishes the indications for administering or refraining from the use of the bark and balsamic medicines. with all the testimonies of their having done mischief, many of which i could produce, i have known several cases in which they have been given with obvious advantage; but it was only when there was a total absence of inflammatory diathesis. perhaps the remedies i have recommended, and the opinions i have delivered, may derive some support from attending to the analogy of ulcers on the legs, and in other parts of the body. the first of these occur chiefly in habits debilitated by spiritous liquors, and the last frequently in habits debilitated by the scrophula. in curing these diseases, it is in vain to depend upon internal or external medicines. the whole system must be strengthened, or we do nothing; and this is to be effected only by exercise and a generous diet. in relating the facts that are contained in this inquiry, i wish i could have avoided reasoning upon them; especially as i am confident of the certainty of the facts, and somewhat doubtful of the truth of my reasonings. i shall only add, that if the cure of consumptions should at last be effected by remedies in every respect the opposites of those palliatives which are now fashionable and universal, no more will happen than what we have already seen in the tetanus, the small-pox, and the management of fractured limbs. should this be the case, we shall not be surprised to hear of physicians, instead of prescribing any one, or all of the medicines formerly enumerated for consumptions, ordering their patients to exchange the amusements, or indolence of a city, for the toils of a country life; of their advising farmers to exchange their plentiful tables, and comfortable fire-sides, for the scanty but solid subsistence, and midnight exposure of the herdsman; or of their recommending, not so much the exercise of a _passive_ sea voyage, as the _active_ labours and dangers of a common sailor. nor should it surprise us, after what we have seen, to hear patients relate the pleasant adventures of their excursions or labours, in quest of their recovery from this disease, any more than it does now to see a strong or well-shaped limb that has been broken; or to hear a man talk of his studies, or pleasures, during the time of his being inoculated and attended for the small-pox. i will not venture to assert, that there does not exist a medicine which shall supply, at least in some degree, the place of the labour or exercises, whose usefulness in consumptions has been established by the facts that have been mentioned. many instances of the analogous effects of medicines, and of exercise upon the human body, forbid the supposition. if there does exist in nature such a medicine, i am disposed to believe it will be found in the class of tonics. if this should be the case, i conceive its strength, or its dose, must far exceed the present state of our knowledge or practice, with respect to the efficacy or dose of tonic medicines. i except the disease, which arises from recent abscesses in the lungs, from the general observation which has been made, respecting the inefficacy of the remedies that were formerly enumerated for the cure of consumptions without labour or exercise. these abscesses often occur without being preceded by general debility, or accompanied by a consumptive diathesis, and are frequently cured by nature, or by very simple medicines. observations upon worms in the alimentary canal, and upon anthelmintic medicines. with great diffidence i venture to lay before the public my opinions upon worms: nor should i have presumed to do it, had i not entertained a hope of thereby exciting further inquiries upon this subject. when we consider how universally worms are found in all young animals, and how frequently they exist in the human body, without producing disease of any kind, it is natural to conclude, that they serve some useful and necessary purposes in the animal economy. do they consume the superfluous aliment which all young animals are disposed to take, before they have been taught, by experience or reason, the bad consequences which arise from it? it is no objection to this opinion, that worms are unknown in the human body in some countries. the laws of nature are diversified, and often suspended under peculiar circumstances in many cases, where the departure from uniformity is still more unaccountable, than in the present instance. do worms produce diseases from an _excess_ in their _number_, and an _error_ in their place, in the same manner that blood, bile, and air produce diseases from an _error_ in their place, or from _excess_ in their _quantities_? before these questions are decided, i shall mention a few facts which have been the result of my own observations upon this subject. 1. in many instances, i have seen worms discharged in the small-pox and measles, from children who were in perfect health previously to their being attacked by those diseases, and who never before discovered a single symptom of worms. i shall say nothing here of the swarms of worms which are discharged in fevers of all kinds, until i attempt to prove that an idiopathic fever is never produced by worms. 2. nine out of ten of the cases which i have seen of worms, have been in children of the grossest habits and most vigorous constitutions. this is more especially the case where the worms are dislodged by the small-pox and measles. doctor capelle of wilmington, in a letter which i received from him, informed me, that in the livers of sixteen, out of eighteen rats which he dissected, he found a number of the tænia worms. the rats were fat, and appeared in other respects to have been in perfect health. the two rats in which he found no worms, he says, "were very lean, and their livers smaller in proportion than the others." 3. in weakly children, i have often known the most powerful anthelmintics given without bringing away a single worm. if these medicines have afforded any relief, it has been by their tonic quality. from this fact, is it not probable--the conjecture, i am afraid, is too bold, but i will risk it:--is it not probable, i say, that children are sometimes disordered from the want of worms? perhaps the tonic medicines which have been mentioned, render the bowels a more quiet and comfortable asylum for them, and thereby provide the system with the means of obviating the effects of crapulas, to which all children are disposed. it is in this way that nature, in many instances, cures evil by evil. i confine the salutary office of worms only to that species of them which is known by the name of the round worm, and which occurs most frequently in children. is there any such disease as an idiopathic worm-fever? the indians in this country say there is not, and ascribe the discharge of worms to a fever, and not a fever to the worms[40]. [40] see the inquiry into the diseases of the indians, p. 19. by adopting this opinion, i am aware that i contradict the observations of many eminent and respectable physicians. doctor huxham describes an epidemic pleurisy, in the month of march, in the year 1740, which he supposes was produced by his patients feeding upon some corn that had been injured by the rain the august before[41]. he likewise mentions that a number of people, and those too of the elderly sort[42], were afflicted at one time with worms, in the month of april, in the year 1743. [41] vol. ii. of his epidemics, p. 56. [42] p. 136. lieutade gives an account of an epidemic worm-fever from velchius, an italian physician[43]; and sauvages describes, from vandermonde, an epidemic dysentery from worms, which yielded finally only to worm medicines[44]. sir john pringle, and doctor monro, likewise frequently mention worms as accompanying the dysentery and remitting fever, and recommend the use of calomel as an antidote to them. [43] vol. i. p. 76. [44] vol. ii. p. 329. i grant that worms appear more frequently in some epidemic diseases than in others, and oftener in some years than in others. but may not the same heat, moisture, and diet which produced the diseases, have produced the worms? and may not their discharge from the bowels have been occasioned in those epidemics, as in the small-pox and measles, by the increased heat of the body, by the want of nourishment, or by an anthelmintic quality being accidentally combined with some of the medicines that are usually given in fevers? in answer to this, we are told that we often see the crisis of a fever brought on by the discharge of worms from the bowels by means of a purge, or by an anthelmintic medicine. whenever this is the case, i believe it is occasioned by offending bile being dislodged by means of the purge, at the same time with the worms, or by the anthelmintic medicine (if not a purge) having been given on, or near one of the usual critical days of the fever. what makes the latter supposition probable is, that worms are seldom suspected in the beginning of fevers, and anthelmintic medicines seldom given, till every other remedy has failed of success; and this generally happens about the usual time in which fevers terminate in life or death. it is very remarkable, that since the discovery and description of the hydrocephalus internus, we hear and read much less than formerly of worm-fevers. i suspect that disease of the brain has laid the foundation for the principal part of the cases of worm-fevers which are upon record in books of medicine. i grant that worms sometimes increase the danger from fevers, and often confound the diagnosis and prognosis of them, by a number of new and anomalous symptoms. but here we see nothing more than that complication of symptoms which often occurs in diseases of a very different and opposite nature. having rejected worms as the cause of fevers, i proceed to remark, that the diseases most commonly produced by them, belong to dr. cullen's class of neuroses. and here i might add, that there is scarcely a disease, or a symptom of a disease, belonging to this class, which is not produced by worms. it would be only publishing extracts from books, to describe them. the _chronic_ and _nervous_ diseases of children, which are so numerous and frequently fatal, are, i believe, frequently occasioned by worms. there is no great danger, therefore, of doing mischief, by prescribing anthelmintic medicines in all our first attempts to cure their chronic and nervous diseases. i have been much gratified by finding myself supported in the above theory of worm-fevers, by the late dr. william hunter, and by dr. butter, in his excellent treatise upon the infantile remitting fever. i have taken great pains to find out, whether the presence of the different species of worms might not be discovered by certain peculiar symptoms; but all to no purpose. i once attended a girl of twelve years of age in a fever, who discharged four yards of a tænia, and who was so far from having discovered any peculiar symptom of this species of worms, that she had never complained of any other indisposition, than now and then a slight pain in the stomach, which often occurs in young girls from a sedentary life, or from errors in their diet. i beg leave to add further, that there is not a symptom which has been said to indicate the presence of worms of any kind, as the cause of a disease, that has not deceived me; and none oftener than the one that has been so much depended upon, viz. the picking of the nose. a discharge of worms from the bowels, is, perhaps, the only symptom that is pathognomonic of their presence in the intestines. i shall now make a few remarks upon anthelmintic remedies. but i shall first give an account of some experiments which i made in the year 1771, upon the common earth-worm, in order to ascertain the anthelmintic virtues of a variety of substances. i made choice of the earth-worm for this purpose, as it is, according to naturalists, nearly the same in its structure, manner of subsistence, and mode of propagating its species, with the round worm of the human body. in the first column i shall set down, under distinct heads, the substances in which worms were placed; and in the second and third columns the _time_ of their death, from the action of these substances upon them. i. bitter and astringent | hours. | minutes. substances. | | | | watery infusion of aloes | 2 | 48 ---of rhubarb | 1 | 30 ---of peruvian bark | 1 | 30 | | ii. purges. | | | | watery infusion of jalap | 1 | - -----bear's-foot | 1 | 17 -----gamboge | 1 | - | | iii. salts. | | | | 1. _acids._ | | | | vinegar | - | 1-1/2 convulsed. lime juice | - | 1 diluted nitrous acid | - | 1-1/2 | | 2. _alkali._ | | | | a watery solution of salt of tartar | - | 2 convulsed, throwing | | up a mucus | | on the surface of 3. _neutral salts._ | | the water. | | in a watery solution of common | | salt | - | 1 convulsed. ---of nitre | - | ditto. ---of sal diuretic | - | ditto. ---of sal ammoniac | - | 1-1/2 ---of common salt and sugar. | - | 4 | | 4. _earthy and metallic salts._ | | | | in a watery solution of epsom salt | - | 15-1/2 ---of rock alum | - | 10 ---of corrosive sublimate | - | 1-1/2 convulsed. ---of calomel | - | 49 ---of turpeth mineral | - | 1 convulsed. ---of sugar of lead | - | 3 ---of green vitriol | - | 1 ---of blue vitriol | - | 10 ---of white vitriol | - | 30 iv. metals. | | | | filings of steel | - | 2-1/2 filings of tin | 1 | - | | v. calcareous earth. | | | | chalk | 2 | - | | vi. narcotic substances. | | | | watery infusion of opium | - | 11-1/2 convulsed. ---of carolina pink-root | - | 33 ---of tobacco | - | 14 | | vii. essential oils. | | | | oil of wormwood | - | 3 convulsed. ---of mint | - | 3 ---of caraway seed | - | 3 ---of amber | - | 1-1/2 ---of anniseed | - | 4-1/2 ---of turpentine | - | 6 | | viii. arsenic. | | | | a watery solution of white | near | arsenic | 2 | - | | ix. fermented liquors. | | | | in madeira wine | - | 3 convulsed. claret | - | 10 | | x. distilled spirit. | | | | common rum | - | 1 convulsed. | | xi. the fresh juices of ripe fruits. | | | | the juice of red cherries | - | 5-1/2 ---of black do. | - | 5 ---of red currants | - | 2-1/2 ---of gooseberries | - | 3-1/2 ---of whortleberries | - | 12 ---of blackberries | - | 7 ---of raspberries | - | 5-1/2 ---of plums | - | 13 ---of peaches | - | 25 the juice of water-melons, no | | effect. | - | - | | xii. saccharine substances. | | | | honey | - | 7 molasses | - | 7 brown sugar | - | 30 manna | - | 2-1/2 | | xiii. in aromatic substances. | | | | camphor | - | 5 pimento | - | 3-1/2 black pepper | - | 45 | | xiv. foetid substances | | | | juice of onions | - | 3-1/2 watery infusion of assaf[oe]tida | - | 27 ---santonicum, or worm seed | 1 | - | | xv. miscellaneous substances. | | | | sulphur mixed with oil | 2 | - æthiops mineral | 2 | - sulphur | 2 | - solution of gunpowder | - | 1-1/2 ---of soap | - | 19 oxymel of squills | - | 3-1/2 sweet oil | 2 | 30 in the application of these experiments to the human body, an allowance must always be made for the alteration which the several anthelmintic substances that have been mentioned, may undergo from mixture and diffusion in the stomach and bowels. in order to derive any benefit from these experiments, as well as from the observations that have been made upon anthelmintic medicines, it will be necessary to divide them into such as act, 1. mechanically, 2. chemically upon worms; and, 3. into those which possess a power composed of chemical and mechanical qualities. 1. the mechanical medicines act indirectly and directly upon the worms. those which act _indirectly_ are, vomits, purges, bitter and astringent substances, particularly aloes, rhubarb, bark, bear's-foot, and worm-seed. sweet oil acts indirectly and very feebly upon worms. it was introduced into medicine from its efficacy in destroying the botts in horses; but the worms which infest the human bowels, are of a different nature, and possess very different organs of life from those which are found in the stomach of a horse. those mechanical medicines which act _directly_ upon the worms, are cowhage[45] and powder of tin. the last of these medicines has been supposed to act chemically upon the worms, from the arsenic which adheres to it; but from the length of time a worm lived in a solution of white arsenic, it is probable the tin acts altogether mechanically upon them. [45] dolichos pruriens, of linnæus. 2. the medicines which act chemically upon worms, appear, from our experiments, to be very numerous. nature has wisely guarded children against the morbid effects of worms, by implanting in them an early appetite for common salt, ripe fruits, and saccharine substances; all of which appear to be among the most speedy and effectual poisons for worms. let it not be said, that nature here counteracts her own purposes. her conduct in this business is conformable to many of her operations in the human body, as well as throughout all her works. the bile is a necessary part of the animal fluids, and yet an appetite for ripe fruits seems to be implanted chiefly to obviate the consequences of its excess, or acrimony, in the summer and autumnal months. the use of common salt as an anthelmintic medicine, is both ancient and universal. celsus recommends it. in ireland it is a common practice to feed children, who are afflicted by worms, for a week or two upon a salt-sea weed, and when the bowels are well charged with it, to give a purge of wort in order to carry off the worms, after they are debilitated by the salt diet. i have administered many pounds of common salt coloured with cochineal, in doses of half a drachm, upon an empty stomach in the morning, with great success in destroying worms. ever since i observed the effects of sugar and other sweet substances upon worms, i have recommended the liberal use of all of them in the diet of children, with the happiest effects. the sweet substances probably act in preventing the diseases from worms in the stomach only, into which they often insinuate themselves, especially in the morning. when we wish to dislodge worms from the bowels by sugar or molasses, we must give these substances in large quantities, so that they may escape in part the action of the stomach upon them. i can say nothing from my own experience of the efficacy of the mineral salts, composed of copper, iron, and zinc, combined with vitriolic acid, in destroying worms in the bowels. nor have i ever used the corrosive sublimate in small doses as an anthelmintic. i have heard of well-attested cases of the efficacy of the oil of turpentine in destroying worms. the expressed juices of onions and of garlic are very common remedies for worms. from one of the experiments, it appears that the onion juice possesses strong anthelmintic virtues. i have often prescribed a tea-spoonful of gunpowder in the morning upon an empty stomach, with obvious advantage. the active medicine here is probably the nitre. i have found a syrup made of the bark of the jamaica cabbage-tree[46], to be a powerful as well as a most agreeable anthelmintic medicine. it sometimes purges and vomits, but its good effects may be obtained without giving it in such doses as to produce these evacuations. [46] geoffrea, of linnæus. there is not a more _certain_ anthelmintic than carolina pink-root[47]. but as there have been instances of death having followed excessive doses of it, imprudently administered, and as children are often affected by giddiness, stupor, and a redness and pain in the eyes after taking it, i acknowledge that i have generally preferred to it, less certain, but more safe medicines for destroying worms. [47] spigelia marylandica, of linnæus. 3. of the medicines whose action is compounded of mechanical and chemical qualities, calomel, jalap, and the powder of steel, are the principal. calomel, in order to be effectual, must be given in large doses. it is a safe and powerful anthelmintic. combined with jalap, it often brings away worms when given for other purposes. of all the medicines that i have administered, i know of none more safe and certain than the simple preparations of iron, whether they be given in the form of steel-filings or of the rust of iron. if ever they fail of success, it is because they are given in too small doses. i generally prescribe from five to thirty grains every morning, to children between one year, and ten years old; and i have been taught by an old sea-captain, who was cured of a tænia by this medicine, to give from two drachms to half an ounce of it, every morning, for three or four days, not only with safety, but with success. i shall conclude this essay with the following remarks: 1. where the action of medicines upon worms in the bowels does not agree exactly with their action upon the earth-worms in the experiments that have been related, it must be ascribed to the medicines being more or less altered by the action of the stomach upon them. i conceive that the superior anthelmintic qualities of pink-root, steel-filings, and calomel (all of which acted but slowly upon the earth-worms compared with many other substances) are in a great degree occasioned by their escaping the digestive powers unchanged, and acting in a concentrated state upon the worms. 2. in fevers attended with anomalous symptoms, which are supposed to arise from worms, i have constantly refused to yield to the solicitations of my patients, to abandon the indications of cure in the fever, and to pursue worms as the _principal_ cause of the disease. while i have adhered steadily to the usual remedies for the different states of fever, in all their stages, i have at the same time blended those remedies occasionally with anthelmintic medicines. in this i have imitated the practice of physicians in many other diseases, in which troublesome and dangerous symptoms are pursued, without seducing the attention from the original disease. the anthelmintic medicines prescribed in these cases, should not be the rust of iron, and common salt, which are so very useful in chronic diseases from worms, but calomel and jalap, and such other medicines as aid in the cure of fevers. an account of the _external use of arsenic_, in the cure of cancers. a few years ago, a certain doctor hugh martin, a surgeon of one of the pennsylvania regiments stationed at pittsburg, during the latter part of the late war, came to this city, and advertised to cure cancers with a medicine which he said he had discovered in the woods, in the neighbourhood of the garrison. as dr. martin had once been my pupil, i took the liberty of waiting upon him, and asked him some questions respecting his discovery. his answers were calculated to make me believe, that his medicine was of a vegetable nature, and that it was originally an indian remedy. he showed me some of the medicine, which appeared to be the powder of a well-dried root of some kind. anxious to see the success of this medicine in cancerous sores, i prevailed upon the doctor to admit me to see him apply it in two or three cases. i observed, in some instances, he applied a powder to the parts affected, and in others only touched them with a feather dipped in a liquid which had a white sediment, and which he made me believe was the vegetable root diffused in water. it gave me great pleasure to witness the efficacy of the doctor's applications. in several cancerous ulcers, the cures he performed were complete. where the cancers were much connected with the lymphatic system, or accompanied with a scrophulous habit of body, his medicine always failed, and, in some instances, did evident mischief. anxious to discover a medicine that promised relief in even a few cases of cancers, and supposing that all the caustic vegetables were nearly alike, i applied the phytolacca or poke-root, the stramonium, the arum, and one or two others, to foul ulcers, in hopes of seeing the same effects from them which i had seen from doctor martin's powder; but in these i was disappointed. they gave some pain, but performed no cures. at length i was furnished by a gentleman from pittsburg with a powder which i had no doubt, from a variety of circumstances, was of the same kind as that used by dr. martin. i applied it to a fungous ulcer, but without producing the degrees of pain, inflammation, or discharge, which i had been accustomed to see from the application of dr. martin's powder. after this, i should have suspected that the powder was not a _simple_ root, had not the doctor continued upon all occasions to assure me, that it was wholly a vegetable preparation. in the beginning of the year 1784, the doctor died, and it was generally believed that his medicine had died with him. a few weeks after his death i procured, from one of his administrators, a few ounces of the doctor's powder, partly with a view of applying it to a cancerous sore which then offered, and partly with a view of examining it more minutely than i had been able to do during the doctor's life. upon throwing the powder, which was of a brown colour, upon a piece of white paper, i perceived distinctly a number of white particles scattered through it. i suspected at first that they were corrosive sublimate, but the usual tests of that metallic salt soon convinced me, that i was mistaken. recollecting that arsenic was the basis of most of the celebrated cancer powders that have been used in the world, i had recourse to the tests for detecting it. upon sprinkling a small quantity of the powder upon some coals of fire, it emitted the garlick smell so perceptibly as to be known by several persons whom i called into the room where i made the experiment, and who knew nothing of the object of my inquiries. after this, with some difficulty i picked out about three or four grains of the white powder, and bound them between two pieces of copper, which i threw into the fire. after the copper pieces became red hot, i took them out of the fire, and when they had cooled, discovered an evident whiteness imparted to both of them. one of the pieces afterwards looked like dull silver. these two tests have generally been thought sufficient to distinguish the presence of arsenic in any bodies; but i made use of a third, which has lately been communicated to the world by mr. bergman, and which is supposed to be in all cases infallible. i infused a small quantity of the powder in a solution of a vegetable alkali in water for a few hours, and then poured it upon a solution of blue vitriol in water. the colour of the vitriol was immediately changed to a beautiful green, and afterwards precipitated. i shall close this paper with a few remarks upon this powder, and upon the cure of cancers and foul ulcers of all kinds. 1. the use of caustics in cancers and foul ulcers is very ancient, and universal. but i believe _arsenic_ to be the most efficacious of any that has ever been used. it is the basis of plunket's and probably of guy's well-known cancer powders. the great art of applying it successfully, is to dilute and mix it in such a manner as to mitigate the violence of its action. doctor martin's composition was happily calculated for this purpose. it gave less pain than the common or lunar caustic. it excited a moderate inflammation, which separated the morbid from the sound parts, and promoted a plentiful afflux of humours to the sore during its application. it seldom produced an escar; hence it insinuated itself into the deepest recesses of the cancers, and frequently separated those fibres in an unbroken state, which are generally called the roots of the cancer. upon this account, i think, in some ulcerated cancers it is to be preferred to the knife. it has no action upon the sound skin. this doctor hall proved, by confining a small quantity of it upon his arm for many hours. in those cases where doctor martin used it to extract cancerous or schirrous tumours that were not ulcerated, i have reason to believe that he always broke the skin with spanish flies. 2. the arsenic used by the doctor was the pure white arsenic. i should suppose from the examination i made of the powder with the eye, that the proportion of arsenic to the vegetable powder, could not be more than one-fortieth part of the whole compound. i have reason to think that the doctor employed different vegetable substances at different times. the vegetable matter with which the arsenic was combined in the powder which i used in my experiments, was probably nothing more than the powder of the root and berries of the solanum lethale, or deadly nightshade. as the principal, and perhaps the only design of the vegetable addition was to blunt the activity of the arsenic, i should suppose that the same proportion of common wheat flour as the doctor used of his caustic vegetables, would answer nearly the same purpose. in those cases where the doctor applied a feather dipped in a liquid to the sore of his patient, i have no doubt but his phial contained nothing but a weak solution of arsenic in water. this is no new method of applying arsenic to foul ulcers. doctor way of wilmington has spoken in the highest terms to me of a wash for foulnesses on the skin, as well as old ulcers, prepared by boiling an ounce of white arsenic in two quarts of water to three pints, and applying it once or twice a day. 3. i mentioned, formerly, that doctor martin was often unsuccessful in the application of his powder. this was occasioned by his using it indiscriminately in _all_ cases. in schirrous and cancerous tumours, the knife should always be preferred to the caustic. in cancerous ulcers attended with a scrophulous or a bad habit of body, such particularly as have their seat in the neck, in the breasts of females, and in the axillary glands, it can only protract the patient's misery. most of the cancerous sores cured by doctor martin were seated on the nose, or cheeks, or upon the surface or extremities of the body. it remains yet to discover a cure for cancers that taint the fluids, or infect the whole lymphatic system. this cure i apprehend must be sought for in diet, or in the long use of some internal medicine. to pronounce a disease incurable, is often to render it so. the intermitting fever, if left to itself, would probably prove frequently, and perhaps more speedily fatal than cancers. and as cancerous tumours and sores are often neglected, or treated improperly by injudicious people, from an apprehension that they are incurable (to which the frequent advice of physicians "to let them alone," has no doubt contributed), perhaps the introduction of arsenic into regular practice as a remedy for cancers, may invite to a more early application to physicians, and thereby prevent the deplorable cases that have been mentioned, which are often rendered so by delay or unskilful management. 4. it is not in cancerous sores only that doctor martin's powder has been found to do service. in sores of all kinds, and from a variety of causes, where they have been attended with fungous flesh or callous edges, i have used the doctor's powder with advantage. i flatter myself that i shall be excused in giving this detail of a _quack_ medicine, when we reflect that it was from the inventions and temerity of quacks, that physicians have derived some of their most active and most useful medicines. observations upon _the tetanus_. for a history of the different names and symptoms of this disease, i beg leave to refer the reader to practical books, particularly to doctor cullen's first lines. my only design in this inquiry, is to deliver such a theory of the disease, as may lead to a new and successful use of old and common remedies for it. all the remote and predisposing causes of the tetanus act by inducing preternatural debility, and irritability in the muscular parts of the body. in many cases, the remote causes act alone, but they more frequently require the co-operation of an exciting cause. i shall briefly enumerate, without discriminating them, or pointing out when they act singly, or when in conjunction with each other. i. wounds on different parts of the body are the most frequent causes of this disease. it was formerly supposed it was the effect only of a wound, which partially divided a tendon, or a nerve; but we now know it is often the consequence of læsions which affect the body in a superficial manner. the following is a list of such wounds and læsions as have been known to induce the disease: 1. wounds in the soles of the feet, in the palms of the hands, and under the nails, by means of nails or splinters of wood. 2. amputations, and fractures of limbs. 3. gun-shot wounds. 4. venesection. 5. the extraction of a tooth, and the insertion of new teeth. 6. the extirpation of a schirrous. 7. castration. 8. a wound on the tongue. 9. the injury which is done to the feet by frost. 10. the injury which is sometimes done to one of the toes, by stumping it (as it is called) in walking. 11. cutting a nail too closely. also, 12. cutting a corn too closely. 13. wearing a shoe so tight as to abrade the skin of one of the toes. 14. a wound, not more than an eighth part of an inch, upon the forehead. 15. the stroke of a whip upon the arm, which only broke the skin. 16. walking too soon upon a broken limb. 17. the sting of a wasp upon the glands penis. 18. a fish bone sticking in the throat. 19. cutting the navel string in new-born infants. between the time in which the body is thus wounded or injured, and the time in which the disease makes its appearance, there is an interval which extends from one day to six weeks. in the person who injured his toe by stumping it in walking, the disease appeared the next day. the trifling wound on the forehead which i have mentioned, produced both tetanus and death, the day after it was received. i have known two instances of tetanus, from running nails in the feet, which did not appear until six weeks afterwards. in most of the cases of this disease from wounds which i have seen, there was a total absence of pain and inflammation, or but very moderate degrees of them, and in some of them the wounds had entirely healed, before any of the symptoms of the disease had made their appearance. wounds and læsions are most apt to produce tetanus, after the long continued application of heat to the body; hence its greater frequency, from these causes, in warm than in cold climates, and in warm than in cold weather, in northern countries. ii. cold applied suddenly to the body, after it has been exposed to intense heat. of this dr. girdlestone mentions many instances, in his treatise upon spasmodic affections in india. it was most commonly induced by sleeping upon the ground, after a warm day. such is the dampness and unwholesome nature of the ground, in some parts of that country, that "fowls (the doctor says) put into coops at night, in the sickly season of the year, and on the same soil that the men slept, were always found dead the next morning, if the coop was not placed at a certain height above the surface of the earth[48]." it was brought on by sleeping on a damp pavement in a servant girl of mr. alexander todd of philadelphia, in the evening of a day in which the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood at 90°. dr. chalmers relates an instance of its having been induced by a person's sleeping without a nightcap, after shaving his head. the late dr. bartram informed me, that he had known a draught of cold water produce it in a man who was in a preternaturally heated state. the cold air more certainly brings on this disease, if it be applied to the body in the form of a current. the stiff neck which is sometimes felt after exposure to a stream of cool air from an open window, is a tendency to a locked jaw, or a feeble and partial tetanus. [48] page 55. iii. worms and certain acrid matters in the alimentary canal. morgagni relates an instance of the former, and i shall hereafter mention instances of the latter in new-born infants. iv. certain poisonous vegetables. there are several cases upon record of its being induced by the hemlock dropwort, and the datura stramonium, or jamestown weed of our country. v. it is sometimes a symptom of the bilious remitting and intermitting fever. it is said to occur more frequently in those states of fever in the island of malta, than in any other part of the world. vi. it is likewise a symptom of that malignant state of fever which is brought on by the bite of a rabid animal, also of hysteria and gout. vii. the grating noise produced by cutting with a knife upon a pewter plate excited it in a servant, while he was waiting upon his master's table in london. it proved fatal in three days. viii. the sight of food, after long fasting. ix. drunkenness. x. certain emotions and passions of the mind. terror brought it on a brewer in this city. he had been previously debilitated by great labour, in warm weather. i have heard of its having been induced in a man by agitation of mind, occasioned by seeing a girl tread upon a nail. fear excited it in a soldier who kneeled down to be shot. upon being pardoned he was unable to rise, from a sudden attack of tetanus. grief produced it in a case mentioned by dr. willan. xi. parturition. all these remote and exciting causes act with more or less certainty and force, in proportion to the greater or less degrees of fatigue which have preceded them. it has been customary with authors to call all those cases of tetanus, which are not brought on by wounds, symptomatic. they are no more so than those which are said to be idiopathic. they all depend alike upon irritating impressions, made upon one part of the body, producing morbid excitement, or disease in another. it is immaterial, whether the impression be made upon the intestines by a worm, upon the ear by an ungrateful noise, upon the mind by a strong emotion, or upon the sole of the foot by a nail; it is alike communicated to the muscles, which, from their previous debility and irritability, are thrown into commotions by it. in yielding to the impression of irritants, they follow in their contractions the order of their predisposing debility. the muscles which move the lower jaw are affected more early, and more obstinately than any of the other external muscles of the body, only because they are more constantly in a relaxed, or idle state. the negroes in the west-indies are more subject to this disease than white people. this has been ascribed to the greater irritability of their muscular systems, which constitutes a part of its predisposing cause. it is remarkable that their sensibility lessens with the increase of their irritability; and hence, dr. moseley says, they bear surgical operations much better than white people. new-born infants are often affected by this disease in the west-indies. i have seen a few cases of it in philadelphia. it is known by the name of the jaw-fall. its causes are: 1. the cutting of the navel string. this is often done with a pair of dull scissors, by which means the cord is bruised. 2. the acrimony of the meconium retained in the bowels. 3. cold air acting upon the body, after it has been heated by the air of a hot room. 4. smoke is supposed to excite it, in the negro quarters in the west-indies. it is unknown, dr. winterbottom informs us, among the native africans in the neighbourhood of sierra leone. i am aware that it is ascribed by many physicians to only one of the above causes; but i see no reason why it should not be induced by more than one cause in infants, when we see it brought on by so many different causes in grown people. the tetanus is not confined to the human species. it often affects horses in the west-indies. i have seen several cases of it in philadelphia. the want of uniform success in the treatment of this disease, has long been a subject of regret among physicians. it may be ascribed to the use of the same remedies, without any respect to the nature of the causes which produce it, and to an undue reliance upon some one remedy, under a belief of its specific efficacy. opium has been considered as its antidote, without recollecting that it was one only, of a numerous class of medicines, that are all alike useful in it. tetanus, from all its causes, has nearly the same premonitory symptoms. these are a stiffness in the neck, a disposition to bend forward, in order to relieve a pain in the back, costiveness, a pain about the external region of the stomach, and a disposition to start in sleep. in this feeble state of the disease, an emetic, a strong dose of laudanum, the warm bath, or a few doses of bark, have often prevented its being completely formed. when it has arisen from a wound, dilating it if small or healed, and afterwards inflaming it, by applying to it turpentine, common salt, corrosive sublimate, or spanish flies, have, in many hundred instances, been attended with the same salutary effects. the disease i have said is seated in the muscles, and, while they are preternaturally excited, the blood-vessels are in a state of reduced excitement. this is evident from the feebleness and slowness of the pulse. it sometimes beats, according to dr. lining, but forty strokes in a minute. by stimulating the wound, we not only restore the natural excitement of the blood-vessels, but we produce an inflammatory diathesis in them, which abstracts morbid excitement from the muscular system, and, by equalizing it, cures the disease. this remedy i acknowledge has not been as successfully employed in the west-indies as in the united states, and that for an obvious reason. the blood-vessels in a warm climate refuse to assume an inflammatory action. stimuli hurry them on suddenly to torpor or gangrene. hence the danger and even fatal effects of blood-letting, in the fevers which affect the natives of the islands, a few hours after they are formed. but widely different is the nature of wounds, and of the tension of the blood-vessels, in the inhabitants of northern countries. while dr. dallas deplores the loss of 49 out of 50 affected with tetanus from wounds, in the west-india islands, i am sure i could mention many hundred instances of the disease being prevented, and a very different proportion of cures being performed, by inflaming the wounds, and exciting a counter _morbid_ action in the blood-vessels. when the disease is the effect of fever, the same remedies should be given, as are employed in the cure of that fever. i have once unlocked the jaw of a woman who was seized at the same time with a remitting fever, by an emetic, and i have heard of its being cured in a company of surveyors, in whom it was the effect of an intermittent, by large doses of bark. when it accompanies malignant fever, hysteria, or gout, the remedies for those forms of disease should be employed. bleeding was highly useful in it in a case of yellow fever which occurred in philadelphia in the year 1794. when it is produced by the suppression of perspiration by means of cold, the warm bath and sweating medicines have been found most useful in it. nature has in one instance pointed out the use of this remedy, by curing the disease by a miliary eruption on the skin[49]. [49] burserus. if it be the effect of poisonous substances taken into the stomach, or of worms in the bowels, the cure should be begun by emetics, purges, and anthelmintic medicines. where patients are unable to swallow, from the teeth of the upper and lower jaw pressing upon each other, a tooth or two should be extracted, to open a passage for our medicines into the throat. if this be impracticable or objected to, they should be injected by way of glyster. in the locked jaw which arises from the extraction of a tooth, an instrument should be introduced to depress the jaw. this has been done by a noted english dentist in london, with success. as the habit of diseased action often continues after the removal of its causes, and as some of the remote causes of this disease are beyond the reach of medicine, such remedies should be given as are calculated, by their stimulating power, to overcome the morbid or spasmodic action of the muscles. these are: 1. opium. it should be given in large and frequent doses. dr. streltz says he has found from one to two drachms of an alkali, taken in the course of a day, greatly to aid the action of the opium in this disease. 2. wine. this should be given in quarts, and even gallons daily. dr. currie relates a case of a man in the infirmary of liverpool, who was cured of tetanus, by drinking nearly a quarter cask of madeira wine. dr. hosack speaks in high terms of it, in a letter to dr. duncan, and advises its being given without any other stimulating medicine. 3. ardent spirits. a quack in new-england has lately cured tetanus, by giving ardent spirits in such quantities as to produce intoxication. upon being asked his reason for this strange practice, he said, he had always observed the jaw to fall in drunken men, and any thing that would produce that effect, he supposed to be proper in the locked jaw. 4. the bark has of late years been used in this disease with success. i had the pleasure of first seeing its good effects in the case of colonel stone, in whom a severe tetanus followed a wound in the foot, received at the battle of germantown, in october, 1777. 5. the cold bath. this remedy has been revived by dr. wright of jamaica, and has in many instances performed cures of this disease. in one of two cases in which i have used it with success, the patient's jaw opened in a few minutes after the affusion of a single bucket of water upon her body. the disease was occasioned by a slight injury done to one of her toes, by wearing a tight shoe. the signals for continuing the use of the cold bath, are its being followed by a slight degree of fever, and a general warmth of the skin. where these do not occur, there is reason to believe it will do no service, or perhaps do harm. we have many proofs of the difference in the same disease, and in the operation of the same medicine, in different and opposite climates. dr. girdlestone has mentioned the result of the use of the cold bath in tetanus in the east-indies, which furnishes a striking addition to the numerous facts that have been collected upon that subject. he tells us the cold bath uniformly destroyed life, in every case in which it was used. the reason is obvious. in that extremely debilitating climate, the system in tetanus was prostrated too low to re-act, under the sedative operation of the cold water. 6. the warm bath has often been used with success in this disease. its temperature should be regulated by our wishes to promote sweats, or to produce excitement in the blood-vessels. in the latter case it should rise above the heat of the human body. 7. the oil of amber acts powerfully upon the muscular system. i have seen the happiest effects from the exhibition of six or eight drops of it, every two hours, in this disease. 8. a salivation has been often recommended for the cure of tetanus, but unfortunately it can seldom be excited in time to do service. i once saw it complete the cure of a sailor in the pennsylvania hospital, whose life was prolonged by the alternate use of bark and wine. the disease was brought on him by a mortification of his feet, in consequence of their being frost-bitten. 9. dr. girdlestone commends blisters in high terms in this disease. he says he never saw it prove fatal, even where they only produced a redness on the skin. 10. i have heard of electricity having been used with advantage in tetanus, but i can say nothing in its favour from my own experience. in order to ensure the utmost benefit from the use of the above remedies, it will be necessary for a physician always to recollect, that the disease is attended with great morbid action, and of course each of the stimulating medicines that has been mentioned should be given, 1st, in large doses; 2dly, in succession; 3dly, in rotation; and 4thly, by way of glyster, as well as by the mouth. the jaw-fall in new-born infants is, i believe, always fatal. purging off the meconium from the bowels immediately after birth has often prevented it from one of its causes; and applying a rag wetted with spirit of turpentine to the navel-string, immediately after it is cut, dr. chisholm says, prevents it from another of its causes which has been mentioned. this disease, i have said, sometimes affects horses. i have twice seen it cured by applying a potential caustic to the neck under the mane, by large doses of the oil of amber, and by plunging one of them into a river, and throwing buckets of cold water upon the other. i shall conclude my observations upon the tetanus with the following queries: 1. what would be the effects of _copious_ blood-letting in this disease? there is a case upon record of its efficacy, in the medical journal of paris, and i have now in my possession a letter from the late dr. hopkins of connecticut, containing the history of a cure performed by it. where tetanus is the effect of primary gout, hysteria, or fever, attended with highly inflammatory symptoms, bleeding is certainly indicated, but, in general, the disease is so completely insulated in the muscles, and the arteries are so far below their par of excitement in frequency and force, that little benefit can be expected from that remedy. the disease, in these cases, seems to call for an elevation, instead of a diminution, of the excitement of the blood-vessels. 2. what would be the effect of _extreme_ cold in this disease? mr. john hunter used to say, in his lectures, "were he to be attacked by it, he would, if possible, fly to nova-zembla, or throw himself into an ice-house." i have no doubt of the efficacy of intense cold, in subduing the inordinate morbid actions which occur in the muscular system; but it offers so much violence to the fears and prejudices of sick people, or their friends, that it can seldom be applied in such a manner as to derive much benefit from it. perhaps the sedative effects of cold might be obtained with less difficulty, by wrapping the body in sheets, and wetting them occasionally for an hour or two with cold water. 3. what would be the effect of exciting a strong counter-action in the stomach and bowels in this disease? dr. brown of kentucky cured a tetanus by inflaming the stomach, by means of the tincture of cantharides. it has likewise been cured by a severe cholera morbus, induced by a large dose of corrosive sublimate. the stomach and bowels, and the external muscles of the body, discover strong associations in many diseases. a sick stomach is always followed by general weakness, and the dry gripes often paralyze the muscles of the arms and limbs. but further, one of the remote causes of tetanus, viz. cold air, often shows the near relationship of the muscles to the bowels, and the vicarious nature of disease in each of them. it often produces in the latter, in the west-indies, what the french physicians call a "crampe seche," or, in other words, if i may be allowed the expression, a tetanus in the bowels. 4. a sameness has been pointed out between many of the symptoms of hydrophobia and tetanus. a similar difficulty of swallowing, and similar convulsions after it, have been remarked in both diseases. death often takes place suddenly in tetanus, as it does in hydrophobia, without producing marks of fatal disorganization in any of the internal parts of the body. dr. physick supposes death in these cases to be the effect of suffocation, from a sudden spasm and closure of the glottis, and proposes to prevent it in the same manner that he has proposed to prevent death from hydrophobia, that is, by laryngotomy[50]. the prospect of success from it appears alike reasonable in both cases. [50] medical repository. the result of observations made upon _the diseases_ which occurred in the military hospitals of the united states, during the revolutionary war between great britain and the united states. 1. the army when in tents, was always more sickly, than in the open air. it was likewise more healthy when it was kept in motion, than when it lay in an encampment. 2. young men under twenty years of age, were subject to the greatest number of camp diseases. 3. the southern troops were more sickly than the northern or eastern troops. 4. the native americans were more sickly than the natives of europe who served in the american army. 5. men above thirty, and five and thirty years of age, were the hardiest soldiers in the army. perhaps the reason why the natives of europe were more healthy than the native americans, was, they were more advanced in life. 6. the southern troops sickened from the want of salt provisions. their strength and spirits were restored only by means of salted meat. i once saw a private in a virginia regiment, throw away his ration of choice fresh beef, and give a dollar for a pound of salted bacon. 7. those officers who wore flannel shirts or waistcoats next to their skins, in general escaped fevers and diseases of all kinds. 8. the principal diseases in the hospitals were the typhus gravior and mitior of doctor cullen. men who came into the hospitals with pleurisies or rheumatisms, soon lost the types of their original diseases, and suffered, or died, by the above-mentioned states of fever. 9. the typhus mitior always prevailed most, and with the worst symptoms in winter. a free air, which could only be obtained in summer, always prevented, or mitigated it. 10. in all those cases, where the contagion was received, cold seldom failed to render it active. whenever an hospital was removed in winter, one half of the patients generally sickened on the way, or soon after their arrival at the place to which they were sent. 11. drunken soldiers and convalescents were most subject to this fever. 12. those patients in this fever who had large ulcers on their back or limbs, generally recovered. 13. i met with several instances of buboes, also of ulcers in the throat, as described by doctor donald monro. they were mistaken by some of the junior surgeons for venereal sores, but they yielded to the common remedies of the hospital fever. 14. there were many instances of patients in this fever, who suddenly fell down dead, upon being moved, without any previous symptoms of approaching dissolution. this was more especially the case, when they arose to go to stool. 15. the contagion of this fever was frequently conveyed from the hospital to the camp, by means of blankets and clothes. 16. those black soldiers who had been previously slaves, died in a greater proportion by this fever, or had a much slower recovery from it, than the same number of white soldiers. 17. the remedies which appeared to do most service in this disease were vomits of tartar emetic, gentle dozes of laxative salts, bark, wine, volatile salt, opium, and blisters. 18. an emetic seldom failed of checking this fever if exhibited while it was in a _forming_ state, and before the patient was confined to his bed. 19. many causes concurred to produce, and increase this fever; such as the want of cleanliness, excessive fatigue, the ignorance or negligence of officers in providing suitable diet and accommodations for their men, the general use of linen instead of woollen clothes in the summer months, and the crowding too many patients together in one hospital, with such other inconveniences and abuses, as usually follow the union of the _purveying_ and _directing_ departments of hospitals in the _same_ persons. but there is one more cause of this fever which remains to be mentioned, and that is, the sudden assembling of a great number of persons together of different habits and manners, such as the soldiers of the american army were in the years 1776 and 1777. doctor blane informs us, in his observations upon the diseases of seamen, "that it sometimes happens that a ship with a long established crew shall be very _healthy_, yet if strangers are introduced among them, who are also _healthy_, sickness will be mutually produced." the history of diseases furnishes many proofs of the truth of this assertion[51]. it is very remarkable, that while the american army at cambridge, in the year 1775, consisted only of new-englandmen (whose habits and manners were the same) there was scarcely any sickness among them. it was not till the troops of the eastern, middle, and southern states met at new-york and ticonderoga, in the year 1776, that the typhus became universal, and spread with such peculiar mortality in the armies of the united states. [51] "cleanliness is founded on a natural aversion to what is unseemly and offensive in the persons of others; and there seems also to be an instinctive horror at strangers implanted in human nature for the same purpose, as is visible in young children, and uncultivated people. in the early ages of rome, the same word signified both a stranger and an enemy." dr. blane, p. 225. 20. the dysentery prevailed, in the summer of 1777, in the military hospitals of new-jersey, but with very few instances of mortality. this dysentery was frequently followed by an obstinate diarrh[oe]a, in which the warm bath was found in many cases to be an effectual remedy. 21. i saw several instances of fevers occasioned by the use of the common ointment made of the flour of sulphur and hog's lard, for the cure of the itch. the fevers were probably brought on by the exposure of the body to the cold air, in the usual method in which that ointment is applied. i have since learned, that the itch may be cured as speedily by rubbing the parts affected, two or three times, with the dry flour of sulphur, and that no inconvenience, and scarcely any smell, follow this mode of using it. 22. in gun-shot wounds of the joints, mr. ranby's advice of amputating the limb was followed with success. i saw two cases of death where this advice was neglected. 23. there was one instance of a soldier who lost his hearing, and another of a soldier who had been deaf who recovered his hearing, by the noise of artillery in a battle. 24. those soldiers who were billetted in private houses, generally escaped the hospital fever, and recovered soonest from all their diseases. 25. hospitals built of coarse logs, with _ground_ floors, with fire-places in the middle of them, and a hole in the roof, for the discharge of smoke, were found to be very conducive to the recovery of the soldiers from the hospital fever. this form of a military hospital was introduced into the army by dr. tilton of the state of delaware[52]. [52] "it is proved, in innumerable instances, that sick men recover health sooner and better in sheds, huts, and barns, exposed occasionally to wind, and sometimes to rain, than in the most superb hospitals in europe." jackson's remarks on the constitution of the medical department of the british army, p. 340. 26. in fevers and dysenteries, those soldiers recovered most certainly, and most speedily, who lay at the greatest distance from the walls of the hospitals. this important fact was communicated to me by the late dr. beardsley of connecticut. 27. soldiers are but little more than adult children. that officer, therefore, will best perform his duty to his men, who obliges them to take the most care of their health. 28. hospitals are the sinks of human life in an army. they robbed the united states of more citizens than the sword. humanity, economy, and philosophy, all concur in giving a preference to the conveniences and wholesome air of private houses; and should war continue to be the absurd and unchristian mode of deciding national disputes, it is to be hoped that the progress of science will so far mitigate one of its greatest calamities, as to produce an abolition of hospitals for acute diseases. perhaps there are no cases of sickness in which reason and religion do not forbid the seclusion of our fellow creatures from the offices of humanity in private families, except where they labour under the calamities of madness and the venereal disease, or where they are the subjects of some of the operations of surgery. an account of the influence of the military and political events of the _american revolution_ upon the human body. there were several circumstances peculiar to the american revolution, which should be mentioned previously to an account of the influence of the events which accompanied it, upon the human body. 1. the revolution interested every inhabitant of the country of both sexes, and of every rank and age that was capable of reflection. an indifferent, or neutral spectator of the controversy, was scarcely to be found in any of the states. 2. the scenes of war and government which it introduced, were new to the greatest part of the inhabitants of the united states, and operated with all the force of _novelty_ upon the human mind. 3. the controversy was conceived to be the most important of any that had ever engaged the attention of mankind. it was generally believed, by the friends of the revolution, that the very existence of _freedom_ upon our globe, was involved in the issue of the contest in favour of the united states. 4. the american revolution included in it the cares of government, as well as the toils and dangers of war. the american mind was, therefore, frequently occupied at the _same time_, by the difficult and complicated duties of political and military life. 5. the revolution was conducted by men who had been born _free_, and whose sense of the blessings of liberty was of course more exquisite than if they had just emerged from a state of slavery. 6. the greatest part of the soldiers in the armies of the united states had family connections and property in the country. 7. the war was carried on by the americans against a nation, to whom they had long been tied by the numerous obligations of consanguinity, laws, religion, commerce, language, interest, and a mutual sense of national glory. the resentments of the americans of course rose, as is usual in all disputes, in proportion to the number and force of these ancient bonds of affection and union. 8. a predilection to a limited monarchy, as an essential part of a free and safe government, and an attachment to the reigning king of great-britain (with a very few exceptions), were universal in every part of the united states. 9. there was at one time a sudden dissolution of civil government in _all_, and of ecclesiastical establishments in several of the states. 10. the expences of the war were supported by means of a paper currency, which was continually depreciating. from the action of each of these causes, and frequently from their combination in the same persons, effects might reasonably be expected, both upon the mind and body, which have seldom occurred; or if they have, i believe were never fully recorded in any age or country. it might afford some useful instruction, to point out the influence of the military and political events of the revolution upon the understandings, passions, and morals of the citizens of the united states; but my business in the present inquiry, is only to take notice of the influence of those events upon the human body, through the medium of the mind. i shall first mention the effects of the military, and secondly, of the political events of the revolution. the last must be considered in a two-fold view, accordingly as they affected the friends, or the enemies of the revolution. i. in treating of the effects of the military events, i shall take notice, first, of the influence of _actual_ war, and, secondly, of the influence of the military life. in the beginning of a battle, i have observed _thirst_ to be a very common sensation among both officers and soldiers. it occurred where no exercise, or action of the body, could have excited it. many officers have informed me, that after the first onset in a battle, they felt a glow of heat, so universal as to be perceptible in both their ears. this was the case, in a particular manner, in the battle of princeton, on the third of january, in the year 1777, on which day the weather was remarkably cold. a veteran colonel of a new-england regiment, whom i visited at princeton, and who was wounded in the hand at the battle of monmouth, on the 28th of june, 1778 (a day in which the mercury stood at 90° of fahrenheit's thermometer), after describing his situation at the time he received his wound, concluded his story by remarking, that "fighting was hot work on a cold day, but much more so on a warm day." the many instances which appeared after that memorable battle, of soldiers who were found among the slain without any marks of wounds or violence upon their bodies, were probably occasioned by the heat excited in the body, by the emotions of the mind, being added to that of the atmosphere. soldiers bore operations of every kind immediately _after_ a battle, with much more fortitude than they did at _any time_ afterwards. the effects of the military life upon the human body come next to be considered under this head. in another place[53] i have mentioned three cases of pulmonary consumption being perfectly cured by the diet and hardships of a camp life. [53] page 204. doctor blane, in his valuable observations on the diseases incident to seamen, ascribes the extraordinary healthiness of the british fleet in the month of april, 1782, to the effects produced on the spirit of the soldiers and seamen, by the victory obtained over the french fleet on the 12th of that month; and relates, upon the authority of mr. ives, an instance in the war between great-britain and the combined powers of france and spain, in 1744, in which the scurvy, as well as other diseases, were checked by the prospect of a naval engagement. the american army furnished an instance of the effects of victory upon the human mind, which may serve to establish the inferences from the facts related by doctor blane. the philadelphia militia who joined the remains of general washington's army, in december, 1776, and shared with them a few days afterwards in the capture of a large body of hessians at trenton, consisted of 1500 men, most of whom had been accustomed to the habits of a city life. these men slept in tents and barns, and sometimes in the open air during the usual colds of december and january; and yet there were but two instances of sickness, and only one of death, in that body of men in the course of nearly six weeks, in those winter months. this extraordinary healthiness of so great a number of men under such trying circumstances, can only be ascribed to the vigour infused into the human body by the victory of trenton having produced insensibility to all the usual remote causes of diseases. militia officers and soldiers, who enjoyed good health during a campaign, were often affected by fevers and other diseases, as soon as they returned to their respective homes. i knew one instance of a militia captain, who was seized with convulsions the first night he lay on a feather bed, after sleeping several months on a mattrass, or upon the ground. these affections of the body appeared to be produced only by the sudden abstraction of that tone in the system which was excited by a sense of danger, and the other invigorating objects of a military life. the nostalgia of doctor cullen, or the _home-sickness_, was a frequent disease in the american army, more especially among the soldiers of the new-england states. but this disease was suspended by the superior action of the mind under the influence of the principles which governed common soldiers in the american army. of this general gates furnished me with a remarkable instance in 1776, soon after his return from the command of a large body of regular troops and militia at ticonderoga. from the effects of the nostalgia, and the feebleness of the discipline, which was exercised over the militia, desertions were very frequent and numerous in his army, in the latter part of the campaign; and yet during the _three weeks_ in which the general expected every hour an attack to be made upon him by general burgoyne, there was not a single desertion from his army, which consisted at that time of 10,000 men. the patience, firmness, and magnanimity with which the officers and soldiers of the american army endured the complicated evils of hunger, cold, and nakedness, can only be ascribed to an insensibility of body produced by an uncommon tone of mind excited by the love of liberty and their country. before i proceed to the second general division of this subject, i shall take notice, that more instances of apoplexies occurred in the city of philadelphia, in the winter of 1774-5, than had been known in former years. i should have hesitated in recording this fact, had i not found the observation supported by a fact of the same kind, and produced by a nearly similar cause, in the appendix to the practical works of doctor baglivi, professor of physic and anatomy at rome. after a very wet season in the winter of 1694-5, he informs us, that "apoplexies displayed their rage; and perhaps (adds our author) that some part of this epidemic illness was owing to the universal grief and domestic care, occasioned by all europe being engaged in a war. all commerce was disturbed, and all the avenues of peace blocked up, so that the strongest heart could scarcely bear the thoughts of it." the winter of 1774-5 was a period of uncommon anxiety among the citizens of america. every countenance wore the marks of painful solicitude, for the event of a petition to the throne of britain, which was to determine whether reconciliation, or a civil war, with all its terrible and distressing consequences, were to take place. the apoplectic fit, which deprived the world of the talents and virtues of peyton randolph, while he filled the chair of congress, in 1775, appeared to be occasioned in part by the pressure of the uncertainty of those great events upon his mind. to the name of this illustrious patriot, several others might be added, who were affected by the apoplexy in the same memorable year. at this time a difference of opinion upon the subject of the contest with great-britain, had scarcely taken place among the citizens of america. ii. the political events of the revolution produced different effects upon the human body, through the medium of the mind, according as they acted upon the friends or enemies of the revolution. i shall first describe its effects upon the former class of citizens of the united states. many persons, of infirm and delicate habits, were restored to perfect health, by the change of place, or occupation, to which the war exposed them. this was the case in a more especial manner with hysterical women, who were much interested in the successful issue of the contest. the same effects of a civil war upon the hysteria, were observed by doctor cullen in scotland, in the years 1745 and 1746. it may perhaps help to extend our ideas of the influence of the passions upon diseases, to add, that when either love, jealousy, grief, or even devotion, wholly engross the female mind, they seldom fail, in like manner, to cure or to suspend hysterical complaints. an uncommon cheerfulness prevailed every where, among the friends of the revolution. defeats, and even the loss of relations and property, were soon forgotten in the great objects of the war. the population in the united states was more rapid from births during the war, than it had ever been in the same number of years since the settlement of the country. i am disposed to ascribe this increase of births _chiefly_ to the quantity and extensive circulation of money, and to the facility of procuring the means of subsistence during the war, which favoured marriages among the labouring part of the people[54]. but i have sufficient documents to prove, that marriages were more fruitful than in former years, and that a considerable number of unfruitful marriages became fruitful during the war. in 1783, the year of the peace, there were several children born of parents who had lived many years together without issue. [54] wheat, which was sold before the war for seven shillings and sixpence, was sold for several years _during_ the war for four, and in some places for two and sixpence pennsylvania currency per bushel. beggars of every description disappeared in the year 1776, and were seldom seen till near the close of the war. mr. hume informs us, in his history of england, that some old people, upon hearing the news of the restoration of charles ii, died suddenly of joy. there was a time when i doubted the truth of this assertion; but i am now disposed to believe it, from having heard of a similar effect from an agreeable political event, in the course of the american revolution. the door-keeper of congress, an aged man, died suddenly, immediately after hearing of the capture of lord cornwallis' army. his death was universally ascribed to a violent emotion of political joy. this species of joy appears to be one of the strongest emotions that can agitate the human mind. perhaps the influence of that ardour in trade and speculation, which seized many of the friends of the revolution, and which was excited by the fallacious nominal amount of the paper money, should rather be considered as a disease, than as a passion. it unhinged the judgment, deposed the moral faculty, and filled the imagination, in many people, with airy and impracticable schemes of wealth and grandeur. desultory manners, and a peculiar species of extempore conduct, were among its characteristic symptoms. it produced insensibility to cold, hunger, and danger. the trading towns, and in some instances the extremities of the united states, were frequently visited in a few hours or days by persons affected by this disease; and hence "to travel with the speed of a speculator," became a common saying in many parts of the country. this species of insanity (if i may be allowed to call it by that name) did not require the confinement of a bedlam to cure it, like the south-sea madness described by doctor mead. its remedies were the depreciation of the paper money, and the events of the peace. the political events of the revolution produced upon its enemies very different effects from those which have been mentioned. the hypochondriasis of doctor cullen occurred, in many instances, in persons of this description. in some of them, the terror and distress of the revolution brought on a true melancholia[55]. the causes which produced these diseases may be reduced to four heads. 1. the loss of former power or influence in government. 2. the destruction of the hierarchy of the english church in america. 3. the change in the habits of diet, and company, and manners, produced by the annihilation of just debts by means of depreciated paper money. and 4. the neglect, insults, and oppression, to which the loyalists were exposed, from individuals, and, in several instances, from the laws of some of the states. [55] insania partialis sine dyspepsia, of doctor cullen. it was observed in south-carolina, that several gentlemen who had protected their estates by swearing allegiance to the british government, died soon after the evacuation of charleston by the british army. their deaths were ascribed to the neglect with which they were treated by their ancient friends, who had adhered to the government of the united states. the disease was called, by the common people, the _protection fever_. from the causes which produced this hypochondriasis, i have taken the liberty of distinguishing it by the name of _revolutiana_. in some cases, this disease was rendered fatal by exile and confinement; and, in others, by those persons who were afflicted with it, seeking relief from spiritous liquors. the termination of the war by the peace in 1783, did not terminate the american revolution. the minds of the citizens of the united states were wholly unprepared for their new situation. the excess of the passion for liberty, inflamed by the successful issue of the war, produced, in many people, opinions and conduct which could not be removed by reason nor restrained by government. for a while, they threatened to render abortive the goodness of heaven to the united states, in delivering them from the evils of slavery and war. the extensive influence which these opinions had upon the understandings, passions, and morals of many of the citizens of the united states, constituted a form of insanity, which i shall take the liberty of distinguishing by the name of _anarchia_. i hope no offence will be given by the freedom of any of these remarks. an inquirer after philosophical truth should consider the passions of men in the same light that he does the laws of matter or motion. the friends and enemies of the american revolution must have been more, or less than men, if they could have sustained the magnitude and rapidity of the events that characterised it, without discovering some marks of human weakness, both in body and mind. perhaps these weaknesses were permitted, that human nature might receive fresh honours in america, by the contending parties (whether produced by the controversies about independence or the national government) mutually forgiving each other, and uniting in plans of general order, and happiness. an inquiry into the relation of _tastes and aliments_ to each other, and into the influence of this relation upon health and pleasure. in entering upon this subject, i feel like the clown, who, after several unsuccessful attempts to play upon a violin, threw it hastily from him, exclaiming at the same time, that "there was music in it," but that he could not bring it out. i shall endeavour, by a few brief remarks, to lay a foundation for more successful inquiries upon this difficult subject. attraction and repulsion seem to be the active principles of the universe. they pervade not only the greatest, but the minutest works of nature. salts, earths, inflammable bodies, metals, and vegetables, have all their respective relations to each other. the order of these relations is so uniform, that it has been ascribed by some philosophers to a latent principle of intelligence pervading each of them. colours, odours, and sounds, have likewise their respective relations to each other. they become agreeable and disagreeable, only in proportion to the natural or unnatural combination which takes place between each of their different species. it is remarkable, that the number of original colours and notes in music is exactly the same. all the variety in both, proceeds from the difference of combination. an arbitrary combination of them is by no means productive of pleasure. the relation which every colour and sound bear to each other, was as immutably established at the creation, as the order of the heavenly bodies, or as the relation of the objects of chemistry to each other. but this relation is not confined to colours and sounds alone. it probably extends to the objects of human aliment. for example, bread and meat, meat and salt, the alkalescent meats and acescent vegetables, all harmonize with each other upon the tongue; while fish and flesh, butter and raw onions, fish and milk, when combined, are all offensive to a pure and healthy taste. it would be agreeable to trace the analogy of sounds and tastes. they have both their flats and their sharps. they are both improved by the contrast of discords. thus pepper, and other condiments (which are disagreeable when taken by themselves) enhance the relish of many of our aliments, and they are both delightful in proportion as they are simple in their composition. to illustrate this analogy by more examples from music, would lead us from the subject of the present inquiry. it is observable that the tongue and the stomach, like instinct and reason, are, by nature, in unison with each other. one of those organs must always be disordered, when they disagree in a single article of aliment. when they both unite in articles of diet that were originally disagreeable, it is owing to a perversion in each of them, similar to that which takes place in the human mind, when both the moral faculty and the conscience lose their natural sensibility to virtue and vice. unfortunately for this part of science, the taste and the stomach are so much perverted in infancy and childhood by heterogeneous aliment, that it is difficult to tell what kinds, and mixtures of food are natural, and what are artificial. it is true, the system possesses a power of accommodating itself both to artificial food, and to the most discordant mixtures of that which is natural; but may we not reasonably suppose, that the system would preserve its natural strength and order much longer, if no such violence had been offered to it? if the relation of aliments to each other follows the analogy of the objects of chemistry, then their union will be influenced by many external circumstances, such as heat and cold, dilution, concentration, rest, motion, and the addition of substances which promote unnatural, or destroy natural mixtures. this idea enlarges the field of inquiry before us, and leads us still further from facts and certainty upon this subject, but at the same time it does not preclude us from the hope of obtaining both; for every difficulty that arises out of this view of the subject, may be removed by observation and experiment. i come now to apply these remarks to health and pleasure. i shall select only a few cases for this purpose; for if my principles be true, my readers cannot avoid discovering many other illustrations of them. 1. when an article of diet is grateful to the taste, and afterwards disagrees with the stomach, may it not be occasioned by some other kind of food, or by some drink being taken into the stomach, which refuses to unite with the offending article of diet? 2. may not the uneasiness which many persons feel after a moderate meal, arise from its having consisted of articles of aliment which were not related to each other? 3. may not the delicacy of stomach which sometimes occurs after the fortieth or forty-fifth year of human life, be occasioned by nature recovering her empire in the stomach, so as to require simplicity in diet, or such articles only of aliment as are related? may not this be the reason why most people, who have passed those periods of life, are unable to retain or to digest fish and flesh at the same time, and why they generally dine only upon one kind of food? 4. is not the language of nature in favour of simplicity in diet, discovered by the avidity with which the luxurious and intemperate often seek relief from variety and satiety, by retreating to spring water for drink, and to bread and milk for aliment? 5. may not the reason why plentiful meals of fish, venison, oysters, beef, or mutton, when eaten alone, lie so easily in the stomach, and digest so speedily, be occasioned by no other food being taken with them? a pound, and even more, of the above articles, frequently oppress the system much less than half the quantity of heterogeneous aliments. 6. does not the facility with which a due mixture of vegetable and animal food digests in the stomach, indicate the certainty of their relation to each other? 7. may not the peculiar good effects of a diet wholly vegetable, or animal, be occasioned by the more frequent and intimate relation of the articles of the same kingdoms to each other? and may not this be the reason why so few inconveniences are felt from the mixture of a variety of vegetables in the stomach? 8. may not the numerous acute and chronic diseases of the rich and luxurious, arise from heterogeneous aliments being distributed in a _diffused_, instead of a _mixed_ state, through every part of the body? 9. may not the many cures which are ascribed to certain articles of diet, be occasioned more by their being taken alone, than to any medicinal quality inherent in them? a diet of oysters in one instance, of strawberries in another, and of sugar of roses in many instances, has cured violent and dangerous diseases of the breast[56]. grapes, according to doctor moore, when eaten in large quantities, have produced the same salutary effect. a milk diet, persisted in for several years, has cured the gout and epilepsy. i have seen many cases of dyspepsia cured by a simple diet of beef and mutton, and have heard of a well-attested case of a diet of veal alone having removed the same disease. squashes, and turnips likewise, when taken by themselves, have cured that distressing complaint in the stomach. it has been removed even by milk, when taken by itself in a moderate quantity[57]. the further the body, and more especially the stomach, recede from health, the more this simplicity of diet becomes necessary. the appetite in these cases does not speak the language of uncorrupted nature. it frequently calls for various and improper aliment; but this is the effect of intemperance having produced an early breach between the taste and the stomach. [56] vansweiten, 1209. 3. [57] medical observations and inquiries, vol. vi. p. 310, 319. perhaps the extraordinary cures of obstinate diseases which are sometimes performed by persons not regularly educated in physic, may be occasioned by a long and steady perseverance in the use of a single article of the materia medica. those chemical medicines which decompose each other, are not the only substances which defeat the intention of the prescriber. galenical medicines, by combination, i believe, frequently produce effects that are of a compound and contrary nature to their original and simple qualities. this remark is capable of extensive application, but i quit it as a digression from the subject of this inquiry. 10. i wish it to be observed, that i have condemned the mixture of different aliments in the stomach only in a few cases, and under certain circumstances. it remains yet to determine by experiments, what changes are produced upon aliments by heat, dilution, addition, concentration, motion, rest, and the addition of uniting substances, before we can decide upon the relation of aliments to each other, and the influence of that relation upon health. the olla podrida of spain is said to be a pleasant and wholesome dish. it is probably rendered so, by a previous tendency of all its ingredients to putrefaction, or by means of heat producing a new arrangement, or additional new relations of all its parts. i suspect heat to be a powerful agent in disposing heterogeneous aliments to unite with each other; and hence the mixture of aliments is probably less unhealthy in france and spain, than in england, where so much less fire is used in preparing them, than in the former countries. as too great a mixture of glaring colours, which are related to each other, becomes painful to the eye, so too great a mixture of related aliments oppresses the stomach, and debilitates the powers of the system. the original colours of the sky, and of the surface of the globe, have ever been found the most permanently agreeable to the eye. in like manner, i am disposed to believe that there are certain simple aliments which correspond, in their sensible qualities, with the intermediate colours of _blue_ and _green_, that are most permanently agreeable to the tongue and stomach, and that every deviation from them, is a departure from the simplicity of health and nature. 11. while nature seems to have limited us to simplicity in aliment, is not this restriction abundantly compensated by the variety of tastes which she allows us to impart to it, in order to diversify and increase the pleasure of eating? it is remarkable that salt, sugar, mustard, horse-radish, capers, and spices of all kinds, according to mr. gosse's experiments, related by abbé spallanzani[58], all contribute not only to render aliments savoury, but to promote their digestion. [58] dissertations, vol. i. p. 326. 12. when we consider, that part of the art of cookery consists in rendering the taste of aliments agreeable, is it not probable that the pleasure of eating might be increased beyond our present knowledge upon that subject, by certain new arrangements or mixtures of the substances which are used to impart a pleasant taste to our aliment? 13. should philosophers ever stoop to this subject, may they not discover and ascertain a table of the relations of sapid bodies to each other, with the same accuracy that they have ascertained the relation of the numerous objects of chemistry to each other? 14. when the tongue and stomach agree in the same kinds of aliment, may not the increase of the pleasure of eating be accompanied with an increase of health and prolongation of life? 15. upon the pleasure of eating, i shall add the following remarks. in order to render it truly exquisite, it is necessary that all the senses, except that of taste, should be as _quiescent_ as possible. those persons mistake the nature of the appetite for food, who attempt to whet it by accompanying a dinner by a band of music, or by connecting the dining table, with an extensive and delightful prospect. the undue excitement of one sense, always produces weakness in another. even conversation sometimes detracts from the pleasure of eating: hence great feeders love to eat in silence, or alone; and hence the speech of a passionate frenchman, while dining in a talkative company, was not so improper as might be at first imagined. "hold your tongues (said he); i cannot taste my dinner." i know a physician, who, upon the same principle, always shuts his eyes, and requests silence in a sick chamber, when he wishes to determine by the pulse the propriety of blood-letting, in cases where its indication is doubtful. his perceptions become more distinct, by confining his whole attention to the sense of feeling. it is impossible to mention the circumstance of the senses acting only in succession to each other in the enjoyment of pleasure, without being struck with the impartial goodness of heaven, in placing the rich and the poor so much upon a level in the pleasures of the table. could the numerous objects of pleasure, which are addressed to the ears and the eyes, have been possessed at the same time with the pleasure of eating, the rich would have commanded three times as much pleasure in that enjoyment as the poor; but this is so far from being the case, that a king has no advantage over a beggar, in eating the same kind of aliment. the new method of inoculating for the small-pox. delivered in a lecture in the university of pennsylvania, on the 20th of february, 1781. gentlemen, it must afford no small pleasure to a benevolent mind, in the midst of a war which daily makes so much havoc with the human species, to reflect that the small-pox, which once proved equally fatal to thousands, has been checked in its career, and in a great degree subdued, by the practice of inoculation. it is foreign to my purpose to deliver to you the history of this art, and to mark the various steps that have attended its progress to its present state of improvement. we have yet to lament the want of uniformity and of equal success in the practice of it among physicians. a great number of pamphlets have been written upon the subject without exhausting it. there is still ample room left for the man of genius to exercise his talents for observation and reasoning upon it. the facts i mean to lay before you are so inconsiderable, compared with what still remain to be known upon this subject, that i have to request, when your knowledge in it is completed, that you would bury my name in silence, and forget that ever i ventured to lay a single stone in this part of the fabric of science. in treating upon this subject, i shall i. consider the proper subjects, and seasons for inoculation. ii. i shall describe the method of communicating the disease. iii. i shall consider the method of preparing the body for the small-pox. iv. i shall mention the treatment proper during the eruptive fever. and, v. point out a few cautions that are necessary after the disease is over. i. formerly there were great difficulties in the choice of subjects for inoculation. but experience teaches us, that it may be practised in every stage of life, and in almost every condition of the human body. in infancy, the periods before and after dentition are to be preferred. but we seldom see any great inconveniences from submitting to the general necessity of inoculating children between the ages of three months, and two years. indeed we often see children cut three or four teeth during the preparation and eruptive fever, without the least addition being made to any of the troublesome symptoms which accompany the small-pox. there is one inconvenience attending the choice of the first months of infancy for inoculating, and that is, the matter often fails of producing the disease in such young subjects. i have frequently failed in two or three attempts to communicate it to children under four months old, with the same matter that has succeeded in a dozen other patients, inoculated at the same time. when the inoculation succeeds in such tender subjects, they generally have less fever, and fewer pustules, than are common in any future period of life. although a physician would prefer a patient in good health to any other as a subject for inoculation, yet cases often occur in which it is necessary to communicate the small-pox while the body is affected with some other disease. i can with pleasure inform you, that the small-pox is rendered so perfectly safe by inoculation, that there are few chronic diseases which should be considered as obstacles in the way of it. i have inoculated patients labouring under a tertian fever, obstructed viscera, the hooping cough, the hypochondriasis, the asthma, the itch, and other cutaneous diseases, and even pregnant women, with the same, and, in some instances, with greater success, than persons in perfect health. doctor cullen informs us, that he has seen inoculation succeed in scrophulous patients. a physician in jamaica informed me, that he had inoculated negroes with success in the worst stage of the yaws. to these facts i must add one more extraordinary than any that has been yet mentioned: doctor brown, my late colleague in the care of the military hospitals, informed me, that he had seen inoculation succeed in patients who were seized, after the infection was communicated, with the hospital fever. the preparation of the body should be accommodated to the disease which affects it. some physicians have thought the small-pox, received in this way, was a remedy for other diseases; but my experience has not confirmed this opinion: on the contrary, i am inclined to think that no other change is produced by inoculation, than by the regimen and medicines that are used to prepare the body for the small-pox. nor does the small-pox, during its continuance, afford any security against the attacks of other diseases. i have seen the most alarming complication of the small-pox and measles taken in _succession_ to each other, in the same person. the seasons commonly preferred for inoculation, in this country, are the spring and fall. it may be practised with equal safety in the winter, a due regard being had to the temperature of the air in the preparation of the body. the principal objection to inoculating in the summer months in this climate, arises from the frequency of bilious diseases at that season, to which the preparation necessary for the small-pox probably disposes the body. this caution applies more directly to children, who, at a certain age, are more subject than grown people to a disease in their bowels in warm weather. ii. the methods of communicating the small-pox by inoculation, have been different in different countries, and in the different æras of its progress towards its present stage of improvement. the scab, dossel of lint, and the thread impregnated with variolous matter, and bound up in a gash in the arm, have been laid aside. we are indebted to mr. sutton for the mode of communicating it by a slight puncture with the point of a lancet, or needle, dipt in fresh matter. as it is difficult sometimes to procure matter in a fresh state, i have been led to use it with equal success by preserving it on lint in a box, and moistening it with cold water just before i used it. matter may be kept in this way for a month, without losing its infectious quality, provided it be not exposed to heat or moisture. the former destroys its power of infecting as certainly as the salt of tartar destroys the acidity of vinegar. moisture, by remaining long upon the matter, probably destroys its virulence, by subjecting it to fermentation. the longer matter has been kept in a general way, the longer the distance will be between the time of communicating the disease, and the eruptive fever. it will be proper always to yield to the prejudices of our patients in favour of matter taken from persons who have but few pustules. but i am persuaded from repeated observations, that the disease is no ways influenced by this circumstance. i am satisfied likewise that there is no difference between the effects of the matter, whether it be taken in its watery and purulent state. the puncture should not be larger than is sufficient to draw one drop of blood, but it should always be made by a _sharp_ lancet, for the sudden inflammation and suppuration, excited by a dull lancet, sometimes throw off the matter, so as to prevent its infecting the body[59]. no plaster or bandage should be applied over the puncture. it should be made in the left arm of all subjects. the objections to inoculating in the leg are too obvious to be mentioned. i have heard of the disease being communicated by rubbing the dry skin with the matter. my own observations upon this subject, give me reason to suspect the facts that are contained in books relative to this mode of infecting the body. i have bound large pieces of lint dipt in fresh matter for twenty-four hours upon the arm, without producing the disease. a practitioner of physic in new-jersey informed me, that he once gave a considerable quantity of fresh variolous matter in a dose of physic, without infecting his patient. i suspect the matter that produces the disease is of the same nature with certain poisons, which require to be brought in contact with a wound or sore in the body, before they produce their effects. i deliver this opinion with diffidence. the subject stands in need of more experiments and investigation. [59] i am disposed to believe that the external applications which are used by the indians for the cure of the bite of poisonous snakes act only by exciting inflammation and suppuration, which discharge the poison from the wound before it is absorbed. all their external remedies are of a _stimulating_ nature. iii. i come now to consider the best method of preparing the body for the small-pox. this must be done, 1st, by diet, and 2dly, by medicine. the diet should consist chiefly of vegetables. i have never seen any inconvenience from the free use of milk, as a part of the preparative diet. in some habits, where a morbid acid prevails in the stomach, we may indulge our patients in a little weak flesh broth two or three times a week with safety. a little salted meat may likewise be taken daily in such cases. tea, coffee, and even weak chocolate, with biscuit or dry toast, may be used as usual, by persons accustomed to that kind of aliment. wine and spirits of all kinds should be withheld from our patients, during the preparation. the more acescent their drinks are, the better. it is unnecessary that this change in the diet should take place till a day or two before the time of communicating the disease. the system accommodates to a vegetable and low diet in the course of three weeks or a month, so as to defeat in some measure the advantages we expected from it. the good effects of it appear to depend in a great degree upon the _suddenness_ with which we oblige our patients to conform to it. for this reason, when we are called upon to inoculate persons who have lived more than three or four weeks upon a low diet, we should always direct them to live a few days upon animal food, before we communicate the disease to them. by these means we may produce all the good effects of the _sudden_ change in the diet i have already mentioned. 2. the medicines most commonly used to prepare the body for the small-pox are antimony and mercury. the latter has had the preference, and has been given in large quantities, under a notion of its being a specific antidote to the variolous matter. many objections might be made to this opinion; i shall mention only three. 1. we often see the disease in a high degree, after the system is fully impregnated with mercury. 2. we often see the same salutary effects of mercury, when given before the disease is communicated to the body, that we perceive when it is given after inoculation; in which case we are sure the mercury cannot enter into the mixture with the variolous matter so as to destroy it. 3. if mercury acted specifically in destroying the variolous matter, it would render every other part of the preparation unnecessary: but this we know is not the case, for the neglect or improper use of the vegetable diet or cool regimen is often attended with an extraordinary number, or virulence of the small-pox, even in those cases where mercury is given in the largest quantity. the way in which mercury prepares the body for the small-pox, seems to be by promoting the several excretions, particularly that by perspiration, which, by diminishing the quantity of the fluids, and weakening the tone of the solids, renders the system less liable to a plentiful eruption of the small-pox. but i object to the use of this medicine for the following reasons: 1. it effectually deprives us of all the benefits of the cool regimen; for mercury, we know, always _disposes_ the system to take cold. 2. all the good effects of mercury may be produced by purges, which do not subject the body to the above-mentioned inconvenience. the purges may be suited to the constitutions, and in some cases, even to the inclinations of our patients. i have seen jalap, rhubarb, senna, manna, aloes, soluble tartar, glauber and epsom salts, and the butter-nut pill, all given with equal success. the quantity should be sufficient to procure three or four stools every day. a little magnesia should always be mixed with rhubarb and jalap in preparing children. it will be sufficient for the mothers and nurses of infants to conform strictly to the vegetable diet. i have never seen any advantages from giving them even a single dose of physic. it is hardly necessary to observe, that the quality, dose, and number of purges are to be determined by the age, sex, and habits of our patients. a constitution enfeebled by a previous disease forbids the use of purges, and requires medicines of a restorative kind. patients afflicted with cutaneous diseases bear larger and more frequent doses of physic, than are indicated in more healthy subjects. in adult subjects of a plethoric habit, blood-letting is very useful on the third or fourth day after inoculation. we are not to suppose, that every fat person labours under a plethora. a moderate degree of fat is so far from rendering the disease more violent, especially in children, that i think i have generally found such subjects have the small-pox more favourably than others. moderate exercise in the open air should be used during the preparation. but hard labour, and every thing that promotes sweat or fatigue, as also the extremes of heat and cold, should be avoided. iv. we come now to consider the treatment of the body during the eruptive fever. on the eighth day after inoculation our patients are _generally_ seized with the common symptoms of fever. sometimes this fever appears on the sixth and seventh day after inoculation. but when it is irregular, it is often delayed till the ninth and tenth days. i have seen many instances of it on the fourteenth, a few on the fifteenth and sixteenth, and _one_ case in which it did not come on till the eighteenth day after the infection was communicated to the body[60]. the place where the puncture was made with the lancet, or needle, generally serves as a harbinger of the approaching fever. a slight inflammation appears about it, and a pock rises up in the centre. but this remark is liable to some objections. i have seen _four_ instances in which the fever came on at the expected time, and the disease went through all its stages with the greatest regularity, and yet there was no sign of an inflammation or pock near the spot where the puncture was made: even the puncture itself became invisible. on the other hand, we sometimes see an inflammation and pock on the arm appear on the eighth and ninth days, without any fever accompanying them. some physicians suppose that this inflammation and solitary pock are sufficient to constitute the disease; but repeated experience has taught me to be very cautious in relying upon these equivocal marks. it is true, i have sometimes seen patients secured against the small-pox, both in the natural way and by inoculation, where these marks have appeared; but i have as often seen such patients seized afterwards with the small-pox in the natural way, to the great distress of families, and mortification of physicians. upon this account, i make it a constant practice to advise a second or third inoculation, where a fever and eruption have been wanting. as the absence of these symptoms is probably occasioned by the weakness or age of the variolous matter, or the too high state of preparation of the body, we should always guard against both, by making the puncture the second time with _fresh_ matter, by subjecting our patients to a _less_ abstemious diet, and by giving fewer doses of physic. i have heard it remarked, that if a slight redness and a small pimple appeared on the arm on the third day after inoculation, it was a sign the matter had infected the whole constitution. i acknowledge i have often seen a greater degree of redness on the third than on the second day after inoculation, but i have not been able to establish a diagnostic mark from it; for i have seen the disease produced on the usual days where the redness has appeared on the second day, and in some cases where it has not appeared until the eruptive fever. [60] since the publication of the first edition of this lecture, i have heard of two cases, in one of which the fever did not come on till the twentieth, and in the other till the twenty-first day after the infection was communicated to the body. in some of these tedious cases, i have seen an inflammation and suppuration on the punctured part of the arm on the eighth day without any fever. perhaps in these cases the inflammation and suppuration are only cuticular, and that the small-pox is taken from the matter which is formed by them. i am led here unwillingly to discuss the old question, is it possible to have the small-pox in the natural way after inoculation?--in many of the cases supposed to be the small-pox from inoculation, it is probable the matter has been taken from the chicken-pox, which resembles the small-pox in many of its peculiarities, but in none more than that of leaving pits or marks on the skin. but there are certainly cases where there are the most irrefragable proofs of the infection implanted by inoculation being of a variolous nature, where the disease has been afterwards taken in the natural way. in these cases i would suppose the variolous matter produced only a topical or cuticular disease. we see something analogous to this in nurses who attend patients in the small-pox. but further, this topical or cuticular infection may be produced by art in persons who have had the small-pox in the natural way. some years ago, i made a puncture on my left hand with a lancet moistened with variolous matter. on the eighth day an inflammation appeared on the place, accompanied by an efflorescence in the neighbourhood of it, which extended about two inches in every direction from the spot where the puncture was made. on the eleventh day i was surprised to find two pocks (if i may venture to call them such), the one on the outside of the fourth finger of my left hand, and the other on my forehead. they remained there for several days, but without filling with matter, and then dropped off, rather in the form of a soft wart, than of a common scab. doctor way of wilmington repeated the same experiment upon himself, but with an issue to his curiosity more extraordinary than that i have just now related. on the eighth day after he had made a puncture on his hand, a pock appeared on the spot, which in the usual time filled with matter, from which he inoculated several children, who sickened at the usual time, and went through all the common stages and symptoms of the small-pox. it would seem from these facts, that it is necessary the small-pox should produce some impression upon the _whole_ system, in order to render it ever afterwards incapable of receiving an impression of a similar nature. a fever and an eruption therefore seem necessary for this purpose. as the inflammation of the arm on the eighth day is a sign of the _topical_ and cuticular infection, so an eruption (though ever so small) seems to be the only certain sign of the infection of the _whole_ system. the eruption is the more decisive in its report, in proportion as it comes out and goes off in the usual manner of the small-pox in the natural way. in those cases where patients have been secured against a second attack of the disease, when there have been no _obvious_ fever or _visible_ eruption, i think i have observed an unusual inflammation, and a copious and long continued discharge of matter from the arm. perhaps this may serve as an outlet of the matter, which in other cases produces the fever and eruption. i am the more disposed to embrace this opinion, from the testimony which several authors have left us of the effects of ulcers in securing the body from the infection of the plague. the effects of issues are still more to our purpose. we observe a plentiful discharge of matter from them every time the body is exposed to cold, and the febrile effects of it upon the system are thereby frequently obviated. how far a ratio exists between the degrees of inflammation and the discharge of matter from the arm, and the degrees of fever and eruption, must be determined by future and very accurate observations. if it should appear, that there are the least inflammation and smallest discharge, where there have been the highest fever and most copious eruption; and, on the contrary, if it should appear that there are the greatest inflammation and discharge, where there have been the least fever and smallest eruption, i must beg leave to add, without attempting in this place to explain the reasons of it, that the remark, if generally true, is liable to some exceptions. but the subject is involved in darkness; i shall be satisfied if i have brought you within sight of the promised land. your own ingenuity, like another jewish leader, must conduct you thither. the indications in the treatment of the body during the eruptive fever are, i. to regulate the degree of fever. ii. to mitigate troublesome and alarming symptoms. the fever which produces the eruption is generally of the inflammatory kind. it sometimes, therefore, comes on with the symptoms of great heat, preceded with chilliness, and determination to the head and breast, and a full hard pulse. the remedies proper in this case are, 1. blood-letting. the quantity to be drawn must be regulated by the violence of the symptoms, the constitution, habits, and even country of the patient, and by the season of the year. i have never found more than one bleeding, to the quantity of twelve or fourteen ounces, necessary in any stage or degree of the eruptive fever of the small-pox by inoculation. 2. cool air is of the utmost consequence in the eruptive fever. the use of this remedy in fevers marks an æra, not only in the management of the small-pox, but in medicine. the degrees of cold should always be increased in proportion to the violence of the fever. stove-rooms, so common in this country, should be carefully avoided. the more we oblige our patients to sit up and walk in the open air, the better. even in those cases where they languish most for the bed, they should be encouraged rather to lie upon, than _under_ the bed-clothes. children should be stript of flannel petticoats that come in contact with their skins; and even clouts should be laid aside, if possible without great inconvenience, and at any rate they should be often removed. great and obvious as the advantages of cold air appear to be in the eruptive fever, it has sometimes been used to an excess that has done mischief. there are few cases where a degree of cold below fifty of _fahrenheit's_ thermometer is necessary in this stage of the small-pox. when it has been used below this, or where patients have been exposed to a damp atmosphere some degrees above it, i have heard of inflammations of an alarming nature being produced in the throat and breast. 3. the bowels, more especially of children, should be kept open with gentle laxatives. and, 4. cool subacid drinks should be plentifully used until the eruption be completed. sometimes the small-pox comes on with a fever the reverse of that which we have described. the heat is inconsiderable, the pulse is weak, and scarcely quicker than ordinary, and the patient complains of but slight pains in the back and head. here the treatment should be widely different from that which has been mentioned when the fever is of the inflammatory kind. bleeding in this case is hurtful, and even cool air must be admitted with caution. the business of the physician in this case is to excite a gentle action in the sanguiferous system, in order to produce the degree of fever which is necessary to the eruption of the pock. for this purpose he may recommend the use of warm drinks, and even of a warm bed with advantage. if the eruption delay beyond the third day, with all the circumstances of debility that have been mentioned, i have frequently ordered my patients to eat a few ounces of animal food, and to drink a glass or two of wine, with the most desirable success. the effects of this indulgence are most obvious where the weakness of the fever and the delay of the eruption in children, have made it necessary to allow it to mothers and nurses. the small-pox by inoculation so seldom comes on with the symptoms of what is called a malignant fever, that little need be said of the treatment proper in such cases. i shall only observe, that the cold regimen in the highest degree, promises more success in these cases than in any others. i have repeatedly been told, that when the small-pox appears confluent among the africans, it is a common practice for mothers to rub their children all over with pepper, and plunge them immediately afterwards into a spring of cold water. this, they say, destroys a great part of the pock, and disposes the remainder to a kindly suppuration. from the success that has attended the use of the cold bath in malignant fevers in some parts of europe[61], i am disposed to believe in the efficacy of the african remedy. [61] in a dissertation entitled "_epidemia verna quæ wratislaviam, anno. 1737 afflixit_," published in the appendix to the acta nat. curios. vol. x. it appears, that washing the body all over with cold water in putrid fevers, attended with great debility, was attended with success at _breslaw_ in _silesia_. the practice has since been adopted, we are told, by several of the neighbouring countries. cullen's first lines of the practice of physic. the fever generally lasts three days, and the eruption continues for a similar length of time, counting the last day of the fever, as the first day of the eruption. but this remark is liable to many exceptions. we sometimes observe the eruption to begin on the first, and often on the second day of the fever; and we sometimes meet with cases in which a second eruption comes on after the fever has abated for several days, and the first eruption considerably advanced in its progress towards a complete suppuration. this is often occasioned by the application of excessive cold or heat to the body, or by a sudden and premature use of stimulating drinks, or animal food. i come now to treat of the best method of mitigating troublesome and alarming symptoms. the only _alarming_ symptom is convulsions, to which children are subject during the time of dentition. these have been less frequent, since the liberal and judicious use of cool air in the eruptive fever than formerly. they are often relieved by putting the feet in warm water. but a more effectual and speedy method of curing them, is to expose our patients suddenly to the open air. the colder the air the quicker relief it affords in these cases. to prevent the return of the fits, as well as to allay any disagreeable and troublesome startings, a few drops of laudanum should be given. they generally yield in a little while to this excellent remedy. the next symptom which demands the aid of our art, is the inflammation and sore on the arm. poultices of all kinds should be laid aside, as tending to increase the inflammation and sore. instead of these, the part affected should be washed three or four times a day with cold water[62]. this application is not only agreeable to our patients, but soon checks the progress of the inflammation, and disposes the sore to heal about the time the eruption is completed. the eyes should likewise be washed frequently with cold water, to secure them from pustules and inflammation. with respect to those alarming or troublesome symptoms which occur in those cases where the pocks are numerous, or confluent, they happen so seldom in inoculation, that they do not come properly under our notice in this place. they are moreover fully discussed by doctors boerhaave, huxham, hillary, and other practical writers. [62] where the inflammation on the arm has been so considerable as not to yield immediately to the application of cold water, i have used the vegeto-mineral water with advantage. v. i come now, in the last place, to deliver a few directions that are necessary after the eruption and suppuration are over. it is well known that eruptions of an obstinate nature sometimes follow the small-pox. these i believe are often occasioned by a too _sudden_ and speedy use of animal food. to guard against these disagreeable consequences of inoculation, it is of the utmost importance to enjoin a cautious and _gradual_ return to the free use of an animal diet; and at the same time it will be necessary to give our patients a dose or two of purging physic. thus, gentlemen, have i delivered to you a short history of the new method of inoculating for the small-pox. i am aware that prejudices are entertained against some parts of it by physicians of the most ancient name and character among us. i have witnessed the effects of the old and new methods of preparing the body upon many thousand patients, and i am satisfied, not only from my own observations, but from the experience of gentlemen upon whose judgments i rely more than upon my own, that the new method is by far the safest and most successful. added to this, i can assure my pupils, that i have never known a single instance of a patient, prepared and treated in the manner i have described, that ever had an abscess after the small-pox, or even such an inflammation or sore upon the arm as required the application of a poultice. an inquiry into the _effects of ardent spirits_ upon the human body and mind. with an account of the means of preventing, and of the _remedies for curing them_. part i. by ardent spirits, i mean those liquors only which are obtained by distillation from fermented substances of any kind. to their effects upon the bodies and minds of men, the following inquiry shall be exclusively confined. fermented liquors contain so little spirit, and that so intimately combined with other matters, that they can seldom be drunken in sufficient quantities to produce intoxication, and its subsequent effects, without exciting a disrelish to their taste, or pain, from their distending the stomach. they are moreover, when taken in a moderate quantity, generally innocent, and often have a friendly influence upon health and life. the effects of ardent spirits divide themselves into such as are of a prompt, and such as are of a chronic nature. the former discover themselves in drunkenness, and the latter, in a numerous train of diseases and vices of the body and mind. i. i shall begin by briefly describing their prompt, or immediate effects, in a fit of drunkenness. this odious disease (for by that name it should be called) appears with more or less of the following symptoms, and most commonly in the order in which i shall enumerate them. 1. unusual garrulity. 2. unusual silence. 3. captiousness, and a disposition to quarrel. 4. uncommon good humour, and an insipid simpering, or laugh. 5. profane swearing, and cursing. 6. a disclosure of their own, or other people's secrets. 7. a rude disposition to tell those persons in company, whom they know, their faults. 8. certain immodest actions. i am sorry to say, this sign of the first stage of drunkenness, sometimes appears in women, who, when sober, are uniformly remarkable for chaste and decent manners. 9. a clipping of words. 10. fighting; a black eye, or a swelled nose, often mark this grade of drunkenness. 11. certain extravagant acts which indicate a temporary fit of madness. these are singing, hallooing, roaring, imitating the noises of brute animals, jumping, tearing off clothes, dancing naked, breaking glasses and china, and dashing other articles of household furniture upon the ground, or floor. after a while the paroxysm of drunkenness is completely formed. the face now becomes flushed; the eyes project, and are somewhat watery; winking is less frequent than is natural; the under lip is protruded; the head inclines a little to one shoulder; the jaw falls; belchings and hiccup take place; the limbs totter; the whole body staggers. the unfortunate subject of this history next falls on his seat; he looks around him with a vacant countenance, and mutters inarticulate sounds to himself. he attempts to rise and walk; in this attempt, he falls upon his side, from which he gradually turns upon his back. he now closes his eyes, and falls into a profound sleep, frequently attended with snoring, and profuse sweats, and sometimes with such a relaxation of the muscles which confine the bladder and the lower bowels, as to produce a symptom which delicacy forbids me to mention. in this condition, he often lies from ten, twelve, and twenty-four hours, to two, three, four, and five days, an object of pity and disgust to his family and friends. his recovery from this fit of intoxication is marked with several peculiar appearances. he opens his eyes, and closes them again; he gapes and stretches his limbs; he then coughs and pukes; his voice is hoarse; he rises with difficulty, and staggers to a chair; his eyes resemble balls of fire; his hands tremble; he loathes the sight of food; he calls for a glass of spirits to compose his stomach; now and then he emits a deep-fetched sigh, or groan, from a transient twinge of conscience, but he more frequently scolds, and curses every thing around him. in this state of languor and stupidity he remains for two or three days, before he is able to resume his former habits of business and conversation. pythagoras we are told maintained that the souls of men after death, expiated the crimes committed by them in this world, by animating certain brute animals; and that the souls of those animals in their turns, entered into men, and carried with them all their peculiar qualities and vices. this doctrine of one of the wisest and best of the greek philosophers, was probably intended only to convey a lively idea of the changes which are induced in the body and mind of man by a fit of drunkenness. in folly, it causes him to resemble a calf; in stupidity, an ass; in roaring, a mad bull; in quarrelling, and fighting, a dog; in cruelty, a tiger; in fetor, a skunk; in filthiness, a hog; and in obscenity, a he-goat. it belongs to the history of drunkenness to remark, that its paroxysms occur, like the paroxysms of many diseases, at certain periods, and after longer or shorter intervals. they often begin with annual, and gradually increase in their frequency, until they appear in quarterly, monthly, weekly, and quotidian or daily periods. finally they afford scarcely any marks of remission, either during the day or the night. there was a citizen of philadelphia, many years ago, in whom drunkenness appeared in this protracted form. in speaking of him to one of his neighbours, i said, "does he not _sometimes_ get drunk?" "you mean," said his neighbour, "is he not _sometimes_ sober?" it is further remarkable, that drunkenness resembles certain hereditary, family, and contagious diseases. i have once known it to descend from a father to four out of five of his children. i have seen three, and once four brothers who were born of sober ancestors, affected by it, and i have heard of its spreading through a whole family composed of members not originally related to each other. these facts are important, and should not be overlooked by parents, in deciding upon the matrimonial connections of their children. let us next attend to the chronic effects of ardent spirits upon the body and mind. in the body, they dispose to every form of acute disease; they moreover _excite_ fevers in persons predisposed to them, from other causes. this has been remarked in all the yellow fevers which have visited the cities of the united states. hard drinkers seldom escape, and rarely recover from them. the following diseases are the usual consequences of the habitual use of ardent spirits, viz. 1. a decay of appetite, sickness at stomach, and a puking of bile, or a discharge of a frothy and viscid phlegm by hawking, in the morning. 2. obstructions of the liver. the fable of prometheus, on whose liver a vulture was said to prey constantly, as a punishment for his stealing fire from heaven, was intended to illustrate the painful effects of ardent spirits upon that organ of the body. 3. jaundice and dropsy of the belly and limbs, and finally of every cavity in the body. a swelling in the feet and legs is so characteristic a mark of habits of intemperance, that the merchants in charleston, i have been told, cease to trust the planters of south-carolina, as soon as they perceive it. they very naturally conclude industry and virtue to be extinct in that man, in whom that symptom of disease has been produced by the intemperate use of distilled spirits. 4. hoarseness, and a husky cough, which often terminate in consumption, and sometimes in an acute and fatal disease of the lungs. 5. diabetes, that is, a frequent and weakening discharge of pale, or sweetish urine. 6. redness and eruptions on different parts of the body. they generally begin on the nose, and after gradually extending all over the face, sometimes descend to the limbs in the form of leprosy. they have been called "rum-buds," when they appear in the face. in persons who have occasionally survived these effects of ardent spirits on the skin, the face after a while becomes bloated, and its redness is succeeded by a death-like paleness. thus the same fire which produces a red colour in iron, when urged to a more intense degree, produces what has been called a white heat. 7. a fetid breath, composed of every thing that is offensive in putrid animal matter. 8. frequent and disgusting belchings. dr. haller relates the case of a notorious drunkard having been suddenly destroyed, in consequence of the vapour discharged from his stomach by belching, accidentally taking fire by coming in contact with the flame of a candle. 9. epilepsy. 10. gout, in all its various forms of swelled limbs, colic, palsy, and apoplexy. lastly, 11. madness. the late dr. waters, while he acted as house pupil and apothecary of the pennsylvania hospital, assured me, that in one-third of the patients confined by this terrible disease, it had been induced by ardent spirits. most of the diseases which have been enumerated are of a mortal nature. they are more certainly induced, and terminate more speedily in death, when spirits are taken in such quantities, and at such times, as to produce frequent intoxication: but it may serve to remove an error with which some intemperate people console themselves, to remark, that ardent spirits often bring on fatal diseases without producing drunkenness. i have known many persons destroyed by them, who were never completely intoxicated during the whole course of their lives. the solitary instances of longevity which are now and then met with in hard drinkers, no more disprove the deadly effects of ardent spirits, than the solitary instances of recoveries from apparent death by drowning, prove that there is no danger to life from a human body lying an hour or two under water. the body after its death, from the use of distilled spirits, exhibits by dissection certain appearances which are of a peculiar nature. the fibres of the stomach and bowels are contracted; abscesses, gangrene, and schirri are found in the viscera; the bronchial vessels are contracted; the blood-vessels and tendons, in many parts of the body, are more or less ossified; and even the hair of the head possesses a crispness which renders it less valuable to wig-makers than the hair of sober people. not less destructive are the effects of ardent spirits upon the human mind. they impair the memory, debilitate the understanding, and pervert the moral faculties. it was probably from observing these effects of intemperance in drinking, upon the mind, that a law was formerly passed in spain, which excluded drunkards from being witnesses in a court of justice. but the demoralizing effects of distilled spirits do not stop here. they produce not only falsehood, but fraud, theft, uncleanliness, and murder. like the demoniac mentioned in the new testament, their name is "legion," for they convey into the soul, a host of vices and crimes. a more affecting spectacle cannot be exhibited, than a person into whom this infernal spirit, generated by habits of intemperance, has entered. it is more or less affecting, according to the station the person fills in a family, or in society, who is possessed by it. is he a husband? how deep the anguish which rends the bosom of his wife! is she a wife? who can measure the shame and aversion which she excites in her husband! is he the father, or is she the mother of a family of children? see their averted looks from their parent, and their blushing looks at each other! is he a magistrate? or has he been chosen to fill a high and respectable station in the councils of his country? what humiliating fears of corruption in the administration of the laws, and of the subversion of public order and happiness, appear in the countenances of all who see him! is he a minister of the gospel? here language fails me.----if angels weep,--it is at such a sight. in pointing out the evils produced by ardent spirits, let us not pass by their effects upon the estates of the persons who are addicted to them. are they inhabitants of cities? behold their houses stripped gradually of their furniture, and pawned, or sold by a constable, to pay tavern debts! see their names upon record in the dockets of every court, and whole pages of newspapers filled with advertisements of their estates for public sale! are they inhabitants of country places? behold their houses with shattered windows! their barns with leaky roofs! their gardens over-run with weeds! their fields with broken fences! their hogs without yokes! their sheep without wool! their cattle and horses without fat! and their children filthy, and half clad, without manners, principles, and morals! this picture of agricultural wretchedness is seldom of long duration. the farms and property thus neglected, and depreciated, are seized and sold for the benefit of a group of creditors. the children that were born with the prospect of inheriting them, are bound out to service in the neighbourhood; while their parents, the unworthy authors of their misfortunes, ramble into new and distant settlements, alternately fed on their way by the hand of charity, or a little casual labour. thus we see poverty and misery, crimes and infamy, diseases and death, are all the natural and usual consequences of the intemperate use of ardent spirits. i have classed death among the consequences of hard drinking. but it is not death from the immediate hand of the deity, nor from any of the instruments of it which were created by him. it is death from suicide. yes! thou poor degraded creature, who art daily lifting the poisoned bowl to thy lips, cease to avoid the unhallowed ground in which the self-murderer is interred, and wonder no longer that the sun should shine, and the rain fall, and the grass look green upon his grave. thou art perpetrating gradually, by the use of ardent spirits, what he has effected suddenly, by opium, or a halter. considering how many circumstances, from a sudden gust of passion, or from derangement, may palliate his guilt, or that (unlike yours) it was not preceded and accompanied by any other crime, it is probable his condemnation will be less than yours at the day of judgment. i shall now take notice of the occasions and circumstances which are supposed to render the use of ardent spirits necessary, and endeavour to show that the arguments in favour of their use in such cases are founded in error, and that, in each of them, ardent spirits, instead of affording strength to the body, increase the evils they are intended to relieve. 1. they are said to be necessary in very cold weather. this is far from being true; for the temporary warmth they produce, is always succeeded by a greater disposition in the body to be affected by cold. warm dresses, a plentiful meal just before exposure to the cold, and eating occasionally a little gingerbread, or any other cordial food, is a much more durable method of preserving the heat of the body in cold weather. 2. they are said to be necessary in very warm weather. experience proves that they increase instead of lessening the effects of heat upon the body, and thereby dispose to diseases of all kinds. even in the warm climate of the west-indies, dr. bell asserts this to be true. "rum (says this author) whether used habitually, moderately, or in excessive quantities, in the west-indies, always diminishes the strength of the body, and renders men more susceptible of disease, and unfit for any service in which vigour or activity is required[63]." as well might we throw oil into a house, the roof of which was on fire, in order to prevent the flames from extending to its inside, as pour ardent spirits into the stomach, to lessen the effects of a hot sun upon the skin. [63] inquiry into the causes which produce, and the means of preventing diseases among british officers, soldiers, and others in the west-indies. 3. nor do ardent spirits lessen the effects of hard labour upon the body. look at the horse: with every muscle of his body swelled from morning till night in the plough, or a team, does he make signs for a draught of toddy or a glass of spirits, to enable him to cleave the ground, or to climb a hill? no; he requires nothing but cool water, and substantial food. there is no nourishment in ardent spirits. the strength they produce in labour is of a transient nature, and is always followed by a sense of weakness and fatigue. but are there no conditions of the human body in which ardent spirits may be given? i answer, there are. 1st. when the body has been suddenly exhausted of its strength, and a disposition to faintness has been induced. here a few spoonsful, or a wine-glassful of spirits, with or without water, may be administered with safety and advantage. in this case we comply strictly with the advice of solomon, who restricts the use of "strong drink" only "to him who is ready to perish." 2dly. when the body has been exposed for a long time to wet weather, more especially if it be combined with cold. here a moderate quantity of spirits is not only safe, but highly proper to obviate debility, and to prevent a fever. they will more certainly have those salutary effects, if the feet are at the same time bathed with them, or a half pint of them poured into the shoes or boots. these i believe are the only two cases in which distilled spirits are useful or necessary to persons in health. part ii. but it may be said, if we reject spirits from being a part of our drinks, what liquors shall we substitute in their room? i answer, in the first place, 1. simple water. i have known many instances of persons who have followed the most laborious employments for many years in the open air, and in warm and cold weather, who never drank any thing but water, and enjoyed uninterrupted good health. dr. moseley, who resided many years in the west-indies, confirms this remark. "i aver (says the doctor), from my own knowledge and custom, as well as the custom and observations of many other people, that those who drink nothing but water, or make it their principal drink, are but little affected by the climate, and can undergo the greatest fatigue without inconvenience, and are never subject to troublesome or dangerous diseases." persons who are unable to relish this simple beverage of nature, may drink some one, or of all the following liquors, in preference to ardent spirits. 2. cyder. this excellent liquor contains a small quantity of spirit, but so diluted, and blunted by being combined with a large quantity of saccharine matter, and water, as to be perfectly wholesome. it sometimes disagrees with persons subject to the rheumatism, but it may be made inoffensive to such people, by extinguishing a red hot iron in it, or by mixing it with water. it is to be lamented, that the late frosts in the spring so often deprive us of the fruit which affords this liquor. the effects of these frosts have been in some measure obviated by giving an orchard a north-west exposure, so as to check too early vegetation, and by kindling two or three large fires of brush or straw, to the windward of the orchard, the evening before we expect a night of frost. this last expedient has in many instances preserved the fruit of an orchard, to the great joy and emolument of the ingenious husbandman. 3. malt liquors. the grain from which these liquors are obtained, is not liable, like the apple, to be affected by frost, and therefore they can be procured at all times, and at a moderate price. they contain a good deal of nourishment; hence we find many of the poor people in great-britain endure hard labour with no other food than a quart or three pints of beer, with a few pounds of bread in a day. as it will be difficult to prevent small beer from becoming sour in warm weather, an excellent substitute may be made for it by mixing bottled porter, ale, or strong beer with an equal quantity of water; or a pleasant beer may be made by adding to a bottle of porter, ten quarts of water, and a pound of brown sugar, or a pint of molasses. after they have been well mixed, pour the liquor into bottles, and place them, loosely corked, in a cool cellar. in two or three days, it will be fit for use. a spoonful of ginger added to the mixture, renders it more lively, and agreeable to the taste. 3. wines. these fermented liquors are composed of the same ingredients as cyder, and are both cordial and nourishing. the peasants of france, who drink them in large quantities, are a sober and healthy body of people. unlike ardent spirits, which render the temper irritable, wines generally inspire cheerfulness and good humour. it is to be lamented that the grape has not as yet been sufficiently cultivated in our country, to afford wine to our citizens; but many excellent substitutes may be made for it, from the native fruits of all the states. if two barrels of cyder fresh from the press, are boiled into one, and afterwards fermented, and kept for two or three years in a dry cellar, it affords a liquor which, according to the quality of the apple from which the cyder is made, has the taste of malaga, or rhenish wine. it affords when mixed with water, a most agreeable drink in summer. i have taken the liberty of calling it pomona wine. there is another method of making a pleasant wine from the apple, by adding four and twenty gallons of new cyder to three gallons of syrup made from the expressed juice of sweet apples. when thoroughly fermented, and kept for a few years, it becomes fit for use. the blackberry of our fields, and the raspberry and currant of our gardens, afford likewise an agreeable and wholesome wine, when pressed and mixed with certain proportions of sugar and water, and a little spirit, to counteract their disposition to an excessive fermentation. it is no objection to these cheap and home-made wines, that they are unfit for use until they are two or three years old. the foreign wines in common use in our country, require not only a much longer time to bring them to perfection, but to prevent their being disagreeable, even to the taste. 4. molasses and water, also vinegar and water, sweetened with sugar or molasses, form an agreeable drink in warm weather. it is pleasant and cooling, and tends to keep up those gentle and uniform sweats, on which health and life often depend. vinegar and water constituted the only drink of the soldiers of the roman republic, and it is well known they marched and fought in a warm climate, and beneath a load of arms which weighed sixty pounds. boaz, a wealthy farmer in palestine, we find treated his reapers with nothing but bread dipped in vinegar. to such persons as object to the taste of vinegar, sour milk, or butter-milk, or sweet milk diluted with water, may be given in its stead. i have known the labour of the longest and hottest days in summer supported, by means of these pleasant and wholesome drinks, with great firmness, and ended, with scarcely a complaint of fatigue. 5. the sugar maple affords a thin juice, which has long been used by the farmers in connecticut, as a cool and refreshing drink, in the time of harvest. the settlers in the western counties of the middle states will do well to let a few of the trees which yield this pleasant juice remain in all their fields. they may prove the means, not only of saving their children and grand-children many hundred pounds, but of saving their bodies from disease and death, and their souls from misery beyond the grave. 6. coffee possesses agreeable and exhilarating qualities, and might be used with great advantage to obviate the painful effects of heat, cold, and fatigue upon the body. i once knew a country physician, who made it a practice to drink a pint of strong coffee previously to his taking a long or cold ride. it was more cordial to him than spirits, in any of the forms in which they are commonly used. the use of the cold bath in the morning, and of the warm bath in the evening, are happily calculated to strengthen the body in the former part of the day, and to restore it in the latter, from the languor and fatigue which are induced by heat and labour. let it not be said, ardent spirits have become necessary from habit in harvest, and in other seasons of uncommon and arduous labour. the habit is a bad one, and may be easily broken. let but half a dozen farmers in a neighbourhood combine to allow higher wages to their labourers than are common, and a sufficient quantity of _any_ of the pleasant and wholesome liquors i have recommended, and they may soon, by their example, abolish the practice of giving them spirits. in a little while they will be delighted with the good effects of their association. their grain and hay will be gathered into their barns in less time, and in a better condition than formerly, and of course at a less expense, and a hundred disagreeable scenes from sickness, contention, and accidents will be avoided, all of which follow in a greater or less degree the use of ardent spirits. nearly all diseases have their predisposing causes. the same thing may be said of the intemperate use of distilled spirits. it will, therefore, be useful to point out the different employments, situations, and conditions of the body and mind, which predispose to the love of those liquors, and to accompany them with directions to prevent persons being ignorantly and undesignedly seduced into the habitual and destructive use of them. 1. labourers bear with great difficulty, long intervals between their meals. to enable them to support the waste of their strength, their stomachs should be constantly, but moderately stimulated by aliment, and this is best done by their eating four or five times in a day during the seasons of great bodily exertion. the food at this time should be _solid_, consisting chiefly of salted meat. the vegetables used with it, should possess some activity, or they should be made savoury by a mixture of spices. onions and garlic are of a most cordial nature. they composed a part of the diet which enabled the israelites to endure, in a warm climate, the heavy tasks imposed upon them by their egyptian masters; and they were eaten, horace and virgil tell us, by the roman farmers, to repair the waste of their strength, by the toils of harvest. there are likewise certain sweet substances, which support the body under the pressure of labour. the negroes in the west-indies become strong, and even fat, by drinking the juice of the sugar cane, in the season of grinding it. the jewish soldiers were invigorated by occasionally eating raisins and figs. a bread composed of wheat flour, molasses, and ginger (commonly called gingerbread), taken in small quantities during the day, is happily calculated to obviate the debility induced upon the body by constant labour. all these substances, whether of an animal or vegetable nature, lessen the desire, as well as the necessity, for cordial drinks, and impart equable and durable strength to every part of the system. 2. valetudinarians, especially those who are afflicted with diseases of the stomach and bowels, are very apt to seek relief from ardent spirits. let such people be cautious how they make use of this dangerous remedy. i have known many men and women of excellent characters and principles, who have been betrayed, by occasional doses of gin and brandy, into a love of those liquors, and have afterwards fallen sacrifices to their fatal effects. the different preparations of opium are much more safe and efficacious than distilled cordials of any kind, in flatulent or spasmodic affections of the stomach and bowels. so great is the danger of contracting a love for distilled liquors, by accustoming the stomach to their stimulus, that as few medicines as possible should be given in spiritous vehicles, in chronic diseases. a physician, of great eminence and uncommon worth, who died towards the close of the last century, in london, in taking leave of a young physician of this city, who had finished his studies under his patronage, impressed this caution with peculiar force upon him, and lamented at the same time, in pathetic terms, that he had innocently made many sots, by prescribing brandy and water in stomach complaints. it is difficult to tell how many persons have been destroyed by those physicians who have adopted dr. brown's indiscriminate practice in the use of stimulating remedies, the most popular of which is ardent spirits, but, it is well known, several of them have died of intemperance in this city, since the year 1790. they were probably led to it, by drinking brandy and water, to relieve themselves from the frequent attacks of debility and indisposition, to which the labours of a physician expose him, and for which rest, fasting, a gentle purge, or weak diluting drinks would have been safe and more certain cures. none of these remarks are intended to preclude the use of spirits in the low state of short, or what are called acute diseases, for, in such cases, they produce their effects too soon to create a habitual desire for them. 3. some people, from living in countries subject to intermitting fevers, endeavour to fortify themselves against them, by taking two or three wine-glasses of bitters, made with spirits, every day. there is great danger of contracting habits of intemperance from this practice. besides, this mode of preventing intermittents is far from being a certain one. a much better security against them, is a tea-spoonful of the jesuits bark, taken every morning during a sickly season. if this safe and excellent medicine cannot be had, a gill or half a pint of a strong watery infusion of centaury, camomile, wormwood, or rue, mixed with a little of the calamus of our meadows, may be taken every morning, with nearly the same advantage as the jesuits bark. those persons who live in a sickly country, and cannot procure any of the preventives of autumnal fevers which have been mentioned, should avoid the morning and evening air; should kindle fires in their houses, on damp days, and in cool evenings, throughout the whole summer; and put on winter clothes, about the first week in september. the last part of these directions applies only to the inhabitants of the middle states. 4. men who follow professions, which require constant exercise of the faculties of their minds, are very apt to seek relief, by the use of ardent spirits, from the fatigue which succeeds great mental exertions. to such persons, it may be a discovery to know, that tea is a much better remedy for that purpose. by its grateful and gentle stimulus, it removes fatigue, restores the excitement of the mind, and invigorates the whole system. i am no advocate for the excessive use of tea. when taken too strong, it is hurtful, especially to the female constitution; but when taken of a moderate degree of strength, and in moderate quantities, with sugar and cream, or milk, i believe it is, in general, innoxious, and at all times to be preferred to ardent spirits, as a cordial for studious men. the late anthony benezet, one of the most laborious schoolmasters i ever knew, informed me, he had been prevented from the love of spiritous liquors, by acquiring a love for tea in early life. three or four cups, taken in an afternoon, carried off the fatigue of a whole day's labour in his school. this worthy man lived to be seventy-one years of age, and died of an acute disease, with the full exercise of all the faculties of his mind. but the use of tea counteracts a desire for distilled spirits, during great _bodily_, as well as mental exertions. of this, captain forest has furnished us with a recent and remarkable proof, in his history of a voyage from calcutta, to the marqui archipelago. "i have always observed (says this ingenious mariner) when sailors drink tea, it weans them from the thoughts of drinking strong liquors, and pernicious grog; and with this, they are soon contented. not so with whatever will intoxicate, be it what it will. this has always been my remark. i therefore always encourage it, without their knowing why." 5. women have sometimes been led to seek relief from what is called breeding sickness, by the use of ardent spirits. a little gingerbread, or biscuit, taken occasionally, so as to prevent the stomach being empty, is a much better remedy for that disease. 6. persons under the pressure of debt, disappointments in worldly pursuits, and guilt, have sometimes sought to drown their sorrows in strong drink. the only radical cure for those evils, is to be found in religion; but where its support is not resorted to, wine and opium should always be preferred to ardent spirits. they are far less injurious to the body and mind, than spirits, and the habits of attachment to them are easily broken, after time and repentance have removed the evils they were taken to relieve. 7. the sociable and imitative nature of man, often disposes him to adopt the most odious and destructive practices from his companions. the french soldiers who conquered holland, in the year 1794, brought back with them the love and use of brandy, and thereby corrupted the inhabitants of several of the departments of france, who had been previously distinguished for their temperate and sober manners. many other facts might be mentioned, to show how important it is to avoid the company of persons addicted to the use of ardent spirits. 8. smoking and chewing tobacco, by rendering water and simple liquors insipid to the taste, dispose very much to the stronger stimulus of ardent spirits. the practice of smoking cigars has, in every part of our country, been more followed by a general use of brandy and water, as a common drink, more especially by that class of citizens who have not been in the habit of drinking wine, or malt liquors. the less, therefore, tobacco is used in the above ways, the better. 9. no man ever became suddenly a drunkard. it is by gradually accustoming the taste and stomach to ardent spirits, in the forms of grog and toddy, that men have been led to love them in their more destructive mixtures, and in their simple state. under the impression of this truth, were it possible for me to speak with a voice so loud as to be heard from the river st. croix to the remotest shores of the mississippi, which bound the territory of the united states, i would say, friends and fellow-citizens, avoid the habitual use of those two seducing liquors, whether they be made with brandy, rum, gin, jamaica spirits, whiskey, or what is called cherry bounce. it is true, some men, by limiting the strength of those drinks, by measuring the spirit and water, have drunken them for many years, and even during a long life, without acquiring habits of intemperance or intoxication, but many more have been insensibly led, by drinking weak toddy and grog first at their meals, to take them for their constant drink, in the intervals of their meals; afterwards to take them, of an increased strength, before breakfast in the morning; and finally to destroy themselves by drinking undiluted spirits, during every hour of the day and night. i am not singular in this remark. "the consequences of drinking rum and water, or _grog_, as it is called (says dr. moseley), is, that habit increases the desire of more spirits, and decreases its effects; and there are very few grog-drinkers who long survive the practice of debauching with it, without acquiring the odious nuisance of dram-drinkers' breath, and downright stupidity and impotence[64]." to enforce the caution against the use of those two apparently innocent and popular liquors still further, i shall select one instance, from among many, to show the ordinary manner in which they beguile and destroy their votaries. a citizen of philadelphia, once of a fair and sober character, drank toddy for many years, as his constant drink. from this he proceeded to drink grog. after a while, nothing would satisfy him but slings made of equal parts of rum and water, with a little sugar. from slings he advanced to raw rum, and from common rum to jamaica spirits. here he rested for a few months, but at length, finding even jamaica spirits were not strong enough to warm his stomach, he made it a constant practice to throw a table-spoonful of ground pepper in each glass of his spirits, in order, to use his own words, "to take off their coldness." he soon after died a martyr to his intemperance. [64] treatise on tropical diseases. ministers of the gospel, of every denomination, in the united states! aid me with all the weight you possess in society, from the dignity and usefulness of your sacred office, to save our fellow men from being destroyed, by the great destroyer of their lives and souls. in order more successfully to effect this purpose, permit me to suggest to you to employ the same wise modes of instruction, which you use in your attempts to prevent their destruction by other vices. you expose the evils of covetousness, in order to prevent theft; you point out the sinfulness of impure desires, in order to prevent adultery; and you dissuade from anger, and malice, in order to prevent murder. in like manner, denounce, by your preaching, conversation, and examples, the seducing influence of toddy and grog, when you aim to prevent all the crimes and miseries, which are the offspring of strong drink. we have hitherto considered the effects of ardent spirits upon individuals, and the means of preventing them. i shall close this head of our inquiry, by a few remarks on their effects upon the population and welfare of our country, and the means of obviating them. it is highly probable, not less than 4000 people die annually, from the use of ardent spirits, in the united states. should they continue to exert this deadly influence upon our population, where will their evils terminate? this question may be answered, by asking, where are all the indian tribes, whose numbers and arms formerly spread terror among their civilized neighbours? i answer, in the words of the famous mingo chief, "the blood of many of them flows not in the veins of any human creature." they have perished, not by pestilence, nor war, but by a greater foe to human life than either of them--ardent spirits. the loss of 4000 american citizens, by the yellow fever, in a single year, awakened general sympathy and terror, and called forth all the strength and ingenuity of laws, to prevent its recurrence. why is not the same zeal manifested in protecting our citizens from the more general and consuming ravages of distilled spirits? should the customs of civilized life, preserve our nation from extinction, and even from an increase of mortality, by those liquors; they cannot prevent our country being governed by men, chosen by intemperate and corrupted voters. from such legislators, the republic would soon be in danger. to avert this evil, let good men of every class unite and besiege the general and state governments, with petitions to limit the number of taverns; to impose heavy duties upon ardent spirits; to inflict a mark of disgrace, or a temporary abridgment of some civil right, upon every man convicted of drunkenness; and finally to secure the property of habitual drunkards, for the benefit of their families, by placing it in the hands of trustees, appointed for that purpose, by a court of justice. to aid the operation of these laws, would it not be extremely useful for the rulers of the different denominations of christian churches to unite, and render the sale and consumption of ardent spirits, a subject of ecclesiastical jurisdiction? the methodists, and society of friends, have, for some time past, viewed them as contraband articles, to the pure laws of the gospel, and have borne many public and private testimonies, against making them the objects of commerce. their success in this benevolent enterprise, affords ample encouragement for all other religious societies to follow their example. part iii. we come now to the third part of this inquiry, that is, to mention the remedies for the evils which are brought on by the excessive use of distilled spirits. these remedies divide themselves into two kinds. i. such as are proper to cure a fit of drunkenness, and ii. such as are proper to prevent its recurrence, and to destroy a desire for ardent spirits. i. i am aware that the efforts of science and humanity, in applying their resources to the cure of a disease, induced by an act of vice, will meet with a cold reception from many people. but let such people remember, the subjects of our remedies, are their fellow creatures, and that the miseries brought upon human nature, by its crimes, are as much the objects of divine compassion (which we are bound to imitate), as the distresses which are brought upon men, by the crimes of other people, or which they bring upon themselves, by ignorance or accidents. let us not then, pass by the prostrate sufferer from strong drink, but administer to him the same relief, we would afford to a fellow creature, in a similar state, from an accidental, and innocent cause. 1. the first thing to be done to cure a fit of drunkenness, is to open the collar, if in a man, and remove all tight ligatures from every other part of the body. the head and shoulders should at the same time be elevated, so as to favour a more feeble determination of the blood to the brain. 2. the contents of the stomach should be discharged, by thrusting a feather down the throat. it often restores the patient immediately to his senses and feet. should it fail of exciting a puking, 3. a napkin should be wrapped round the head, and wetted for an hour or two with cold water, or cold water should be poured in a stream upon the head. in the latter way, i have sometimes seen it used, when a boy, in the city of philadelphia. it was applied, by dragging the patient, when found drunk in the street, to a pump, and pumping water upon his head for ten or fifteen minutes. the patient generally rose, and walked off, sober and sullen, after the use of this remedy. other remedies, less common, but not less effectual for a fit of drunkenness, are, 4. plunging the whole body into cold water. a number of gentlemen who had drunken to intoxication, on board a ship in the stream, near fell's point, at baltimore, in consequence of their reeling in a small boat, on their way to the shore, in the evening, overset it, and fell into the water. several boats from the shore hurried to their relief. they were all picked up, and went home, perfectly sober, to their families. 5. terror. a number of young merchants, who had drunken together, in a compting-house, on james river, above thirty years ago, until they were intoxicated, were carried away by a sudden rise of the river, from an immense fall of rain. they floated several miles with the current, in their little cabin, half filled with water. an island in the river arrested it. when they reached the shore that saved their lives, they were all sober. it is probable terror assisted in the cure of the persons who fell into the water at baltimore. 6. the excitement of a fit of anger. the late dr. witherspoon used to tell a story of a man in scotland, who was always cured of a fit of drunkenness, by being made angry. the means chosen for that purpose, was a singular one. it was talking against religion. 7. a severe whipping. this remedy acts by exciting a revulsion of the blood from the brain, to the external parts of the body. 8. profuse sweats. by means of this evacuation, nature sometimes cures a fit of drunkenness. their good effects are obvious in labourers, whom quarts of spirits taken in a day, will seldom intoxicate, while they sweat freely. if the patient be unable to swallow warm drinks, in order to produce sweats, they may be excited by putting him in a warm bath, or wrapping his body in blankets, under which should be placed half a dozen hot bricks, or bottles filled with hot water. 9. bleeding. this remedy should always be used, when the former ones have been prescribed to no purpose, or where there is reason to fear from the long duration of the disease, a material injury may be done to the brain. it is hardly necessary to add, that each of the above remedies, should be regulated by the grade of drunkenness, and the greater or less degree, in which the intellects are affected in it. ii. the remedies which are proper to prevent the recurrence of fits of drunkenness, and to destroy the desire for ardent spirits, are religious, metaphysical, and medical. i shall briefly mention them. 1. many hundred drunkards have been cured of their desire for ardent spirits, by a practical belief in the doctrines of the christian religion. examples of the divine efficacy of christianity for this purpose, have lately occurred in many parts of the united states. 2. a sudden sense of the guilt contracted by drunkenness, and of its punishment in a future world. it once cured a gentleman in philadelphia, who, in a fit of drunkenness, attempted to murder a wife whom he loved. upon being told of it when he was sober, he was so struck with the enormity of the crime he had nearly committed, that he never tasted spiritous liquors afterwards. 3. a sudden sense of shame. of the efficacy of this deep seated principle in the human bosom, in curing drunkenness, i shall relate three remarkable instances. a farmer in england, who had been many years in the practice of coming home intoxicated, from a market town, one day observed appearances of rain, while he was in market. his hay was cut, and ready to be housed. to save it, he returned in haste to his farm, before he had taken his customary dose of grog. upon coming into his house, one of his children, a boy of six years old, ran to his mother, and cried out, "o, mother! father is come home, and he is not drunk." the father, who heard this exclamation, was so severely rebuked by it, that he suddenly became a sober man. a noted drunkard was once followed by a favourite goat, to a tavern, into which he was invited by his master, and drenched with some of his liquor. the poor animal staggered home with his master, a good deal intoxicated. the next day he followed him to his accustomed tavern. when the goat came to the door, he paused: his master made signs to him to follow him into the house. the goat stood still. an attempt was made to thrust him into the tavern. he resisted, as if struck with the recollection of what he suffered from being intoxicated the night before. his master was so much affected by a sense of shame in observing the conduct of his goat to be so much more rational than his own, that he ceased from that time to drink spiritous liquors. a gentleman, in one of the southern states, who had nearly destroyed himself by strong drink, was remarkable for exhibiting the grossest marks of folly in his fits of intoxication. one evening, sitting in his parlour, he heard an uncommon noise in his kitchen. he went to the door, and peeped through the key hole, from whence he saw one of his negroes diverting his fellow servants, by mimicking his master's gestures and conversation when he was drunk. the sight overwhelmed him with shame and distress, and instantly became the means of his reformation. 4. the association of the idea of ardent spirits, with a painful or disagreeable impression upon some part of the body, has sometimes cured the love of strong drink. i once tempted a negro man, who was habitually fond of ardent spirits, to drink some rum (which i placed in his way), and in which i had put a few grains of tartar emetic. the tartar sickened and puked him to such a degree, that he supposed himself to be poisoned. i was much gratified by observing he could not bear the sight, nor smell of spirits, for two years afterwards. i have heard of a man, who was cured of the love of spirits, by working off a puke, by large draughts of brandy and water, and i know a gentleman, who in consequence of being affected with a rheumatism, immediately after drinking some toddy, when overcome with fatigue and exposure to the rain, has ever since loathed that liquor, only because it was accidentally associated in his memory with the recollection of the pain he suffered from his disease. this appeal to that operation of the human mind, which obliges it to associate ideas, accidentally or otherwise combined, for the cure of vice, is very ancient. it was resorted to by moses, when he compelled the children of israel to drink the solution of the golden calf (which they had idolized) in water. this solution, if made, as it most probably was, by means of what is called hepar sulphuris, was extremely bitter, and nauseous, and could never be recollected afterwards, without bringing into equal detestation, the sin which subjected them to the necessity of drinking it. our knowledge of this principle of association upon the minds and conduct of men, should lead us to destroy, by means of other impressions, the influence of all those circumstances, with which the recollection and desire of spirits are combined. some men drink only in the _morning_, some at _noon_, and some only at _night_. some men drink only on a _market day_, some at _one_ tavern only, and some only in _one kind_ of company. now by finding a new and interesting employment, or subject of conversation for drunkards at the usual times in which they have been accustomed to drink, and by restraining them by the same means from those places and companions, which suggested to them the idea of ardent spirits, their habits of intemperance may be completely destroyed. in the same way the periodical returns of appetite, and a desire of sleep have been destroyed in a hundred instances. the desire for strong drink differs from each of them, in being of an artificial nature, and therefore not disposed to return, after being chased for a few weeks from the system. 5. the love of ardent spirits has sometimes been subdued, by exciting a counter passion in the mind. a citizen of philadelphia had made many unsuccessful attempts to cure his wife of drunkenness. at length, despairing of her reformation, he purchased a hogshead of rum, and, after tapping it, left the key in the door of the room in which it was placed, as if he had forgotten it. his design was to give his wife an opportunity of drinking herself to death. she suspected this to be his motive, in what he had done, and suddenly left off drinking. resentment here became the antidote to intemperance. 6. a diet consisting wholly of vegetables cured a physician in maryland, of drunkenness, probably by lessening that thirst, which is always more or less excited by animal food. 7. blisters to the ankles, which were followed by an unusual degree of inflammation, once suspended the love of ardent spirits, for one month, in a lady in this city. the degrees of her intemperance may be conceived of, when i add, that her grocer's account for brandy alone amounted, annually, to one hundred pounds, pennsylvania currency, for several years. 8. a violent attack of an acute disease, has sometimes destroyed a habit of drinking distilled liquors. i attended a notorious drunkard, in the yellow fever, in the year 1798, who recovered with the loss of his relish for spirits, which has, i believe, continued ever since. 9. a salivation has lately performed a cure of drunkenness, in a person of virginia. the new disease excited in the mouth and throat, while it rendered the action of the smallest quantity of spirits upon them painful, was happily calculated to destroy the disease in the stomach which prompts to drinking, as well as to render the recollection of them disagreeable, by the laws of association formerly mentioned. 10. i have known an oath, taken before a magistrate, to drink no more spirits, produce a perfect cure of drunkenness. it is sometimes cured in this way in ireland. persons who take oaths for this purpose are called affidavit men. 11. an advantage would probably arise from frequent representations being made to drunkards, not only of the certainty, but of the _suddenness_ of death, from habits of intemperance. i have heard of two persons being cured of the love of ardent spirits, by seeing death suddenly induced by fits of intoxication; in the one case, in a stranger, and in the other, in an intimate friend. 12. it has been said, that the disuse of spirits should be gradual, but my observations authorize me to say, that persons who have been addicted to them, should abstain from them _suddenly_, and _entirely_. "taste not, handle not, touch not," should be inscribed upon every vessel that contains spirits, in the house of a man who wishes to be cured of habits of intemperance. to obviate, for a while, the debility which arises from the sudden abstraction of the stimulus of spirits, laudanum, or bitters infused in water, should be taken, and perhaps a larger quantity of beer or wine, that is consistent with the strict rules of temperate living. by the temporary use of these substitutes for spirits, i have never known the transition to sober habits to be attended with any bad effects, but often with permanent health of body, and peace of mind. observations on the _duties of a physician_, and the methods of improving medicine. accommodated to the present state of society and manners in the united states. delivered in the university of pennsylvania, february 7, 1789, at the conclusion of a course of lectures upon chemistry and the practice of physic. _published at the request of the class._ gentlemen, i shall conclude our course of lectures, by delivering to you a few directions for the regulation of your future conduct and studies, in the line of your profession. i shall, _first_, suggest the most probable means of establishing yourselves in business, and of becoming acceptable to your patients, and respectable in life. _secondly_, i shall mention a few thoughts which have occurred to me on the mode to be pursued, in the further prosecution of your studies, and for the improvement of medicine. i. permit me, in the first place, to recommend to such of you as intend to settle in the country, to establish yourselves as early as possible upon _farms_. my reasons for this advice are as follow: 1. it will reconcile the country people to the liberality and dignity of your profession, by showing them that you assume no superiority over them from your education, and that you intend to share with them in those toils, which were imposed upon man in consequence of the loss of his innocence. this will prevent envy, and render you acceptable to your patients as men, as well as physicians. 2. by living on a farm you may serve your country, by promoting improvements in agriculture. chemistry (which is now an important branch of a medical education) and agriculture are closely allied to each other. hence some of the most useful books upon agriculture have been written by physicians. witness the essays of dr. home of edinburgh, and of dr. hunter of yorkshire, in england. 3. the business of a farm will furnish you with employment in the healthy seasons of the year, and thereby deliver you from the tædium vitæ, or what is worse, from retreating to low or improper company. perhaps one cause of the prevalence of dram or grog drinking, with which country practitioners are sometimes charged, is owing to their having no regular or profitable business to employ them, in the intervals of their attendance upon their patients. 4. the resources of a farm will create such an independence as will enable you to practice with more dignity, and at the same time screen you from the trouble of performing unnecessary services to your patients. it will change the nature of the obligation between you and them. while _money_ is the only means of your subsistence, your patients will feel that they are the channels of your daily bread; but while your farm furnishes you with the necessaries of life, your patients will feel more sensibly, that the obligation is on their side, for health and life. 5. the exigencies and wants of a farm in _stock_ and _labour_ of all kinds, will enable you to obtain from your patients a compensation for your services in those articles. they all possess them, and men part with that of which money is only the sign, much more readily than they do with money itself. 6. the resources of a farm will prevent your cherishing, for a moment, an impious wish for the prevalence of sickness in your neighbourhood. a healthy season will enable you to add to the produce of your farm, while the rewards of an unhealthy season will enable you to repair the inconvenience of your necessary absence from it. by these means your pursuits will be marked by that _variety_ and _integrity_, in which true happiness is said to consist. 7. let your farms be small, and let your _principal_ attention be directed to grass and horticulture. these afford most amusement, require only moderate labour, and will interfere least with your duties to your profession. ii. avoid singularities of every kind in your manners, dress, and general conduct. sir isaac newton, it is said, could not be distinguished in company, by any peculiarity, from a common well-bred gentleman. singularity in any thing, is a substitute for such great or useful qualities as command respect; and hence we find it chiefly in little minds. the profane and indelicate combination of extravagant ideas, improperly called wit, and the formal and pompous manner, whether accompanied by a wig, a cane, or a ring, should be all avoided, as incompatible with the simplicity of science, and the real dignity of physic. there is more than one way of playing the quack. it is not necessary, for this purpose, that a man should advertise his skill, or his cures, or that he should mount a phaeton and display his dexterity in operating, to an ignorant and gaping multitude. a physician acts the same part in a different way, who assumes the character of a madman or a brute in his manners, or who conceals his fallibility by an affected gravity and taciturnity in his intercourse with his patients. both characters, like the quack, impose upon the public. it is true, they deceive different ranks of people; but we must remember that there are two kinds of vulgar, viz. the rich and the poor; and that the rich vulgar are often upon a footing with the poor, in ignorance and credulity. iii. it has been objected to our profession, that many eminent physicians have been unfriendly to christianity. if this be true, i cannot help ascribing it in part to that neglect of public worship with which the duties of our profession are often incompatible; for it has been justly observed, that the neglect of this religious and social duty, generally produces a relaxation, either in principles or morals. let this fact lead you, in setting out in business, to acquire such habits of punctuality in visiting your patients, as shall not interfere with acts of public homage to the supreme being. dr. gregory has observed, that a cold heart is the most frequent cause of deism. where this occurs in a physician, it affords a presumption that he is deficient in humanity. but i cannot admit that infidelity is peculiar to our profession. on the contrary, i believe christianity places among its friends more men of extensive abilities and learning in medicine, than in any other secular employment. stahl, hoffman, boerhaave, sydenham, haller, and fothergill, were all christians. these enlightened physicians were considered as the ornaments of the ages in which they lived, and posterity has justly ranked them among the greatest benefactors of mankind. iv. permit me to recommend to you a regard to all the interests of your country. the education of a physician gives him a peculiar insight in the principles of many useful arts, and the practice of physic favours his opportunities of doing good, by diffusing knowledge of all kinds. it was in rome, when medicine was practised only by slaves, that physicians were condemned by their profession "mutam exercere artem." but in modern times, and in free governments, they should disdain an ignoble silence upon public subjects. the american revolution has rescued physic from its former slavish rank in society. for the honour of our profession it should be recorded, that some of the most intelligent and useful characters, both in the cabinet and the field, during the late war, have been physicians. the illustrious dr. fothergill opposed faction and tyranny, and took the lead in all public improvements in his native country, without suffering thereby the least diminution of that reputation, or business, in which, for forty years, he flourished almost without a rival in the city of london. v. let me advise you, in your visits to the sick, _never_ to appear in a hurry, nor to talk of indifferent matters before you have made the necessary inquiries into the symptoms of your patient's disease. vi. avoid making light of any case. "respice finem" should be the motto of every indisposition. there is scarcely a disease so trifling, that has not, directly or indirectly, proved an outlet to human life. this consideration should make you anxious and punctual in your attendance upon every acute disease, and keep you from risking your reputation by an improper or hasty prognosis. vii. do not condemn, or oppose, unnecessarily, the simple prescriptions of your patients. yield to them in matters of little consequence, but maintain an inflexible authority over them in matters that are essential to life. viii. preserve, upon all occasions, a composed or cheerful countenance in the room of your patients, and inspire as much hope of a recovery as you can, consistent with truth, especially in acute diseases. the extent of the influence of the will over the human body, has not yet been fully ascertained. i reject the futile pretensions of mr. mesmer to the cure of diseases, by what he has absurdly called animal magnetism. but i am willing to derive the same advantages from his deceptions, which the chemists have derived from the delusions of the alchemists. the facts which he has established, clearly prove the influence of the imagination, and will, upon diseases. let us avail ourselves of the handle which those faculties of the mind present to us, in the strife between life and death. i have frequently prescribed remedies of doubtful efficacy in the critical stage of acute diseases, but never till i had worked up my patients into a confidence, bordering upon certainty, of their probable good effects. the success of this measure has much oftener answered, than disappointed my expectations; and while my patients have commended the vomit, the purge, or the blister which was prescribed, i have been disposed to attribute their recovery to the vigorous concurrence of the _will_ in the action of the medicine. does the will beget insensibility to cold, heat, hunger, and danger? does it suspend pain, and raise the body above feeling the pangs of indian tortures? let us not then be surprised that it should enable the system to resolve a spasm, to open an obstruction, or to discharge an offending humour. i have only time to hint at this subject. perhaps it would lead us, if we could trace it fully, to some very important discoveries in the cure of diseases. ix. permit me to advise you in your intercourse with your patients, to attend to that principle in the human mind, which constitutes the association of ideas. a chamber, a chair, a curtain, or even a cup, all belong to the means of life or death, accordingly as they are associated with cheerful or distressing ideas, in the mind of a patient. but this principle is of more immediate application in those chronic diseases which affect the mind. nothing can be accomplished here, till we produce a new association of ideas. for this purpose a change of place and company are absolutely necessary. but we must sometimes proceed much further. i have heard of a gentleman in south-carolina who cured his fits of low spirits by changing his clothes. the remedy was a rational one. it produced at once a new train of ideas, and thus removed the paroxysm of his disease. x. make it a rule never to be angry at any thing a sick man says or does to you. sickness often adds to the natural irritability of the temper. we are, therefore, to bear the reproaches of our patients with meekness and silence. it is folly to resent injuries at any time, but it is cowardice to resent an injury from a sick man, since, from his weakness and dependence upon us, he is unable to contend with us upon equal terms. you will find it difficult to attach your patients to you by the obligations of friendship or gratitude. you will sometimes have the mortification of being deserted by those patients who owe most to your skill and humanity. this led dr. turner to advise physicians never to chuse their friends from among their patients. but this advice can never be followed by a heart that has been taught to love true excellency, wherever it finds it. i would rather advise you to give the benevolent feelings of your hearts full scope, and to forget the unkind returns they will often meet with, by giving to human nature----a tear. xi. avoid giving a patient over in an acute disease. it is impossible to tell in such cases where life ends, and where death begins. hundreds of patients have recovered, who have been pronounced incurable, to the great disgrace of our profession. i know that the practice of predicting danger and death upon every occasion, is sometimes made use of by physicians, in order to enhance the credit of their prescriptions if their patients recover, and to secure a retreat from blame, if they should die. but this mode of acting is mean and illiberal. it is not necessary that we should decide with confidence at any time, upon the issue of a disease. xii. a physician in sickness is always a welcome visitor in a family; hence he is often solicited to partake of the usual sign of hospitality in this country, by taking a draught of some strong liquor, every time he enters into the house of a patient. let me charge you to lay an early restraint upon yourselves, by refusing to yield to this practice, especially in the _forenoon_. many physicians have been innocently led by it into habits of drunkenness. you will be in the more danger of falling into this vice, from the great fatigue and inclemency of the weather to which you will be exposed in country practice. but you have been taught that strong drink affords only a temporary relief from those evils, and that it afterwards renders the body more sensible of them. xiii. i shall now give some directions with respect to the method of charging for your services to your patients. when we consider the expence of a medical education, and the sacrifices a physician is obliged to make of ease, society, and even health, to his profession; and when we add to these, the constant and painful anxiety which is connected with the important charge of the lives of our fellow-creatures, and above all, the inestimable value of that blessing which is the object of his services, i hardly know how it is possible for a patient sufficiently and justly to reward his physician. but when we consider, on the other hand, that sickness deprives men of the means of acquiring money; that it increases all the expenses of living; and that high charges often drive patients from regular-bred physicians to quacks; i say, when we attend to these considerations, we should make our charges as moderate as possible, and conform them to the following state of things. avoid measuring your services to your patients by scruples, drachms, and ounces. it is an illiberal mode of charging. on the contrary, let the number and _time_ of your visits, the nature of your patient's disease, and his rank in his family or society, determine the figures in your accounts. it is certainly just to charge more for curing an apoplexy, than an intermitting fever. it is equally just, to demand more for risking your life by visiting a patient in a contagious fever, than for curing a pleurisy. you have likewise a right to be paid for your anxiety. charge the same services, therefore, higher, to the master or mistress of a family, or to an only son or daughter, who call forth all your feelings and industry, than to less important members of a family and of society. if a rich man demand more frequent visits than are necessary, and if he impose the restraints of keeping to hours, by calling in other physicians to consult with you upon every trifling occasion, it will be just to make him pay accordingly for it. as this mode of charging is strictly agreeable to reason and equity, it seldom fails of according with the reason and sense of equity of our patients. accounts made out upon these principles, are seldom complained of by them. i shall only remark further upon this subject, that the sooner you send in your accounts after your patients recover, the better. it is the duty of a physician to inform his patient of the amount of his obligation to him at least _once_ a year. but there are times when a departure from this rule may be necessary. an unexpected misfortune in business, and a variety of other accidents, may deprive a patient of the money he had allotted to pay his physician. in this case, delicacy and humanity require, that he should not know the amount of his debt to his physician, till time had bettered his circumstances. i shall only add, under this head, that the poor of every description should be the objects of your peculiar care. dr. boerhaave used to say, "they were his best patients, because god was their paymaster." the first physicians that i have known, have found the poor the steps by which they have ascended to business and reputation. diseases among the lower class of people are generally simple, and exhibit to a physician the best cases of all epidemics, which cannot fail of adding to his ability of curing the complicated diseases of the rich and intemperate. there is an inseparable connection between a man's duty and his interest. whenever you are called, therefore, to visit a poor patient, imagine you hear the voice of the good samaritan sounding in your ears, "take care of him, and i will repay thee." i come now to the second part of this address, which was to point out the best mode to be pursued, in the further prosecution of your studies, and the improvement of medicine. i. give me leave to recommend to you, to open all the dead bodies you can, without doing violence to the feelings of your patients, or the prejudices of the common people. preserve a register of the weather, and of its influence upon the vegetable productions of the year. above all, record the epidemics of every season; their times of appearing and disappearing, and the connection of the weather with each of them. such records, if published, will be useful to foreigners, and a treasure to posterity. preserve, likewise, an account of chronic cases. record the name, age, and occupation of your patient; describe his disease accurately, and the changes produced in it by your remedies; mention the doses of every medicine you administer to him. it is impossible to tell how much improvement and facility in practice you will find from following these directions. it has been remarked, that physicians seldom remember more than the two or three last years of their practice. the records which have been mentioned, will supply this deficiency of memory, especially in that advanced stage of life when the advice of physicians is supposed to be most valuable. ii. permit me to recommend to you further, the study of the anatomy (if i may be allowed the expression) of the human mind, commonly called metaphysics. the reciprocal influence of the body and mind upon each other, can only be ascertained by an accurate knowledge of the faculties of the mind, and of their various modes of combination and action. it is the duty of physicians to assert their prerogative, and to rescue the mental science from the usurpations of schoolmen and divines. it can only be perfected by the aid and discoveries of medicine. the authors i would recommend to you upon metaphysics, are, butler, locke, hartley, reid, and beattie. these ingenious writers have cleared this sublime science of its technical rubbish, and rendered it both intelligible and useful. iii. let me remind you, that improvement in medicine is not to be derived only from colleges and universities. systems of physic are the productions of men of genius and learning; but those facts which constitute real knowledge, are to be met with in every walk of life. remember how many of our most useful remedies have been discovered by quacks. do not be afraid, therefore, of conversing with them, and of profiting by their ignorance and temerity in the practice of physic. medicine has its pharisees, as well as religion. but the spirit of this sect is as unfriendly to the advancement of medicine, as it is to christian charity. by conversing with quacks, we may convey instruction to them, and thereby lessen the mischief they might otherwise do to society. but further. in the pursuit of medical knowledge, let me advise you to converse with nurses and old women. they will often suggest facts in the history and cure of diseases, which have escaped the most sagacious observers of nature. even negroes and indians have sometimes stumbled upon discoveries in medicine. be not ashamed to inquire into them. there is yet one more means of information in medicine which should not be neglected, and that is, to converse with persons who have recovered from indispositions without the aid of physicians. examine the strength and exertions of nature in these cases, and mark the plain and home-made remedy to which they ascribe their recovery. i have found this to be a fruitful source of instruction, and have been led to conclude, that if every man in a city, or a district, could be called upon to relate to persons appointed to receive and publish his narrative, an exact account of the effects of those remedies which accident or whim has suggested to him, it would furnish a very useful book in medicine. to preserve the facts thus obtained, let me advise you to record them in a book to be kept for that purpose. there is one more advantage that will probably attend the inquiries that have been mentioned: you may discover diseases, or symptoms of diseases, or even laws of the animal economy, which have no place in our systems of nosology, or in our theories of physic. iv. study simplicity in the preparation of your medicines. my reasons for this advice are as follow: 1. active medicines produce the most certain effects in a simple state. 2. medicines when mixed frequently destroy the efficacy of each other. i do not include chemical medicines alone in this remark. it applies likewise to galenical medicines. i do not say, that all these medicines are impaired by mixture, but we can only determine when they are not, by actual experiments and observations. 3. when medicines of the same class, or even of different classes, are given together, the _strongest_ only produces an effect. but what are we to say to a compound of two medicines which give exactly the same impression to the system? probably, if we are to judge from analogy, the effect of them will be such as would have been produced by neither, in a simple state. 4. by observing simplicity in your prescriptions, you will always have the command of a greater number of medicines of the _same_ class, which may be used in succession to each other, in proportion as habit renders the system insensible of their action. 5. by using medicines in a simple state you will obtain an exact knowledge of their virtues and doses, and thereby be able to decide upon the numerous and contradictory accounts which exist in our books, of the character of the _same_ medicines. under this head, i cannot help adding two more directions. 1. avoid sacrificing too much to the _taste_ of your patients in the preparation of your medicines. the nature of a medicine may be wholly changed by being mixed with sweet substances. the author of nature seems to have had a design, in rendering medicines unpalatable. had they been more agreeable to the taste, they would probably have yielded long ago to the unbounded appetite of man, and by becoming articles of diet, or condiments, have lost their efficacy in diseases. 2. give as few medicines as possible in tinctures made with distilled spirits. perhaps there are few cases in which it is safe to exhibit medicines prepared in spirits, in any other form than in _drops_. many people have been innocently seduced into a love of strong drink, from taking large or frequent doses of bitters, infused in spirits. let not our profession be reproached in a single instance, with adding to the calamities that have been entailed upon mankind by this dreadful species of intemperance. v. let me recommend to your particular attention, the indigenous medicines of our country. cultivate or prepare as many of them as possible, and endeavour to enlarge the materia medica, by exploring the untrodden fields and forests of the united states. the ipecacuanha, the seneka and virginia snake-roots, the carolina pink-root, the spice-wood, the sassafras, the butter-nut, the thoroughwort, the poke, and the stramonium, are but a small part of the medicinal productions of america. i have no doubt but there are many hundred other plants which now exhale invaluable medicinal virtues in the desert air. examine, likewise, the mineral waters, which are so various in their impregnation, and so common in all parts of our country. let not the properties of the insects of america escape your investigation. we have already discovered among some of them, a fly equal in its blistering qualities to the famous fly of spain. who knows but it may be reserved for america to furnish the world, from her productions, with cures for some of those diseases which now elude the power of medicine? who knows but that, at the foot of the allegany mountain, there blooms a flower that is an infallible cure for the epilepsy? perhaps on the monongahela, or the potomac, there may grow a root that shall supply, by its tonic powers, the invigorating effects of the savage or military life in the cure of consumptions. human misery of every kind is evidently on the decline. happiness, like truth, is a unit. while the world, from the progress of intellectual, moral, and political truth, is becoming a more safe and agreeable abode for man, the votaries of medicine should not be idle. all the doors and windows of the temple of nature have been thrown open by the convulsions of the late american revolution. this is the time, therefore, to press upon her altars. we have already drawn from them discoveries in morals, philosophy, and government; all of which have human happiness for their object. let us preserve the unity of truth and happiness, by drawing from the same source, in the present critical moment, a knowledge of antidotes to those diseases which are supposed to be incurable. i have now, gentlemen, only to thank you for the attention with which you have honoured the course of lectures which has been delivered to you, and to assure you, that i shall be happy in rendering you all the services that lie in my power, in any way you are pleased to command me. accept of my best wishes for your happiness, and may the blessings of hundreds and thousands that were ready to perish, be your portion in life, your comfort in death, and your reward in the world to come. an inquiry into the cause and cure of _sore legs_. however trifling these complaints may appear, they compose a large class of the diseases of a numerous body of people. hitherto, the persons afflicted by them have been too generally abandoned to the care of empirics, either because the disease was considered as beneath the notice of physicians, or because they were unable to cure it. i would rather ascribe it to the latter, than to the former cause, for pride has no natural fellowship with the profession of medicine. the difficulty of curing sore legs has been confessed by physicians in every country. as far as my observations have extended, i am disposed to ascribe this difficulty to the uniform and indiscriminate mode of treating them, occasioned by the want of a theory which shall explain their proximate cause. i shall attempt in a few pages to deliver one, which, however imperfect, will, i hope, lay a foundation for more successful inquiries upon this subject hereafter. i shall begin my observations upon this disease, by delivering and supporting the following propositions. i. sore legs are induced by general debility. this i infer from the occupations and habits of the persons who are most subject to them. they are day-labourers, and sailors, who are in the habit of lifting great weights; also washer-women, and all other persons, who pass the greatest part of their time upon their feet. the blood-vessels and muscular fibres of the legs are thus overstretched, by which means either a rupture, or such a languid action in the vessels is induced, as that an accidental wound from any cause, even from the scratch of a pin, or the bite of a mosquito, will not easily heal. but labourers, sailors, and washer-women are not the only persons who are afflicted with sore legs. hard drinkers of every rank and description are likewise subject to them. where strong drink, labour, and standing long on the feet are united, they more certainly dispose to sore legs, than when they act separately. in china, where the labour which is performed by brutes in other countries, is performed by men, varices on the legs are very common among the labouring people. perhaps, the reason why the debility is induced in the legs produces varices instead of ulcers in these people, may be owing to their not adding the debilitating stimulus of strong drink to that of excessive labour. it is not extraordinary that the debility produced by intemperance in drinking ardent spirits, should appear first in the lower extremities. the debility produced by intemperance in the use of wine, makes its first appearance in the form of gout, in the same part of the body. the gout, it is true, discovers itself most frequently in pain only, but there are cases in which it has terminated in ulcers, and even mortification on the legs. ii. sore legs are connected with a morbid state of the whole system. this i infer, 1. from the causes which induce them, all of which act more or less upon every part of the body. 2. from their following or preceding diseases, which obviously belong to the whole system. fevers and dysenteries often terminate critically in this disease; and the pulmonary consumption and apoplexy have often been preceded by the suppression of a habitual discharge from a sore leg. the two latter diseases have been ascribed to the translation of a morbific matter to the lungs or brain: but it is more rational to ascribe them to a previous debility in those organs, by which means their vessels were more easily excited into action and effusion by the stimulus of the plethora, induced upon the system in consequence of the confinement of the fluids formerly discharged from the leg in the form of pus. this plethora can do harm only where there is previous debility; for i maintain that the system (when the solids are exactly toned) will always relieve itself of a sudden preternatural accumulation of fluids by means of some natural emunctory. this has been often observed in the menorrhagia, which accompanies plentiful living in women, and in the copious discharges from the bowels and kidneys, which follow a suppression of the perspiration. 3. i infer it, from their appearing almost universally in one disease, which is evidently a disease of the whole system, viz. the scurvy. 4. from their becoming in some cases the outlets of menstrual blood, which is discharged in consequence of a plethora, which affects more or less every part of the female system. 5. i infer it from the _symptoms_ of sore legs, which are in some cases febrile, and affect the pulse in every part of the body with preternatural frequency or force. these symptoms were witnessed, in an eminent degree, in two of the patients who furnished subjects for clinical remarks in the pennsylvania hospital some years ago. 6. i infer that sore legs are a disease of the whole system, from the manner in which they are sometimes cured by nature and art. they often prove the outlets of many general diseases, and all the remedies which cure them, act more or less upon the whole system. in all cases of sore legs there is a tonic and atonic state of the whole system. the same state of excessive or weak morbid action takes place in the parts which are affected by the sores. the remedies to cure them, therefore, should be _general_ and _local_. in cases where the arterial system is affected by too much tone, the general remedies should be, i. blood-letting. of the efficacy of this remedy in disposing ulcers suddenly to heal, the two clinical patients before-mentioned exhibited remarkable proofs, in the presence of all the students of medicine in the university. the blood drawn was sizy in both cases. i have not the merit of having introduced this remedy into practice in the cure of ulcers. i learned it from sir john pringle. i have known it to be used with equal success in a sore breast, attended by pain and inflammation, after all the usual remedies in that disease had been used to no purpose. ii. gentle purges. iii. nitre. from fifteen to twenty grains of this medicine should be given three times a-day. iv. a temperate diet, and a total abstinence from fermented and distilled liquors. v. cool and pure air. vi. rest in a recumbent posture of the body. the _local_ remedies in this state of the system should be, i. cold water. dr. rigby has written largely in favour of this remedy when applied to local inflammations. from its good effects in allaying the inflammation which sometimes follows the puncture which is made in the arm in communicating the small-pox, and from the sudden relief it affords in the inflammatory state of the ophthalmia and in the piles, no one can doubt of its efficacy in sore legs, accompanied by inflammation in those vessels, which are the immediate seat of the disease. ii. soft poultices of bread and milk, or of bread moistened with lead water. dr. underwood's method of making a poultice of bread and milk should be preferred in this case. he directs us first to boil the milk, then to powder the bread, and throw it into the milk, and after they have been intimately mixed, by being well stirred and boiled together, they should be poured out and spread upon a rag, and a knife dipped in sweet oil or lard, should be run over them. the solidity and consistence of the poultice is hereby better preserved, than when the oil or lard is mixed with the bread and milk over the fire. iii. when the inflammation subsides, adhesive plasters so applied as to draw the sound edges of the sores together. this remedy has been used with great success by dr. physick, in the pennsylvania hospital, and in his private practice. iv. above all, rest, and a horizontal posture of the leg. too much cannot be said in favour of this remedy in this species of sore legs. nannoni, the famous italian surgeon, sums up the cure of sore legs in three words, viz. "tempo, riposo, e pazienza;" that is, in time, rest, and patience. a friend of mine, who was cured by this surgeon of a sore leg, many years ago, informed me, that he confined him to his bed during the greatest part of the time that he was under his care. in sore legs, attended by too little general and local action, the following remedies are proper. i. bark. it should be used plentifully, but with a constant reference to the state of the system; for the changes in the weather, and other accidental circumstances, often produce such changes in the system, as to render its disuse for a short time frequently necessary. ii. mercury. this remedy has been supposed to act by altering the fluids, or by discharging a morbid matter from them, in curing sore legs. but this is by no means the case. it appears to act as a universal stimulant; and if it prove most useful when it excites a salivation, it is only because in this way it excites the most general action in the system. iii. mineral tonics, such as the different preparations of iron, copper, and zinc. iv. gentle exercise. rest, and a recumbent posture of the body, so proper in the tonic, are both hurtful in this species of sore legs. the efficacy of exercise, even of the active kind, in the cure of sore legs, accompanied by deficient action in the vessels, may easily be conceived from its good effects after gun-shot wounds which are mentioned by dr. jackson[65]. he tells us, that those british soldiers who had been wounded at the battle of guilford, in north-carolina, who were turned out of the military hospitals and followed the army, soonest recovered of their wounds. it was remarkable, that if they delayed only a few days on the road, their wounds grew worse, or ceased to heal. [65] medical journal, 1790. in the use of the different species of exercise, the same regard should be had to the state of the system, which has been recommended in other diseases. v. a nutritious and moderately stimulating diet, consisting of milk, saccharine vegetables, animal food, malt liquors, and wine. wort has done great service in sore legs. the manner in which i have directed it to be prepared and taken is as follows: to three or four heaped table-spoonsful of the malt, finely powdered and sifted, add two table-spoonsful of brown sugar, and three or four of madeira, sherry, or lisbon wine, and a quart of boiling water. after they have stood a few hours, it may be drunken liberally by the patient, stirring it each time before he takes it, so that the whole substance of the malt may be conveyed into the stomach. a little lime-juice may be added, if the patient requires it, to make it more pleasant. the above quantity may be taken once, twice, or three times a-day at the pleasure of the patient, or according to the indication of his disease. vi. opium. this remedy is not only useful in easing the pain of a sore leg, but co-operates with other cordial medicines in invigorating the whole system. the _local_ applications should consist of such substances as are gently escarotic, and which excite an action in the torpid vessels of the affected part. arsenic, precipitate, and blue vitriol, have all been employed with success for this purpose. dr. griffitts informed me, that he has frequently accomplished the same thing in the dispensary by applications of tartar emetic. they should all be used, if necessary, in succession to each other; for there is often the same idiosyncrasy in a sore leg to certain topical applications, that there is in the stomach to certain aliments. after the use of these remedies, astringents and tonics should be applied, such as an infusion of peruvian, or white-oak bark; the water in which the smiths extinguish their irons, lime-water, bread dipped in a weak solution of green vitriol (so much commended by dr. underwood), compresses wetted with brandy, or ardent spirits of any kind, and, above all, the adhesive plasters formerly mentioned. tight bandages are likewise highly proper here. the laced stocking has been much used. it is made of strong coarse linen. dr. underwood gives several good reasons for preferring a flannel roller to the linen stocking. it sets easier on the leg, and yields to the swelling of the muscles in walking. in scorbutic sores on the legs, navy surgeons have spoken in high terms of an application of a mixture of lime-juice and molasses. mr. gillespie commends the use of lime or lemon-juice alone, and ascribes many cures to it in the british navy during the late war, after every common application had been used to no purpose[66]. [66] medical journal, vol. vi. it is of the utmost consequence in the treatment of sore legs, to keep them clean, by frequent dressings and washings. the success of old women is oftener derived from their great attention to cleanliness, in the management of sore legs, than to any specifics they possess which are unknown to physicians. when sore legs are kept from healing by affections of the bone, the treatment should be such as is recommended by practical writers on surgery. i shall conclude this inquiry by four observations, which are naturally suggested by what has been delivered upon this disease. 1. if it has been proved that sore legs are connected with a morbid state of the whole system, is it not proper to inquire, whether many other diseases supposed to be local, are not in like manner connected with the whole system; and if sore legs have been cured by general remedies, is it not proper to use them more frequently in local diseases? 2. if there be two states of action in the arteries in sore legs, it becomes us to inquire, whether the same opposite states of action do not take place in many diseases in which they are not suspected. it would be easy to prove, that they exist in several other local diseases. 3. if the efficacy of the remedies for sore legs which have been mentioned, depend upon their being accommodated exactly to the state of the arterial system, and if this system be liable to frequent changes, does it not become us to be more attentive to the state of the pulse in this disease than is commonly supposed to be necessary by physicians? 4. it has been a misfortune in medicine, as well as in other sciences, for men to ascribe effects to one cause, which should be ascribed to many. hence diseases have been attributed exclusively to morbid affections of the fluids by some, and of the muscles and nerves by others. unfortunately the morbid states of the arterial system, and the influence of those states upon the brain, the nerves, the muscles, the lymphatics, the glands, the viscera, the alimentary canal, and the skin, as well as the reciprocal influence of the morbid states of each of those parts of the body upon the arteries, and upon each other, have been too much neglected in most of our systems of physic. i consider the pathology of the arterial system as a mine. it was first discovered by dr. cullen. the man who attempts to explore it, will probably impoverish himself by his researches; but the men who come after him, will certainly obtain from it a treasure which cannot fail of adding greatly to the riches of medicine. an account of the _state of the body and mind_ in old age; with _observations on its diseases_, and their remedies. most of the facts which i shall deliver upon this subject, are the result of observations made during the term of five years, upon persons of both sexes, who had passed the 80th year of their lives. i intended to have given a detail of the names, manner of life, occupations, and other circumstances of each of them; but, upon a review of my notes, i found so great a sameness in the history of most of them, that i despaired, by detailing them, of answering the intention which i have purposed in the following essay. i shall, therefore, only deliver the facts and principles which are the result of the inquiries and observations i have made upon this subject. i. i shall mention the circumstances which favour the attainment of longevity. ii. i shall mention the phenomena of body and mind which attend it; and, iii. i shall enumerate its peculiar diseases, and the remedies which are most proper to remove, or moderate them. i. the circumstances which favour longevity, are, 1. _descent from long-lived ancestors._ i have not found a single instance of a person, who has lived to be 80 years old, in whom this was not the case. in some instances i found the descent was only from one, but, in general, it was from both parents. the knowledge of this fact may serve, not only to assist in calculating what are called the chances of lives, but it may be made useful to a physician. he may learn from it to cherish hopes of his patients in chronic, and in some acute diseases, in proportion to the capacity of life they have derived from their ancestors[67]. [67] dr. franklin, who died in his 84th year, was descended from long-lived parents. his father died at 89, and his mother at 87. his father had 17 children by two wives. the doctor informed me, that he once sat down as one of 11 adult sons and daughters at his father's table. in an excursion he once made to that part of england from whence his family migrated to america, he discovered, in a grave-yard, the tomb-stones of several persons of his name, who had lived to be very old. these persons he supposed to have been his ancestors. 2. _temperance in eating and drinking._ to this remark i found several exceptions. i met with one man of 84 years of age, who had been intemperate in eating; and four or five persons who had been intemperate in drinking ardent spirits. they had all been day-labourers, or had deferred drinking until they began to feel the languor of old age. i did not meet with a single person who had not, for the last forty or fifty years of their lives, used tea, coffee, and bread and butter twice a day as part of their diet. i am disposed to believe that those articles of diet do not materially affect the duration of human life, although they evidently impair the strength of the system. the duration of life does not appear to depend so much upon the strength of the body, or upon the quantity of its excitability, as upon an exact accommodation of stimuli to each of them. a watch spring will last as long as an anchor, provided the forces which are capable of destroying both, are always in an exact ratio to their strength. the use of tea and coffee in diet seems to be happily suited to the change which has taken place in the human body, by sedentary occupations, by which means less nourishment and stimulus are required than formerly, to support animal life. 3. the _moderate exercise of the understanding_. it has long been an established truth, that literary men (other circumstances being equal) are longer lived than other people. but it is not necessary that the understanding should be employed upon philosophical subjects to produce this influence upon human life. business, politics, and religion, which are the objects of attention of men of all classes, impart a vigour to the understanding, which, by being conveyed to every part of the body, tends to produce health and long life. 4. _equanimity of temper._ the violent and irregular action of the passions tends to wear away the springs of life. persons who live upon annuities in europe have been observed to be longer lived, in equal circumstances, than other people. this is probably occasioned by their being exempted, by the certainty of their subsistence, from those fears of want which so frequently distract the minds, and thereby weaken the bodies of old people. life-rents have been supposed to have the same influence in prolonging life. perhaps the _desire of life_, in order to enjoy for as long a time as possible, that property which cannot be enjoyed a second time by a child or relation, may be another cause of the longevity of persons who live upon certain incomes. it is a fact, that the desire of life is a very powerful stimulus in prolonging it, especially when that desire is supported by hope. this is obvious to physicians every day. despair of recovery, is the beginning of death in all diseases. but obvious and reasonable as the effects of equanimity of temper are upon human life, there are some exceptions in favour of passionate men and women having attained to a great age. the morbid stimulus of anger, in these cases, was probably obviated by less degrees, or less active exercises of the understanding, or by the defect or weakness of some of the other stimuli which keep up the motions of life. 5. _matrimony._ in the course of my inquiries i met with only one person beyond eighty years of age who had never been married. i met with several women who had borne from ten to twenty children, and suckled them all. i met with one woman, a native of herefordshire, in england, who was in the 100th year of her age, who had borne a child at 60, menstruated till 80, and frequently suckled two of her children (though born in succession to each other) at the same time. she had passed the greatest part of her life over a washing-tub. 6. _emigration._ i have observed many instances of europeans who have arrived in america in the decline of life, who have acquired fresh vigour from the impression of our climate, and of new objects upon their bodies and minds; and whose lives, in consequence thereof, appeared to have been prolonged for many years. this influence of climate upon longevity is not confined to the united states. of 100 european spaniards, who emigrate to south-america in early life, 18 live to be above 50, whereas but 8 or 9 native spaniards, and but 7 indians of the same number, exceed the 50th year of human life. 7. i have not found _sedentary employments_ to prevent long life, where they are not accompanied by intemperance in eating or drinking. this observation is not confined to literary men, nor to women only, in whom longevity, without much exercise of body, has been frequently observed. i met with one instance of a weaver; a second of a silver-smith; and a third of a shoe-maker, among the number of old people, whose histories have suggested these observations. 8. i have not found that _acute_, nor that all _chronic_ diseases shorten human life. dr. franklin had two successive vomicas in his lungs before he was 40 years old. i met with one man beyond 80, who had survived a most violent attack of the yellow fever; a second who had had several of his bones fractured by falls, and in frays; and many who had been frequently affected by intermittents. i met with one man of 86, who had all his life been subject to syncope; another who had for 50 years been occasionally affected by a cough[68]; and two instances of men who had been afflicted for forty years with obstinate head-achs[69]. i met with only one person beyond 80, who had ever been affected by a disease in the _stomach_; and in him it arose from an occasional rupture. mr. john strangeways hutton, of this city, who died in 1793, in the 109th year of his age, informed me, that he had never puked in his life. this circumstance is the more remarkable, as he passed several years at sea when a young man[70]. these facts may serve to extend our ideas of the importance of a healthy state of the stomach in the animal economy; and thereby to add to our knowledge in the prognosis of diseases, and in the chances of human life. [68] this man's only remedy for his cough was the fine powder of dry indian turnip and honey. [69] dr. thiery says, that he did not find the itch, or slight degrees of the leprosy, to prevent longevity. observations de physique, et de medecine faites en differens lieux de l'espagne. vol ii. p. 17 i. [70] the venerable old man, whose history first suggested this remark, was born in new-york in the year 1684. his grandfather lived to be 101, but was unable to walk for thirty years before he died, from an excessive quantity of fat. his mother died at 91. his constant drinks were water, beer, and cyder. he had a fixed dislike to spirits of all kinds. his appetite was good, and he ate plentifully during the last years of his life. he seldom drank any thing between his meals. he was never intoxicated but twice in his life, and that was when a boy, and at sea, where he remembers perfectly well to have celebrated, by a feu de joye, the birth-day of queen anne. he was formerly afflicted with the head-ach and giddiness, but never had a fever, except from the small-pox, in the course of his life. his pulse was slow, but regular. he had been twice married. by his first wife he had eight, and by his second seventeen children. one of them lived to be 83 years of age. he was about five feet nine inches in height, of a slender make, and carried an erect head to the last year of his life. 9. i have not found the _loss of teeth_ to affect the duration of human life, so much as might be expected. edward drinker, who lived to be 103 years old, lost his teeth thirty years before he died, from drawing the hot smoke of tobacco into his mouth through a short pipe. dr. sayre of new-jersey, to whom i am indebted for several very valuable histories of old persons, mentions one man aged 81, whose teeth began to decay at 16, and another of 90, who lost his teeth, thirty years before he saw him. the gums, by becoming hard, perform, in part, the office of teeth. but may not the gastric juice of the stomach, like the tears and urine, become acrid by age, and thereby supply, by a more dissolving power, the defect of mastication from the loss of teeth? analogies might easily be adduced from several operations of nature, which go forward in the animal economy, which render this supposition highly probable. 10. i have not observed _baldness_, or _grey hairs_, occurring in early or middle life, to prevent old age. in one of the histories furnished me by dr. sayre, i find an account of a man of 81, whose hair began to assume a silver colour when he was but one and twenty years of age. 11. more women live to be old than men, but more men live to be _very_ old, than women. i shall conclude this head by the following remark: notwithstanding there appears in the human body a certain capacity of long life, which seems to dispose it to preserve its existence in every situation; yet this capacity does not always protect it from premature destruction; for among the old people whom i examined, i scarcely met with one who had not lost brothers or sisters, in early and middle life, and who were born under circumstances equally favourable to longevity with themselves. ii. i now come to mention some of the phenomena of the body and mind which occur in old age. 1. there is a great sensibility to _cold_ in all old people. i met with an old woman of 84, who slept constantly under three blankets and a coverlet during the hottest summer months. the servant of prince de beaufremont, who came from mount jura to paris, at the age of 121, to pay his respects to the first national assembly of france, shivered with cold in the middle of the dog days, when he was not near a good fire. the national assembly directed him to sit with his hat on, in order to defend his head from the cold. 2. impressions made upon the _ears_ of old people, excite sensation and reflection much quicker than when they are made upon their eyes. mr. hutton informed me, that he had frequently met his sons in the street without knowing them, until they had spoken to him. dr. franklin informed me, that he recognized his friends, after a long absence from them, first by their voices. this fact does not contradict the common opinion, upon the subject of memory, for the recollection, in these instances, is the effect of what is called reminiscence, which differs from memory in being excited only by the renewal of the impression which at first produced the idea which is revived. 3. the _appetite_ for food is generally increased in old age. the famous parr, who died at 152, ate heartily in the last week of his life. the kindness of nature, in providing this last portion of earthly enjoyments for old people, deserves to be noticed. it is remarkable, that they have, like children, a frequent recurrence of appetite, and sustain with great uneasiness the intervals of regular meals. the observation, therefore, made by hippocrates, that middle-aged people are more affected by abstinence than those who are old, is not true. this might easily be proved by many appeals to the records of medicine; but old people differ from children, in preferring _solid_ to liquid aliment. from inattention to this fact, dr. mead has done great mischief by advising old people, as their teeth decayed or perished, to lessen the quantity of their solid, and to increase the quantity of their liquid food. this advice is contrary to nature and experience, and i have heard of two old persons who destroyed themselves by following it. the circulation of the blood is supported in old people chiefly by the stimulus of aliment. the action of liquids of all kinds upon the system is weak, and of short continuance, compared with the durable stimulus of solid food. there is a gradation in the action of this food upon the body. animal matters are preferred to vegetable; the fat of meat to the lean, and salted meat to fresh, by most old people. i have met with but few old people who retained an appetite for milk. it is remarkable, that a less quantity of _strong drink_ produces intoxication in old people than in persons in the middle of life. this depends upon the recurrence of the same state of the system, with respect to excitability, which takes place in childhood. many old people, from an ignorance of this fact, have made shipwreck of characters which have commanded respect in every previous stage of their lives. from the same recurrence of the excitability of childhood in their systems, they commonly drink their tea and coffee much weaker than in early or middle life. 4. the _pulse_ is generally full, and frequently affected by pauses in its pulsations when felt in the wrists of old people. a regular pulse in such persons indicates a disease, as it shows the system to be under the impression of a preternatural stimulus of some kind. this observation was suggested to me above thirty years ago by morgagni, and i have often profited by it in attending old people. the pulse in such patients is an uncertain mark of the nature, or degree of an acute disease. it seldom partakes of the quickness or convulsive action of the arterial system, which attends fever in young or middle-aged people. i once attended a man of 77 in a fever of the bilious kind, which confined him for eight days to his bed, in whom i could not perceive the least quickness or morbid action in his pulse until four and twenty hours before he died. 5. the marks of old age appear earlier, and are more numerous in persons who have combined with hard labour, a vegetable or scanty diet, than in persons who have lived under opposite circumstances. i think i have observed these marks of old age to occur sooner, and to be more numerous in the german, than in the english or irish citizens of pennsylvania. they are likewise more common among the inhabitants of country places, than of cities, and still more so among the indians of north-america, than among the inhabitants of civilized countries. 6. old men tread upon the _whole base_ of their feet at once in _walking_. this is perhaps one reason why they wear out fewer shoes, under the same circumstances of constant use, than young people, who, by treading on the posterior, and rising on the anterior part of their feet, expose their shoes to more unequal pressure and friction. the advantage derived to old people from this mode of walking is very obvious. it lessens that disposition to totter, which is always connected with weakness: hence we find the same mode of walking is adopted by habitual drunkards, and is sometimes from habit practised by them, when they are not under the influence of strong drink. 7. the breath and perspiration of old people have a peculiar acrimony, and their urine, in some instances, emits a f[oe]tor of an offensive nature. 8. the eyes of very old people sometimes change from a dark and blue, to a light colour. 9. the _memory_ is the first faculty of the mind which fails in the decline of life. while recent events pass through the mind without leaving an impression upon it, it is remarkable that the long forgotten events of childhood and youth are recalled and distinctly remembered. i met with a singular instance of a german woman, who had learned to speak the language of our country after she was forty years of age, who had forgotten every word of it after she had passed her 80th year, but spoke the german language as fluently as ever she had done. the memory decays soonest in hard drinkers. i have observed some studious men to suffer a decay of their memories, but never of their understandings. among these was the late anthony benezet of this city. but even this infirmity did not abate the cheerfulness, nor lessen the happiness of this pious philosopher, for he once told me, when i was a young man, that he had a consolation in the decay of his memory, which gave him a great advantage over me. "you can read a good book (said he) with pleasure but _once_, but when i read a good book, i so soon forget the contents of it, that i have the pleasure of reading it over and over; and every time i read it, it is alike new and delightful to me." the celebrated dr. swift was one of those few studious men, who have exhibited marks of a decay of understanding in old age; but it is judiciously ascribed by dr. johnson to two causes which rescue books, and the exercise of the thinking faculties from having had any share in inducing that disease upon his mind. these causes were, a rash vow which he made when a young man, never to use spectacles, and a sordid seclusion of himself from company, by which means he was cut off from the use of books, and the benefits of conversation, the absence of which left his mind without its usual stimulus: hence it collapsed into a state of fatuity. it is probably owing to the constant exercise of the understanding, that literary men possess that faculty of the mind in a vigorous state in extreme old age. the same cause accounts for old people preserving their intellects longer in cities, than in country places. they enjoy society upon such easy terms in the former situation, that their minds are kept more constantly in an excited state by the acquisition of new, or the renovation of old ideas, by means of conversation. 10. i did not meet with a single instance in which the moral or religious faculties were impaired in old people. i do not believe, that these faculties of the mind are preserved by any supernatural power, but wholly by the constant and increasing exercise of them in the evening of life. in the course of my inquiries, i heard of a man of 101 years of age, who declared that he had forgotten every thing he had ever known, except his god. i found the moral faculty, or a disposition to do kind offices to be exquisitely sensible in several old people, in whom there was scarcely a trace left of memory or understanding. 11. dreaming is universal among old people. it appears to be brought on by their imperfect sleep, of which i shall say more hereafter. 12. i mentioned formerly the sign of a _second childhood_ in the state of the appetite in old people. it appears further, 1. in the marks which slight contusions or impressions leave upon their skins. 2. in their being soon fatigued by walking or exercise, and in being as soon refreshed by rest. 3. in their disposition, like children, to detail immediately every thing they see and hear. and, 4. in their aptitude to shed tears; hence they are unable to tell a story that is in any degree distressing without weeping. dr. moore takes notice of this peculiarity in voltaire, after he had passed his 80th year. he wept constantly at the recital of his own tragedies. this feature in old age, did not escape homer. old menelaus wept ten years after he returned from the destruction of troy, when he spoke of the death of the heroes who perished before that city. 13. it would be sufficiently humbling to human nature, if our bodies exhibited in old age the marks only of a second childhood; but human weakness descends still lower. i met with an instance of a woman between 80 and 90, who exhibited the marks of a _second infancy_, by such a total decay of her mental faculties, as to lose all consciousness in discharging her alvine and urinary excretions. in this state of the body, a disposition to sleep, succeeds the wakefulness of the first stages of old age. dr. haller mentions an instance of a very old man who slept twenty, out of every twenty-four hours during the few last years of his life. 14. the disposition in the system to _renew_ certain parts in extreme old age, has been mentioned by several authors. many instances are to be met with in the records of medicine of the sight[71] and hearing having been restored, and even of the teeth having been renewed in old people a few years before death. these phenomena have led me to suspect that the antediluvian age was attained by the frequent renovation of different parts of the body, and that when they occur, they are an effort of the causes which support animal life, to produce antediluvian longevity, by acting upon the revived excitability of the system. [71] there is a remarkable instance of the sight having been restored after it had been totally destroyed in an old man near reading, in pennsylvania. my brother, judge rush, furnished me with the following account of him in a letter from reading, dated june 23, 1792. "an old man, of 84 years of age, of the name of adam riffle, near this town, gradually lost his sight in the 68th year of his age, and continued entirely blind for the space of twelve years. about four years ago his sight returned, without making use of any means for the purpose, and without any visible change in the appearance of the eyes, and he now sees as well as ever he did. i have seen the man, and have no doubt of the fact. he is at this time so hearty, as to be able to walk from his house to reading (about three miles), which he frequently does in order to attend church. i should observe, that during both the gradual loss, and recovery of his sight, he was no ways affected by sickness, but, on the contrary, enjoyed his usual health. i have this account from his daughter and son-in-law, who live within a few doors of me." 15. the _fear_ of death appears to be much less in old age, than in early, or middle life. i met with many old people who spoke of their dissolution with composure, and with some who expressed earnest desires to lie down in the grave. this indifference to life, and desire for death (whether they arise from a satiety in worldly pursuits and pleasures, or from a desire of being relieved from pain) appear to be a wise law in the animal economy, and worthy of being classed with those laws which accommodate the body and mind of man to all the natural evils, to which, in the common order of things, they are necessarily exposed. iii. i come now briefly to enumerate the diseases of old age, and the remedies which are most proper to remove, or to mitigate them. the diseases are chronic and acute. the chronic are, 1. _weakness_ of the _knees_ and _ancles_, a lessened ability to walk, and tremors in the head and limbs. 2. _pains in the bones_, known among nosological writers by the name of rheumatalgia. 3. _involuntary flow of tears_, and of mucus from the nose. 4. _difficulty of breathing_, and a short _cough_, with copious expectoration. a weak, or hoarse voice generally attends this cough. 5. _costiveness._ 6. an _inability to retain the urine_ as long as in early or middle life. few persons beyond 60 pass a whole night without being obliged to discharge their urine[72]. perhaps the stimulus of this liquor in the bladder may be one cause of the universality of dreaming among old people. it is certainly a frequent cause of dreaming in persons in early and middle life: this i infer, from its occuring chiefly in the morning when the bladder is most distended with urine. there is likewise an inability in old people to discharge their urine as quickly as in early life. i think i have observed this to be among the first symptoms of the declension of the strength of the body by age. [72] i met with an old man, who informed me, that if from any accident he retained his urine after he felt an inclination to discharge it, he was affected by a numbness, accompanied by an uneasy sensation in the palms of his hands. 7. _wakefulness._ this is probably produced in part by the action of the urine upon the bladder; but such is the excitability of the system in the first stages of old age, that there is no pain so light, no anxiety so trifling, and no sound so small, as not to produce wakefulness in old people. it is owing to their imperfect sleep, that they are sometimes as unconscious of the moment of their passing from a sleeping to a waking state, as young and middle-aged people are of the moment in which they pass from the waking to a sleeping state. hence we so often hear them complain of passing sleepless nights. this is no doubt frequently the case, but i am satisfied, from the result of an inquiry made upon this subject, that they often sleep without knowing it, and that their complaints in the morning, of the want of sleep, arise from ignorance, without the least intention to deceive. 8. _giddiness._ 9. _deafness._ 10. _imperfect vision._ the acute diseases most common among old people, are, 1. _inflammation of the eyes._ 2. the _pneumonia notha_, or bastard peripneumony. 3. the _colic_. 4. _palsy_ and _apoplexy_. 5. the _piles_. 6. a _difficulty in making water_. 7. _quartan fever._ all the diseases of old people, both chronic and acute, originate in predisposing debility. the remedies for the former, where a feeble morbid action takes place in the system, are stimulants. the first of these is, i. heat. the ancient romans prolonged life by retiring to naples, as soon as they felt the infirmities of age coming upon them. the aged portuguese imitate them, by approaching the warm sun of brazil, in south-america. but heat may be applied to the torpid bodies of old people artificially. 1st. by means of the _warm bath_. dr. franklin owed much of the cheerfulness and general vigour of body and mind which characterised his old age, to his regular use of this remedy. it disposed him to sleep, and even produced a respite from the pain of the stone, with which he was afflicted during the last years of his life. 2. heat may be applied to the bodies of old people by means of _stove-rooms_. the late dr. dewit, of germantown, who lived to be near 100 years of age, seldom breathed an air below 72°, after he became an old man. he lived constantly in a stove-room. 3. warm clothing, more especially warm bed-clothes, are proper to preserve or increase the heat of old people. from the neglect of the latter, they are often found dead in their beds in the morning, after a cold night, in all cold countries. the late dr. chovet, of this city, who lived to be 85, slept in a baize night-gown, under eight blankets, and a coverlet, in a stove-room, many years before he died. the head should be defended in old people, by means of woollen, or fur caps, in the night, and by wigs and hats during the day, in cold weather. these artificial coverings will be the more necessary, where the head has been deprived of its natural covering. great pains should be taken likewise to keep the feet dry and warm, by means of thick shoes[73]. to these modes of applying and confining heat to the bodies of old people, a young bed-fellow has been added; but i conceive the three artificial modes which have been recommended, will be sufficient without the use of one, which cannot be successfully employed without a breach of delicacy or humanity. [73] i met with one man above 80, who defended his feet from moisture by covering his shoes in wet weather with melted wax; and another who, for the same purpose, covered his shoes every morning with a mixture composed of the following ingredients melted together: lintseed oil a pound, mutton suet eight ounces, bees-wax six ounces, and rosin four ounces. the mixture should be moderately warmed, and then applied not only to the upper leather, but to the soles of the shoes. this composition, the old gentleman informed me, was extracted from a book entitled, "the complete fisherman," published in england, in the reign of queen elizabeth. he had used it for twenty years in cold and wet weather, with great benefit, and several of his friends, who had tried it, spoke of its efficacy in keeping the feet dry, in high terms. ii. to keep up the action of the system, generous diet and drinks should be given to old people. for a reason mentioned formerly, they should be indulged in eating between the ordinary meals of families. wine should be given to them in moderation. it has been emphatically called the milk of old age. iii. young company should be preferred by old people to the company of persons of their own age. i think i have observed old people to enjoy better health and spirits, when they have passed the evening of their lives in the families of their children, where they have been surrounded by grand-children, than when they lived by themselves. even the solicitude they feel for the welfare of their descendants, contributes to invigorate the circulation of the blood, and thereby to add fuel to the lamp of life. iv. gentle exercise. this is of great consequence in promoting the health of old people. it should be moderate, regular, and always in fair weather. v. cleanliness. this should by no means be neglected. the dress of old people should not only be clean, but more elegant than in youth or middle life. it serves to divert the eye of spectators from observing the decay and deformity of the body, to view and admire that which is always agreeable to it. vi. to abate the pains of the chronic rheumatism, and the uneasiness of the old man's cough (as it is called); also to remove wakefulness, and to restrain, during the night, a troublesome inclination to make water, opium may be given with great advantage. chardin informs us, that this medicine is frequently used in the eastern countries to abate the pains and weaknesses of old age, by those people who are debarred the use of wine by the religion of mahomet. i have nothing to say upon the acute diseases of old people, but what is to be found in most of our books of medicine, except to recommend bleeding in those of them which are attended with plethora, and an inflammatory action in the pulse. the degrees of appetite which belong to old age, the quality of the food taken, and the sedentary life which is generally connected with it, all concur to produce that state of the system, which requires the above evacuation. i am sure that i have seen many of the chronic complaints of old people mitigated by it, and i have more than once seen it used with obvious advantage in their inflammatory diseases. these affections i have observed to be more fatal among old people than is generally supposed. an inflammation of the lungs, which terminated in an abscess, deprived the world of dr. franklin. dr. chovet died of an inflammation in his liver. the blood drawn from him a few days before his death was sizy, and such was the heat of his body, produced by his fever, that he could not bear more covering (notwithstanding his former habits of warm clothing) than a sheet in the month of january. death from old age is the effect of a gradual palsy. it shows itself first in the eyes and ears, in the decay of sight and hearing; it appears next in the urinary bladder, in the limbs and trunk of the body; then in the sphincters of the bladder and rectum; and finally in the nerves and brain, destroying in the last, the exercise of all the faculties of the mind. few persons appear to die of old age. some one of the diseases which have been mentioned, generally cuts the last thread of life. end of volume i. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. the table on page 107 has been split to match the page size. villanova university digital library (https://digital.library.villanova.edu) note: images of the original pages are available through villanova university digital library. see https://digital.library.villanova.edu/item/vudl:440123# transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). no. 20 =10 cents= the senator's bride [illustration] mrs. alex mcveigh miller all stories copyrighted cannot be had in any other edition eagle library street & smith publishers, new york eagle library no. 20 a weekly publication devoted to good literature. by subscription. $5 per year. july 12, 1897 entered as second-class matter at n. y. post-office. _an explosion in prices!_ _the sensation of the year!_ street & smith's eagle library of 12mo. copyrighted books. retail price, 10 cents. [illustration] no. 1 of this series contains 256 pages full size, 12mo. succeeding issues are of similar bulk. paper and printing equal to any 25 cent book on the market. handsome and attractive cover of different design for each issue. [illustration] catalogue. =16--the fatal card. by haddon chambers and b. c. stephenson.= =15--doctor jack. by st. george rathborne.= 14--violet lisle. by bertha m. clay. 13--the little widow. by julia edwards. 12--edrie's legacy. by mrs. georgie sheldon. 11--the gypsy's daughter. by bertha m. clay. 10--little sunshine. by francis s. smith. 9--the virginia heiress. by may agnes flemming. 8--beautiful but poor. by julia edwards. 7--two keys. by mrs. georgie sheldon. 6--the midnight marriage. by a. m. douglas. 5--the senator's favorite. mrs. alex. mcveigh miller. 4--for a woman's honor. by bertha m. clay. 3--he loves me, he loves me not. by julia edwards. 2--ruby's reward. by mrs. georgie sheldon. 1--queen bess. by mrs. georgie sheldon. these books can be had in no other series the senator's bride. by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller. [illustration] new york: street & smith, publishers, 31 rose street. entered according to act of congress, in the year 1887, by street & smith, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington, d. c. the senator's bride. contents chapter i. the fall of a meteor. chapter ii. too late. chapter iii. "sweetheart, good-by." chapter iv. renunciation chapter v. what the winner's hand threw by. chapter vi. lulu. chapter vii. "i hate it--i hate her!" chapter viii. "but as for her, she staid at home." chapter ix. "when a woman will, she will." chapter x. at the capitol. chapter xi. "it may be for years, and it may be forever." chapter xii. "fate has done its worst." chapter xiii. on the ocean. chapter xiv. "in his heart consenting to a prayer gone by." chapter xv. "hope springs eternal in the human breast." chapter xvi. "smiling at grief." chapter xvii. "to be, or not to be." chapter xviii. "other refuge have i none." chapter xix. a new year's gift. chapter xx. wedding cards. chapter xxi. "rue." chapter xxii. on tiptoe for a flight. chapter xxiii. in memphis. chapter xxiv. lulu to her mother. chapter xxv. the pathos of a quiet life. chapter xxvi. lulu to her mother. chapter xxvii. "nearer my god to thee." chapter xxviii. lulu to her mother. chapter xxix. last words. chapter xxx. "baby fingers, waxen touches." chapter xxxi. at her feet. chapter i. the fall of a meteor. "once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, told a certain thing to mine; what they told me i put by, oh, so careless of the sign. such an easy thing to take, and i did not want it then; fool! i wish my heart would break- scorn is hard on hearts of men." --jean ingelow. it was 1866, on the evening of a lovely spring day, and my heroine was gathering flowers in one of the loveliest of the lovely gardens of that sea-port city, norfolk, virginia. a lovely garden indeed, with its spacious area, its graveled walks and fountains, its graceful pavilions, its beautiful flowers, and the tasteful villa that rose in the midst of this terrestrial paradise looked very attractive outlined whitely against the dark green of the lofty grove of trees stretching far into its rear. built on the suburbs of the city, in the portion of it known as ocean view, you could scarcely have imagined a fairer prospect than that which met the eyes of the two gentlemen who idly smoked and talked on the wide piazza fronting the sea. the sun was setting in a blue may sky, sinking slowly and sadly beneath the level of the sea, while far away, just faintly outlined by its fading beams, glimmered the white sails and tapering spars of an outward-bound ship. how lonely it looked on that vast ocean in the fading light, "like the last beam that reddens over one- that sinks with those we love below the verge." to a poetic mind, the sight suggested many exquisite similitudes, and bruce conway took the cigar from between his lips and mused sadly as befitted the occasion, till the voice of his companion jarred suddenly on his dreamy mood. "bruce, my boy, will you favor me with the earthly name of the white-robed divinity whom i have observed for the last half-hour flitting about this paradisiacal garden? since my advent here at noon to-day, i have not had the pleasure of meeting my amiable hostess, yet i am persuaded that this youthful creature cannot be your aunt." "smitten at sight--eh, clendenon?" answered mr. conway, with an attempt at archness. "that, my dear fellow, is my aunt's companion, miss grey. she is coming this way, and i'll introduce you." he puffed away indolently at his fragrant cigar, while the young girl of whom he had spoken came up the broad avenue that led to the piazza steps, bearing on her arm a dainty basket heaped high with flowers and trailing vines that overflowed the edges of her basket and clung lovingly about her white robe. she was, perhaps, seventeen years of age, and endowed with a rare and peerless loveliness. a mary of scots, a cleopatra might have walked with that stately, uplifted grace, that rare, unstudied poetry of motion. slender, and tall, and lithe, with her pale gold ringlets and marvelous fairness was combined so much innocent sweetness that it brought the guest to his feet in involuntary homage and admiration, while mr. conway himself tossed away his cigar, and, hastening to meet her, took the flowery burden from her arm, and assisted her up the steps. "miss grey, allow me to present to you my friend, captain clendenon," he said, in his graceful, off-hand way. "perfectly beautiful, faultily faultless!" murmured the captain to himself, as he bowed over the delicate hand she shyly offered. with quiet grace she accepted the chair he placed for her, and, taking up a great lapful of flowers, answered a question mr. conway asked: "yes, your aunt's headache is better, and she will be down this evening. these flowers are for the drawing-room. you know how she loves to see a profusion of flowers about the house through the whole season." "'ah! one rose- one rose, but one, by those fair fingers culled, were worth a hundred kisses pressed on lips less exquisite than thine.'" it was like bruce conway's graceful impudence to quote those lines, smiling up into the hebe-like face of the girl. he was the spoiled darling of fortune, the handsome idol of the fair sex, as perfect in his dark, manly beauty as she in her opposite angelic type. yet she hesitated, trifling saucily with her flowers, and half denying the rose he craved. "i am chary of giving away roses obtained at the price of so many thorns," said she, holding up a taper finger with a dark-red scratch marking a zigzag course over its whiteness. "gather your roses yourself, sir." "if i might gather those that blossom on your cheeks, i might take the risk of the thorns," he answered, daringly. the roses referred to deepened to vivid crimson, the golden lights in the pansy-colored eyes sent a fiery gleam along the black-fringed lashes, as she answered, indignantly: "you forget yourself, and presume, sir." "i did, indeed, but you know my idle habit of jesting. pardon me." "willingly, so that the offense is not repeated," she answered, more gently, as she continued at her task, grouping the flowers into tasteful bouquets, and ending by a fragrant gift to each gentleman of a tiny posy for his button-hole, that restored sociability and brought back the ease that had marked the first of the interview. "and to-morrow, bruce," said the captain, presently, "i shall see the last of you for years, if not forever. what possesses you to go wandering off to europe in this mad fashion?" a smothered cry of astonishment caused him to look at grace grey. she was looking straight at bruce conway, the rose-bloom dying away from her cheeks, and the beautiful eyes, eager, questioning, startled, with a woman's love looking out of them, and a woman's love revealed, alas! too plainly, in that mute gaze. conway's dark eyes met hers for a moment with answering love in their dark depths. only a moment, though, and then they wavered and fell, and he indifferently answered her mute question: "you look surprised, _ma petite_. well, it is true that i leave here to-morrow for an extended tour over europe. i have long thought of it, and the time has come at last." no answer. she could not have spoken if life or death had hung on a single sentence from those sweet lips, from whence the rose-tint had faded, leaving them cold and white, and drawn as if in pain. she gathered up her fragrant burdens and carried them into the house, leaving a momentary shocked silence behind her. presently the captain spoke, in the calm, assured tone in which we chide a dear and intimate friend: "bruce, have you been flirting with that pretty, innocent child?" conway fidgeted a little, but he answered nonchalantly enough: "why do you ask? have you fallen in love with her?" "i was not speaking of myself; we will keep to the subject, if you please. she _loves_ you." his voice grew tender, reverential. "well?" that simple monosyllable might have expressed many things. in bruce conway's non-committal tone it meant nothing. "you will marry her?" "why, no." the words came out with a jerk, as if they must be said, and the sooner the better. the purple twilight hid his face and expression, yet the captain persevered: "yet you love her?" "taking your assertion for granted," said conway, coolly, "is that any reason why i should marry miss grey?" "it seems one to me." "very probably; but, _mon ami_, your view on this, as on many other things, are old-fashioned and absurd, or, at least, behind the times we live in. do you happen to know, old fellow, that i have completely run through my handsome fortune, and that my 'great expectations' as my aunt's solo heir and favorite are all i have to depend on?" "i know it. what then?" "'what then?'" boyishly mimicking the sober tone of the older man. "if i must tell you, clen, my aunt has positively interdicted me from making love to her fair companion. i might be courteously polite, soberly kind--nothing more, on pain of disinheritance and eternal banishment from my relative's imperious presence." "you have disobeyed her." "not i. i have debarred myself from that exquisite pleasure, and kept strictly to the letter of my aunt's command. i have never told her i loved her, never addressed her a single word of love, save in the ideal, poetical quotations to which she can attach no real meaning. i am not to blame," talking a little savagely; "and i suffer, too. i must go away. it is madness for me to stay here longer, and cruel to her. my heart aches for her--she is so fair, so pure, so trusting. i dare not stay here another day, or i should break through aunt conway's prohibition and tell her all that is in my heart. but once away from the sight of her maddening beauty, i can forget her, and returning home some time, take possession of my handsome inheritance, and thank my lucky stars for the decision i made to-day." "think a moment, dear friend. is it not just as possible that a day may come when you shall bitterly regret that decision? when for the sake of the loving, trusting, friendless child you desert to-day, you would peril not only your hopes of present fortune and earthly prosperity, but your aspirations for a brighter world?" "why pursue a useless subject? i have let you have your say out, and heard you in patience. now hear me. i do love grace grey so passionately that, having had everything i wanted heretofore in life, it is a hard struggle to be compelled to resign her. but though i feel that i am acting almost a villainous part, i cannot incur my aunt's penalty. love of ease and luxury is inherent in my nature, and i would not resign the power of gratifying these propensities for the sake of any woman's love. even if i risked all to do the love-in-cottage romance, what have i left to offer miss grey along with my name and love?" "your broad breast to shield her; your clear brain and strong arms to toil for her." "mere visionary fancies! i am too indolent to work with head or hands. my vocation is that of an idler. i shall go to europe, see all that is to be seen, shiver foggy london, plunge head and soul into the gay and giddy circles of dear delightful paris, return, inherit aunt conway's fortune, marry some heiress of her choosing, and live happy ever after." "i doubt it. good-night." "come back--you are not going? i shall drive you into town after tea--my aunt expects to see you--clendenon, i say!" he hurried down the walk after the tall, proud form stalking coldly away, and stopped him with a hand upon his shoulder. "clen, are you angry with me? don't think of it! you know there are some subjects on which we never agree. i am sorry i did not hear your expostulations with more patience. that is saying more than i would say to any other man living, but i don't forgot that it is for me you wear that empty sleeve across your breast--that you gave freely to save my worthless life the strong arm that was worth more than a dozen such men as i. and are we to separate at last for a woman's sake?" it was true. they had shared the same camp-fire, slept under the same scanty blanket, battled side by side in the far-famed gray uniform, and when death threatened the one the strong arm of the other had been raised to shield him. had it been necessary he would have given his life as freely as he gave his strong left arm. he could not forget in a moment the friendship of years, but he yielded half-reluctantly to the detaining hand that drew him back to the house. "i confess that i go back with you unwillingly," he said, in his grave, frank way. "you have shown me a new phase of your character, bruce, and i do not in the least admire it. i trust yet to hear you repudiate your decision as unworthy of yourself as well as unjust to the girl whose sacred love you have trifled with." "perhaps i may yet," was the hurried reply. "i am so divided between conflicting emotions that i scarcely know my own mind yet. i may yet decide as you wish me to do." part of this was said to conciliate his friend, and part of it was true, for bruce conway did not err when he said that he scarcely know his own mind. the most of his failings and follies, as of a great many other people, arose from this amiable trait in his character. he had not decided when the pleasant social ceremony of the nine o'clock tea was over, and leaving captain clendenon deep in converse with his stately hostess, he beguiled the younger lady into a walk down to the sea-shore. there standing, arm in arm, on the pebbly beach, he almost made up his mind. for she was _so_ beautiful, and he loved beauty. a love of beauty was inherent in his luxurious nature, and grace grey was the fairest creature he had ever beheld as she lifted her shy glance to his in the brilliant moonlight, while as yet neither had spoken a word. why need they have spoken? it needed but that his hand should seek and hold hers in that lingering clasp that tells the all and all of love. but the soft breeze went sighing past like a spirit, the eternal sea surged strangely on, the stars burned, and the moon went under a transient cloud, while far away in the southern heavens a great red _meteor_ flamed out and shone brilliantly among the silver stars. both saw it at once, and both uttered an affected cry of surprise--affected, i say, because i do not think anything would have surprised them then, they were so absorbed in each other, so happy and yet so unhappy, as they stood together there, their young hearts throbbing "so near and yet so far." she did not dream as she watched that fiery orb of light that her future hung on its transient beaming. she knew, with a woman's keen intuition, that he had brought her there to learn her fate. what it was to be she could not guess. certainly she did not think that the man beside her had staked their two futures on the hazard of a meteor, and that when it paled and faded from the stormy sky he whispered to himself: "as was my love for her! burning and comet-like as was that meteor, it shall fade as soon and leave me free." was it? did the future prove so? tenderly--more tenderly than he had ever done--he lifted the thin white drapery, half falling from her shoulders, and folded it closely about her. "how heavily the dew falls," he said, kindly. "we had better return to the house." mrs. conway looked curiously up as the pair came slowly into the drawing-room, and was content with what her keen glance read in the faces that wore the light mask of indifferent smiles. "gracie, child," in her most affable way, "don't let our guest leave us without the rare treat of hearing you sing. captain clendenon, will you turn the music for her?" "the attraction of grace's music, its greatest charm, lies in its wonderful pathos and expressiveness," condescended the haughty hostess, as the guest's firm lip softened while listening to the spirit-like melodies that sobbed and wailed along the piano keys, answering to the touch of the skillful fingers and the sweet voice. at length she selected an old song, and with a single glance at conway, sang the first stanza through: "sweetheart, good-by! the fluttering sail is set to bear me far from thee; and soon before the favoring gale my ship shall bound upon the sea. perchance, all desolate and forlorn, these eyes shall miss thee many a year; but unforgotten every charm, though lost to sight to mem'ry dear!" the wounded young heart could sustain itself no longer. she rose and passed hastily from the room. it was her farewell to her unworthy lover. when he left home in the early dawn, amid the tearful lamentations of his adoring aunt, miss grey had not arisen from her feverish slumbers. chapter ii. too late. ay, i saw her--we have met- married eyes how sweet they be! are you happier, margaret, than you might have been with me? come, but there is naught to say, married eyes with mine have met, silence, oh! i had my day! margaret! margaret!--jean ingelow. mrs. conway was not wearing the willow for her wandering nephew. on the contrary, her elegant rooms constantly witnessed merry gatherings, where mirth and music reigned supreme. she was still a handsome woman, still a brilliant woman, and the world of society, fashion, and folly held her as one of its leaders. the delicate state of her health had improved, she had dispensed with her fair companion, and on a sweet spring night, just four years from the date of the beginning of this story, she was giving a splendid ball in honor of the wife of the distinguished and handsome senator winans, of virginia. the elite of norfolk was gathered there, the house was garnished with wreaths and garlands of flowers, till the long drawing-rooms opening into each other looked like fast succeeding vistas of intoxicating bloom. music rose voluptuously overall, and the proud hostess moved among her guests looking handsome as a picture, and young for her fifty-four years, in the sea-green silk and misty laces that accorded so well with her dark eyes and hair, and sweetly smiling mouth. but under all her brightness and gayety mrs. conway carried an uneasy pang in her proud heart. it was the neglect of her idolized nephew. she had never had any children of her own, and at the death of her husband the orphan boy of her only brother crept into her heart, and held the only place in it that was worth having; for the heart of a fashionable fine lady, i take it, has little room to spare from the vanities of dress and fashion; but whatever vacant room there remained in mrs. conway's, it all belonged to her self-exiled nephew, and for many months no news had come of the traveler. he had roved from one end of europe to the other, and wearied of it all, but still talked not of coming home, and his aunt missed him sadly. he had been unfeignedly fond of her. he was her nearest living relative, her chosen heir, and she wanted him home for the few remaining years of her life. but with the underlying strength of her proud heart she kept those feelings to herself, and none were the wiser for them. and in the midst of the music and dancing a stranger crept to the door of the anteroom, and looked anxiously in--bruce conway. a little thinner, a little bronzed by travel, a little more grave looking, but every bit as handsome as the dashing young follow who had gambled with a meteor for his chance of happiness and--lost. was he looking for his aunt? twice she passed near enough to have touched him with her hand, but he smiled and let her pass on, not dreaming of his near presence. at last his eyes encountered what they sought, and, half unconsciously, he drew nearer, and scanned the peerless vision framed in the door-way of the conservatory, in the soft but brilliant light of the wax-lights half-hidden in flowers. was she a creature of this lower earth? he had thought, that spring four years ago, with grace grey at seventeen, leaning on his arm, looking into his face in the moonlight, that she was more a creature of heaven than earth. he thought so again to-night, as he looked at her leaning there under the arch of flowers that framed the conservatory door. he thought of all the living loveliness, the sculptured perfection, the radiant beauty that seemed to breathe on the canvas--all he had seen in his wanderings from shore to shore--and nothing he could recall was half so glorious as grace grey at twenty-one, in her calm repose, standing quietly looking on at the scene, seeming herself, to the fascinated eyes that beheld her, like a young angel strayed away from paradise. mr. conway slipped around and entered the room by a side door in the rear of where she stood. at sound of his footstep she turned slowly and looked at him carelessly, then looking again, threw up one hand. was she going to faint? not she! her face whitened, her pansy-violet eyes grew black with intense emotion, but without a tremor she offered the little cold hand he had dashed away from him so long before. it was as cold now as it had been then--had it never been warm since, he wondered. "welcome home!" he heard in the remembered music of her voice. "oh, grace, my darling, my wronged little love!" he knew his own mind at last, and was down on his knees before she could prevent him, passionately entreating, "my darling, will you forgive me, and give yourself to me? i have come home to make reparation for the past. i never knew how dear you were, how entirely i loved you, till the ocean rolled between us." for a moment the silence of unspeakable emotion fell between them; she struggled for speech, waving her hand for him to pause, while over her pure, pale face a flood of indignant crimson warmly drifted. "rise, sir," she answered, at last, in low, proud tones, "such words are an insult to me!" "and why? oh! grace, can you not forgive me, can you not love me? you loved me once, i know. don't send me away. promise that i may still love you, that you will be my worshiped wife!" she did not laugh at him, as you or i might have done, my reader. it was not in the nature of the girl bruce conway had scorned for her low estate to be anything but sweet and merciful. she looked at him, still faintly flushed and excited, but answered with unconsciously straightening figure, and a firm but gentle dignity peculiar to her always: "possibly you are not aware, mr. conway, that your words of love are addressed to one who is already a wife--and mother." mr. conway had never fainted in his life, but with a feeling that sense and strength were giving way, he rose, and, dropping into a chair, white as death, looked at the young creature whose quiet assertion of matronly dignity had fallen on his ears like a death-warrant. and as he looked, with that strange power we have of discriminating details even in the most eventful hours, he noticed many things that went far to prove the truth of her words. he had left her poor and almost friendless, her richest dress a simple white muslin, and scarcely another piece of jewelry than the simple trinket of gold and pearls that clasped the frill of lace at her white throat. to-night she wore a sweeping robe of costly white silk, with flouncings of real lace, that was worth a small fortune in itself. there were diamonds on the wavering swell of her white bosom, depending from the pearly ears, scintillating fire from her restless taper wrists, clasping her statuesque throat like sunshine glowing on snow. she was wealthy, prosperous, beloved now, he read in the restful peace that crowned her innocent brow; and bitterest thought of all to the man who had loved and deserted her--another man called her _his wife_--another man's child called her mother. while she stood with that flush of offended wifely dignity burning hotly on her pure cheek, while he looked at her with a soul's despair written on his handsome features, a gentleman entered the room carrying an ice. he was tall and splendidly handsome, his countenance frank, and pleasant, but a slight frown contracted his brow as he took in the scene, and it did not clear away as the lady said, distantly: "mr. conway, allow me the pleasure of presenting to you my husband, senator winans." both gentlemen bowed ceremoniously, but neither offered the hand. mr. conway hated winans already, and the gentleman thus honored felt intuitively that he should hate conway. so their greeting was of the briefest. the discomfited traveler turned and walked over to the hon. mrs. winans. "i beg your pardon," he said, in low, earnest tones; "i did not know--had not heard the least hint of your marriage." he was gone the next moment. senator winans looked inquiringly at his beautiful young wife. she did not speak; he fancied she shrank a little as he looked at her, but as he set down the ice on a small flower-stand near by, she took up the little golden spoon and let a tiny bit of the frozen cream melt on her ruby lip, while a faint smile dimpled the corners of her mouth. "my love," he said, lifting the small, white hand, and toying with its jeweled fingers, "are you ill? your hand is cold as ice." "i never felt better in my life," smiling up into his questioning eyes, and nestling the small hand still closer in his. "the cold cream chilled me after dancing so much, or," her natural truthfulness asserting itself, "i may be a little nervous, and that makes my hands cold." "and what has made you nervous to-night?" his tone unconsciously stern and his thoughts full of the dark, despairing face that had looked up from the depths of the arm-chair at his queenly looking wife. "nothing," she answered, dreamily, while a swift flush burned on her cheek, and she turned away a little petulantly and began to trifle with the ice again. "i beg your pardon, but it was something, and that something was the man who has just left us. who and what is he?" "mr. bruce conway, nephew and heir of our hostess. he has been abroad four years, i think, and but just returned." "an old acquaintance of yours, then?" "well, yes." she turned toward him with marvelous sweetness and self-command. "during my stay with mrs. conway i was naturally brought frequently in contact with her nephew. i found him a pleasant acquaintance." "nothing more--was he not a lover?" his beautiful dark eyes seemed to burn into her soul, so full were they of jealous pain and sudden doubt. she came up to him, crossing her round white arms over one of his, looking up at him with an arch, merry smile. "i really cannot say, since he never confessed to a tender passion for me. the difference in our stations precluded anything of the sort. you must remember that there are few men like you, my loyal love, who stooped to lift a beggar-maid to share your throne." her eyes were misty and full of unshed tears, partly out of gratitude and love for him, and partly--she could not help it--because she was conscious of a sharp, agonized remembrance of a night four years before, the very thought of which made her turn white and cold as death as she leaned upon her husband's arm. one hand beneath her dimpled chin lifted her face to meet his gaze. she met it sweetly and frankly, but he knew her well enough to know that the intense blackness of her dilated eyes denoted deep emotion. "tell me the truth, gracie," he entreated. "that man looked at you as no mere acquaintance ever looked at a woman--looked at you as he had no right to look at the wife of another man! what mystery is this you are trying to withhold from me? if you refuse to answer what i have a right to know you force me to seek satisfaction from him." he was terribly in earnest. the baleful fire of doubt and jealousy burned in his eagle gaze, and startled the young creature who read its language with a vague doubt creeping into her soul. she did not want to deceive her husband--still less did she want to tell him the truth for which he asked. "spare me!" she entreated. "there is nothing to tell, my love--nothing of any consequence, i mean. it would but annoy you to hear it, mortify me to tell it," and once more the warm blush of insulted matronly pride tinged the girlish cheek with crimson. "for all that i insist upon having an explanation of the scene i witnessed here after leaving you scarcely a minute before!" unconsciously to himself he shook off the small hands that clasped his arm in his eager interest and excitement. she did not replace them, but, folding both her arms across her breast, lifted her pale, earnest face to his. her answer came low and sweet, though perhaps a trifle impatient, as though the subject seemed to her scarcely worth this "wordy war." "well, then, mr. bruce conway startled me very much by entering here quite suddenly and making me an offer of his hand, declaring that he had learned to love me while abroad. i checked him by telling him that i was a wife and mother. you heard his apology to me--he did not know of my marriage. that is all there is to tell." he looked at her and half smiled at thought of conway's discomfiture; but the passing merriment was displaced in a moment by the sharp pain tugging at his heart-strings. he had the jealous southern nature to perfection. he could not endure even the thought that another had ever enshrined in his heart the image of grace, his lovely girl-bride. so sharp a pang tore his heart that he could not move nor speak. "paul, my husband"--she looked up at him as wondrously fair in his eyes as she had been in bruce conway's, and with a timid grace that was infinitely becoming to her--"surely you do not blame me. i could not help it. i am sorry it has happened. i cannot say more." it was not in human nature to withstand the mute pleading of her manner, or the soft gaze that met his own. he stooped and touched his lips to her pure brow. "let us go, love," he said. "i confess that i shall feel better away from here and in our pleasant home." "but this reception was given for us. our hostess will feel offended at so early a departure." "i will tell her we were called away--that is, unless you wish to remain." "no, indeed; i would rather be at home with my precious baby; and your wishes are always mine, paul." how exquisitely she tempered wifely submission and obedience with gentleness and love! if there was a cross in her life, she wreathed it over with flowers. her soothing voice fell like the oil of peace on the troubled waters of his soul. long after their adieus to their hostess had been spoken, and his arm had lovingly lifted her into her carriage, bruce conway's eyes watched vacantly the spot where she had vanished from his sight, while that haggard wanness of despair never left his face. never until the hour in which he knew her irrevocably lost to him did he realize how deeply rooted in his soul his love had been. amid all the glories of the old world he had felt that life was a desert without her, and in the arabian deserts the knowledge had dawned slowly upon him, that even here her mere presence would have created a paradise of bliss. far away from her, unconsciously to her, he had mentally renounced his anticipated inheritance, and come home with the fixed intention of winning her, and toiling, if need be, cheerfully for her. not a thought of disappointment, not a possibility of her marriage had crossed his mind. it was left to this hour, when he stood there listening to the slow crunch of her carriage wheels that seemed grinding over his heart as they rolled away, to know his own heart truly, and to feel how much better than he knew himself his friend had known him when he said, on almost the same spot where he now stood alone: "is it not just as possible that the day may come when for the sake of the loving, trusting, friendless child you desert to-day, you would peril not only your hopes of present fortune and future prosperity, but your aspirations for a brighter world?" it had come. passionate heart, undisciplined temper, unsatisfied yearnings clamored fiercely for the woman who had loved him as he would never be loved again. he would have given then, in his wild abandonment to his love and despair, all his hopes of fortune, his dreams of fame, his chances of futurity, to have stood for one hour in the place of the man who, even then in his beautiful home, clasped wife and child in one embrace to his noble heart, while he thanked god for the treasure of a pure woman's love. a touch on his shoulder, a voice in his ear jarred suddenly on his wild, semi-savage mood. "be a man, bruce, old fellow, be a man. it is too late for unavailing regrets. call all your manhood to your aid." "clendenon, is it you?" he turned and wrung his friend's hand with a grip that must have pained him. "have you come to exult over my misery with the stereotyped 'i told you so?'" "can you think it of me? bruce, i have watched you for the last five minutes, and i understand your feelings. from my soul i pity you!" "don't! sympathy i cannot bear--even from you, old boy. clen, how long has it been--when was she,"--a great gulp--"married?" "more than eighteen months ago senator winans saw her first at one of your aunt's receptions, where she was brought forward to perform a difficult sonata for a musical party. he saw and loved (what man could see her and not love her?) there was a brief courtship, a brilliant marriage, under the rejoicing auspices of your aunt, and the beautiful hon. mrs. winans was the belle of last season in washington, as her husband was one of the most notable members of the senate. she has been 'the fashion' ever since." "so she was like all other women, after all," sneered conway, in jealous rage. "sold herself. so much beauty, intellect, and frivolity--for a brilliant establishment, a proud name, and high position." "i think not. they live very happily, i am told. he is worthy any woman's love, and has won hers, no doubt. and, bruce, i don't think anything could make her worldly or calculating. as much of the angel is about her as is possible for mortal to possess." conway looked suddenly up into the handsome, inscrutable face of the speaker. "clen, _mon ami_, if it had to be any one else than me, i wish it had been you that had married her. you are deserving of any blessing that can come into a good man's life." "thanks," his friend answered, simply, and moved aside to make way for mrs. conway, who swept out on the piazza and up to the side of her nephew. somehow the news of his return had been noised about the rooms, and she had come to seek him, vexed and mortified that he had not come to her, but still very happy to know that he was there at all. "my dear boy," she said, as she clasped his hand and took the gallant kiss he offered, "this is, indeed, a joyful surprise. will you come up into my boudoir, where we can have a quiet chat to ourselves, before your many friends claim your attention?" silent and moody he followed her. once within the quiet seclusion of her own special apartment, and she turned upon him with a sudden storm of reproaches. "bruce, what is all this i hear? that gossiping old maid, miss lavinia story, has spread from one guest to the other a sensational report of your meeting mrs. winans in the conservatory just now, and proposing to her under the impression that she was still miss grey, my late companion. it can't be true of you; don't say it is, and make me ashamed of you in the very hour of your return. you could not have been guilty of such rashness and stupidity. give me authority to deny it to our friends." "i can't do it." he was always rather laconic in his way of speaking, and he answered her now in a moody, don't-care, scarcely respectful sort of style, without even looking at her. "it's all true, every word of it, and more besides." "bruce, bruce, what madness!" "was it? well, i suppose you did not expect as much manliness as that even from one who had been so ready to sell himself for your gold. but i could not do it, aunt conway. you know well enough that i loved her. that was why you were so willing i should go away. but i did not forget her so easily as i thought i would. my love only strengthened with time until i resolved to resign my claims to your fortune, come home, win her, and work for her like a man. i came, saw her, forgot all about the proprieties, and spoke at once. i didn't stop to think why she wore silk instead of muslin, diamonds instead of flowers. i saw only her heavenly, sweet face, and blundered straight into--making a laughing-stock of myself for all your acquaintance!" "exactly!" groaned mrs. conway. "miss story eavesdropped--she pretends to have heard it purely accidentally. the old--" "news-carrier!" grimly suggested her nephew, finding her at a loss for a word. "you may well say that! she will have it all over norfolk to-morrow. oh! how it mortifies my pride to have anything occur to disgrace me so! bruce, i could almost find it in my heart to curse you!" "and i you! you are to blame for it all. but for you and your foolish pride of wealth and position, i might have wooed and won her; but while i wavered in my shameful vacillation and selfishness, a better and nobler man has stepped in between us! you are proud to welcome _him_, proud to do him honor; proud to welcome her in her beauty and grace, now that you have put her forever out of my reach. but you are well repaid to-night. look at my blasted hopes and ruined life, and curse yourself, your gold, everything that has come between two loving hearts and sundered them forever!" he threw the words at her like a curse, stepped outside the door, and slammed it heavily after him. she saw him no more that night. chapter iii. "sweetheart, good-by." "alas! how light a cause may move dissension between hearts that love!" "you may go, norah," said grace winans, looking up from the child on her breast at the sleepy-eyed nurse. "if i need you again i can ring the bell;" and, smiling, norah bowed and withdrew. it was almost twelve o'clock, and grace had exchanged her ball-dress for a white _neglige_, and sat in the nursery, holding her babe in her arms, and smiling thoughtfully down at the tiny, winsome face. mother and child made a wondrously fair picture in the soft shade of the wax-lights, that burned with subdued brightness in the dainty, airy, white-hung room. the girlish mother leaned a little forward as she sat in the low rocking-chair, her bright curls falling over the loosely flowing white dress like a golden glory. her pure, innocent eyes looked down at the babe that nestled in her arms, and a low murmur of tenderness escaped her lips. "my birdie! my baby!" "still sitting up, grace?" it was the voice of her husband entering to pay his nightly visit to the little bright-eyed babe--sole heir of his proud name and wealth. "i am not tired," she answered, in her fresh young voice, "and our little darling is so sweet i cannot bear to lay him down. only look at him, paul!" paul winans bent down and clasped mother and child in one fond embrace. "my two babes!" he whispered. a sunny smile broke over the young wife's face. the pet name pleased her, for she was still scarcely more than a child in her quick appreciation of affection, and, like a child, she could scarcely have understood an affection that did not express itself in tender epithets and warm caresses. she nestled her bright head against his arm, sighing softly in the fullness of her content. tender and trustful as a little child, always ready to sacrifice her own wishes to those of others, only asking to love and be loved, our pretty grace made a charming wife and mother. prosperity had not spoiled her warm heart nor her clear judgment, and the greatest aim of her loving life was to please her noble husband in all things--her highest ambition to be to him always, as she was then, the guiding star of his life. "some flowers of eden we still inherit, but the trail of the serpent is over them all." over this exquisite picture of domestic peace and love broke the storm-cloud and the tempest. it was but a moment after paul winans kissed his happy wife before the stillness of the midnight hour was broken by a sound that rose from the street below, and was directly beneath the window. first, a mournful guitar prelude; then a man's voice singing in the very accents of despair, and he finished the song of which grace had sung the first stanza for him four years before: "sweetheart, good-by! one last embrace! o cruel fate! two souls to sever! yet in this heart's most sacred place thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever! "and still shall recollection trace in fancy's mirror, ever near, each smile, each tear, that form, that face- though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear!" husband and wife listened in unbroken silence to the strain. the senator's arm tightened about his wife and child, and she sat mute and still, every line of her face as moveless as if carved from marble. but as the lingering notes died away, her hand sought and touched the tiny blue-and-silver tassel that depended from the bell-cord, and sent its low tinkle through the house. norah, who always answered the nursery-bell, came in after the lapse of a moment. to her mrs. winans said, in a voice that sounded stern and cold for her silver-sweet tones: "norah, go to the front door and tell that madman that he had better move on--that the family do not wish to be disturbed by such nonsense at this hour of the night." the woman withdrew obediently. paul winans turned, and walked restlessly up and down the room. "so he dares come and serenade my wife directly under my window!" his dark eyes blazed, his cheeks flamed, and his hand involuntarily clenched itself. grace looked up at him, still immovably calm and silent; but a slight nervous movement of her arm showed that she heard and understood. she looked up questioningly as norah appeared in the door-way. "he was gone, ma'am, before i got down to the door." "very well; you may go, then." and, as before, norah went out, with her small courtesy, and left the pair alone. "grace!" "well, dear?" her voice had the same sweet cadence as usual, and her smile was as gentle as ever when she looked up at the princely form before her. his voice, his look, showed his insulted pride and outraged heart. her only trace of emotion showed in marble pallor and darkening eyes. "i do not understand this!" his voice slow and intense. "i thought i had found a pearl so pure and isolated that no other man's eyes had ever looked on it to covet its beauty for himself. that was my highest glory. fame, fortune, pleasure were nothing to me in comparison with my pride in my wife, and that pride was the greater because a passionately jealous nature like mine is only satisfied in holding the first place in the beloved heart. and this i thought i held in yours. to-night i learn for the first time that long before i ever met you another man looked on you to love you; perhaps you loved him." his voice died away in a throb of passionate pain. he leaned against the rosewood, lace-draped crib, and looked down at her with their child in her arms, hoping she would deny it. she did not. dead silence fell between them, and her soft eyes never wavered in their frank, upward look at him. they met his calmly, expectantly, their starry, inscrutable depths telling no secrets. "grace!" "what is it, paul?" "say something--you are so cold--anything to allay the fire that burns in my veins. i think i am mad to-night." "my dearest, what can i say more than i have already told you? mr. conway proposed to me under a most mortifying mistake. i am not answerable for a man's infatuation with a fair face. i do not know what has induced him to make such a demonstration here to-night. possibly he is under the influence of wine, and hardly knows the folly he is perpetrating; possibly we may never see or hear of him after this. let us dismiss him from our thoughts." spoken so sweetly, so calmly, so indifferently. her seeming calmness subdued and quelled momentarily his stormy feelings, as a strong, well-balanced mind always curbs a fitful, unquiet one. "then you do not care for him, grace?" she was threading her slim fingers meditatively through the dark curls that clustered on the brow of her child. she glanced up, her snow-white cheek flushing a fitful scarlet, her voice and look full of proud reproach. "paul, you are speaking to the mother of your child." that quiet dignity recalled him to a sense of what was due to his wife. his brow cleared, his voice softened, as he answered: "i beg your pardon, gracie, dearest. i ought to have known your pure heart better than to insult it by a doubt. your heart, i know, is mine now, or you would never have been my wife. i know your pure honor and truth too well to think otherwise. but oh, my love, my sweet wife, if i knew--if i knew that your warm, true heart had ever throbbed with one sigh of love for another, i should, even though it had happened before i ever saw you, never again know one happy moment. you may think it is jealous madness--it may be--but it is inherent in my nature, and i cannot help it. i repeat that i could never, never be happy again." no answer. grace winans' white arms wreathed themselves around her baby, pressing it closer, as if to still the sharp pang that struck home to her very heart. a faint shiver thrilled her, and rising, she laid the little sleeper in its downy nest, smiling a little sadly as she looked, but smiling still, for this tiny rosebud was the sweetest and most wonderful thing that had ever come into her lonely life. deeply as she had loved the first object of her young affections, purely and truly as she loved her gifted husband, the strongest, deepest, most intense passion of her life was her maternal love. some one has written half jestingly that "the depths of a woman's love can never be sounded till a baby is dropped into her heart," but it is true of the majority of women. it was especially true of grace winans. that little, rosy, lace-robed slumberer, small as it was, enshrining a human soul, was the idol of the young mother's life. perhaps she was excusable. it was the only thing that had ever loved her purely and unselfishly. she could scarcely recollect her parents, she could not recall any one who had ever lavished on her such love as this child gave her, so devoted, so unreasoning, so absorbing; and deeply, unselfishly as she loved her husband, she loved his child better, though no word nor sign ever betrayed the fact to his jealous eyes. she reached up to him now, and drew him to her side, holding his arm about her waist with both dimpled white hands. "my darling," she whispered, "don't be so unreasonable. you have no _cause_ to be jealous, none at all. my whole heart is yours--yours and the baby's. you must have faith in me, paul--have faith in me, and trust me as you do your own heart." drawing his moody face down to hers she kissed him with child-like simplicity. at the persuasive touch of those tender lips his brow cleared, his listless clasp tightened around her, and both arms held her strained closely to his breast, his lips raining kisses on her brow, her cheeks, her lips, even her fair golden hair. "now you are like yourself," the musical voice whispered gladly. "you will not be jealous and unhappy again. i am yours alone, dear one--heart, and soul, and body--your own loving, happy little wife." the sunshine on her face was tenderly reflected on his. she was so sweet and winsome, so womanly, yet withal so child-like and oh, _so_ beautiful! his strange, unusual mood was not proof against the witchery of her loveliness, her flowing hair, the subtle perfume breathing from her garments, the tenderness of her words and looks. "i don't think another man in the world has such a precious wife!" he said. and though she knew that every man's private opinion regarding his own wife was the same, she took heart at his words of praise, and laughed archly. they two were that novel sight "under the sun," a pair of married lovers. why need he have gone back to the forbidden subject? ah! why have we always "done that which we ought not to have done?" because he wanted to make himself miserable, i suppose. there is no other reason i can assign for his persistence; and, as for that, there is no reason whatever in a jealous man. "he is simply jealous for he is jealous," and where shakespeare could not find a reason for a thing, how can i? "gracie, may i ask you one question?" "you may--certainly." "and will you answer it truthfully? "if i answer it at all," she gravely made answer, "it must needs be truthfully, for i could not reply to you otherwise. but why ask a question at all? i do not care to question you of your past; why should you question me of mine? let past and future alone, paul. the present only is ours--let us enjoy it." and heedless of the warning shadow that fell across her pathetic face, he persevered: "only tell me this, my precious wife. this bruce conway, who went away to europe to learn that he loved you, and came back to tell you so. gracie, in that past time when you knew him--before you ever knew me--did you--tell me truly, mind--did you ever love him?" the question she had dreaded and shrunk from all the time! she knew it would come, and now that it had, what could she say? how easy it would have been to confess the truth to a less passionate and jealous mind. it was no sin, not even a fault in her, and she was not afraid to tell him save with the moral cowardice that makes one dread the necessary utterance of words that must inflict pain. what harm was there in that dreamy passion that had cast its glamour over a few months of her girlhood? it was unkind in him to probe her heart so deeply. she dared not own the truth to him if its telling were to make him unhappy! and along with this feeling there was another--the natural shrinking of a proud woman from laying bare the hidden secrets of her soul, pure though they be, to mortal sight. a woman does not want to tell her husband, the man who loves her, and believes her irresistible to all, that another man has been proof against her charms, that the first pure waters of love's perennial fountain had gushed at the touch of another, who let the tide flow on unheeding and uncaring, and a man has no business to ask it. but where does the line of man's "little brief authority" cross its boundaries? we have never found out yet. it is left, perhaps, for some of the fair and curious ones of our sex who are "strong-minded" in their "day and generation" to solve that interesting problem. so, gracie, debarred by confession by so many and grave considerations, in desperation, parried the question. "paul, do you know that i am sleepy and tired, while you are keeping me up with such idle nonsense? if we must begin at this late day to worry over our past loves and dreams, suppose you begin first by telling me how many separate ladies you loved before you ever met me! come, begin with the first on the list." "it begins and ends with--yourself," he said, gravely and firmly. "like the story of mrs. osgood's evelyn," she rejoined, smiling, and beginning to hum lightly: "it began with--'my evelyn fairest!' it ended with--'evelyn best!' and epithets fondest and dearest, were lavished between on the rest." then breaking off, she says more seriously and softly: "then try to think that is the same with me. don't worry over such idle speculations. i am tired and half sick, dear." "gracie, you drive me to desperation. i asked you a simple question--why do you try to evade it?" "because it is unfair to me. i haven't asked you any such ridiculous questions. i won't submit to be catechised so, positively, i won't! don't be angry, dear. i am sure the slightest reflection on your part will convince you that i am right. i have partly forgotten the past; have ignored it anyhow, not caring to look back any further in my life than the two years in which i have known and loved you. all the happiness i ever really knew has been showered on me by your lavish hand. be content in knowing that and spare me, paul." "i thank you, grace, for your sweet tribute to me, but i asked you a question and i am--waiting for your answer." "i thought i had answered you plainly enough, paul. why will you persist in making us both unhappy?" "gracie, will you answer or not?" "oh, darling! you have worried me into a nervous chill. i am cold as ice," and to prove the truth of her words she pressed two icy little hands upon his cheek, and for the first time in his life he pushed his fairy away from him. "you must not trifle with me, grace." "you still insist on it, paul?" "i still insist on it." "at the risk of your own unhappiness?" "yes." she looked at him sadly as she leaned across the crib near him, but not touching him. "paul," she ventured, suddenly, "even supposing that i had loved another before i ever met you, what difference can that make to you? i love you truly now." "so much difference, my wife, that i think i could never again be happy if i knew you had ever loved another than myself; but i cannot bear this suspense. i ask you nothing about other men. i only ask you, _did_ you ever love bruce conway?" she could not utter a falsehood; she could not escape his keen, persistent questioning; she must be frank with him and hope for the best. that was the only way the poor little heart reasoned then; so with down-dropped eyes, and a sound in her ears that recalled the whisper of the ocean in her ears one parting night, she drew a little farther away from him, and answered, in a hushed, low voice, much like a chidden child's: "_i did._" a silence fell between them so hushed that she could hear her own heart beat. he had put up his hand to his face, and she could not see his features nor guess what effect her words had on him. "paul," she ventured, almost frightened at the sound of her own voice in the stillness, "don't think of it any more. i was nothing but a simple, dreaming child, and it is just as natural for a young girl to fancy herself in love with the first handsome young man who flatters her as it is for our baby there in his crib to cut his teeth and have the measles when he grows older. it seems absurd to make yourself miserable over so trifling a thing. i didn't like him so very much, indeed i didn't. i soon learned how unworthy he was of any woman's love. he is a fickle, wavering, unprincipled man, who never knows his own mind, unworthy a second thought of yours, my noble husband." unflattering verdict! but a true one. she understood the man who had trifled with her young heart almost better than he did himself. in that time when he had wavered so fatally between his pride and his happiness she had fathomed his very soul with her suddenly awakened perceptions, and she understood him well. she could look back now and thank heaven for what had seemed then a calamity scarcely to be borne. what it had cost her only heaven knew, for in her way she was a proud woman, and never "wore her heart on her sleeve;" but nobody stops to question how hard a struggle has been so that victory crowns it at last. to the world it matters little who of its toiling, striving atoms have been patient pilgrims to "that desert shrine which sorrow rears in the black realm--despair!" so that they return with palms of victory in their hands and the cross of honor upon their breasts. and gracie, too, had fought a battle in her life and conquered; if it left ineffaceable scars they were hidden in her heart and left no token upon her fair, inscrutable face. he made no reply to her wistful defense. she went up to him and touched his hand with hers, still intent on making peace with this proud, impatient spirit. he only put her very gently but firmly away from him, and in a moment after turned suddenly and left the room. she heard him go down to his study, close his door, and fall heavily into a chair. then her repressed impatience and anger broke out, as she paced back and forth, like a spirit, in her flowing hair and long white robe. "the idiot! the madman! to come back here after all this time, and throw the shadow of that unhappy love all over my future life! did he think that i had no pride? that i would bear coldness, carelessness, neglect, and be glad to meet him after four years had passed, and say yes to the question that in all honor he should have asked before he went? i think i could spurn him with my foot if he knelt before me again as he did to-night!" how she scorned him! how superb she was in her just anger and resentment! her changeful eyes darkened and flashed with pride, her lip curled, her cheek glowed, her light step seemed to spurn the floor. "mamma, mamma!" the soft, frightened voice of her child, waking suddenly from his rosy sleep, recalled her to herself. in an instant she was by his side, bending over him, kissing his brow, his lips, his hands, his hair, in a passion of grieving tenderness. "my darling, my comfort, my pretty boy! i am so glad that you _are_ a boy! you will never know the pains, the penalties, the trials and crosses of a woman's life. if you were a little girl, and i knew that if you lived you must bear all that i have borne and must still endure, i could bear to see you dead rather than live to say, as i have done: 'mother, why didn't you let me die when i was a little child?'" the little clock on the marble mantel chimed out the hour of three in soft musical notes. she lifted the child in her arms, and, passing into her sleeping apartment, laid him down on her own bed, for she never slept without her treasure in her arms. then, kneeling by his side, she whispered a brief, agonized petition to heaven before laying her tired form down in the snowy nest of linen and lace. when the soft summer dawn began to break faintly over the earth, paul winans rose up from his tiresome vigils and stole up stairs with a noiseless footstep that did not waken her from her exhausted sleep. her child nestled close to her heart, and her lips, even in her fitful slumber, were pressed upon his brow just as she had fallen asleep. the long curls of her golden hair flowed over both, and wrapped them in a mantle of sunshine. her face wore a look of remembered pain and grief that went to his heart, as kissing both so softly that they did not stir, he laid a note upon the pillow, and went down the stairs and out into the street. chapter iv. renunciation "am i mad that i should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? i will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root!" --tennyson. a misty, overcast morning dawned gloomily after the night of mrs. conway's ball. in spite of it the lady rose early. she had not slept at all, and, nervous and depressed, she roamed over the disordered house, from which the servants were busily removing the _debris_ of the evening's entertainment. every moment she expected to see her nephew enter, and as the day wore on and he failed to present himself, her impatience brooked control no longer, and she sent a messenger into norfolk to the national hotel, his usual stopping-place in the city, to inquire after him. the boy's swift horse carried him into the city and back in two hours. he came into the lady's presence bowing and grinning, the very picture of a sleek, good-natured, well-fed darkey. "did you see him, john?" "yaas'm, i see him," grinned john, his hands in his pockets complacently jingling the nickels his young master had just bestowed on him. "you gave him my message? what did he say?" "yaas'm; he say as how"--here john stopped jingling his nickels long enough to make a low dip of his woolly head, as befitting the proper deliverance of the message he had--"he will do heself de hon'r ob takin' tea wid you dis even." "was that all he said?" "all he says to you, ma'am--he ast me how come i stay 'long wid ole mis' all dis time, and not go off like do rest of de little nigs? i tell him----" here john stopped to chuckle softly at the remembrance. "well, you told him what?" "as how old mis' couldn't git 'long 'thout me nohow," and here john turned and made a hasty exit in obedience to a "go along, you impudent little monkey!" from the said "ole mis'." he was at the gate that evening, ready to take his master's horse when he cantered up in the gloom of the overcast sunset. "glad to see you, marse bruce. hopes you've come to stay. de ole place nuvver seemed like home without you," said the young darkey, who as a boy had blacked bruce conway's boots, run his errands, served as an escape-valve for all his ill humors, and withal adored him, now welcoming him home with the hearty affection that was so deeply rooted in his simple nature. freedom had not spoiled john in the least--possibly because so far as kind treatment and almost unlimited indulgence went, he had been _free_ all his life. but the young man merely threw him the reins, and with a careless "take good care of him, john," walked off in the direction of the house. "humph!" commented the merry little darkey, as he led the horse off to the stable. "sulky! i dersay he's come to give the madam fits for lettin' of his sweetheart git married afore he come back. serves him right, though. why didn't he marry her fust, and take her 'long wid him to that furrin parts? poor, pretty little dear! she did look just like an angel las' night, and they do say marse bruce took on some when he seen her." for the servants had all been woefully disappointed when bruce hurried off to europe without the grand wedding that the cook had prophesied would take place between himself and miss grey; and the story of the last night's _contretemps_ having been duly rumored from parlor to kitchen, was the all-absorbing subject of comment between cook, chambermaid, and boy-of-all-work--their sympathies and indignation being in such a fluctuating state just now that they could hardly decide who was the most deserving of their sympathy--the young man who, as they phrased it, had gone off and apparently jilted his sweetheart, or the young lady whom he had returned to find had really jilted him. and the young man who was furnishing food for so much feminine gossip and conjecture that day, quite heedless of it all, walked on up the steps and into the stately presence of his expectant aunt. she came forward very cordially, concealing any possible annoyance she felt under an appearance of affection. she began to see that reproaches and anger were not the way to bring this vacillating, reckless young fellow to his senses. "i trust you are feeling well after your fatigue of last evening," he pleasantly observed, as they shook hands. "no, i cannot say that i am. i have had no sleep, and felt worried and anxious about you, my dear boy." "i am sorry to have caused you any such annoyance," he answered, repentantly, throwing himself wearily among the cushions of a luxurious sofa--"very sorry, indeed, aunt conway. i am not worth being a source of anxiety to any one." the inflection of sadness and weariness in his tone touched her heart, and swept away all lingering resentments. she looked at him as he lay among the bright embroidered cushions, looking so handsome, yet so worn and hopeless, and her womanly pity found vent in the simple words: "my poor boy!" "don't pity me!" he answered, impatiently. "i am not deserving of pity, and i don't want it. a man must sink very low, indeed, to become the object of a woman's pity." what a strange mood he was in! accustomed to him as she was, she could not fathom him this evening. she folded her hands in her lap and looked at him wistfully. he grew restless under her gaze, shifting his position so that the light should not strike on his features. "you sent for me to give me a scolding, i suppose," he said, with a short, dry laugh. "i am here to receive it." "i did not," she answered. "i sent for you because this is your home, and i want you to stay with me if you will. it is very lonely here with no one of my kindred, bruce, and i am getting to be quite an old woman now. why cannot you give me the solace of your company and affection for my few remaining years?" "my affection!" no words can do justice to the reckless cynicism of his look and tone. "aunt conway, i have very little affection to give any one. my heart seems dead in my bosom. i came home, so full of noble resolves, so full of hope, that my downfall has almost banished reason from its throne. and as for my company, i fear i cannot even give you that. i owe it to myself, to you, more than all to the wife of senator winans, to take myself away from here, where no sight of me can recall my injustice to her, and my crowning folly of last night." "bruce!" "well?" "you shall not talk so--shall not leave me again. let mrs. winans alone. you have been in banishment three--nay, four years for her already. you shall not go again. norfolk is surely large enough for you two to live in without crossing the path of each other. as for what happened last night, it is rather mortifying, but it will soon be forgotten. stay with me, bruce; there are plenty of beauties in norfolk who will soon teach you to forget mrs. winans." "forget her! is it likely, when the prevailing topic of norfolk is the lovely mrs. winans, the brilliant mrs. winans, the accomplished mrs. winans, with her accomplishments of fashion and folly? it seems quite the fashion to talk about her now. no, aunt conway, you cannot dissuade me from my purpose. i shall go away from here until i can learn to be a man. here i renounce my ill-fated love for her, and pledge myself to forget her as an honorable man should do." his aunt looked at him, her regret and pain mingled with admiration. he looked so noble, so proud, so manly as he spoke, that for a moment she felt a pang at the thought of the wrong she had done; for that she had done wrong she knew full well. she had known of her nephew's passionate love for grace grey and knew that with her he would have found all the happiness that is vouchsafed to mortals. but for a scruple of worldly pride and position she had separated them, punishing herself thereby; for in the long years of his banishment she had felt too truly that she had, in tearing apart those two loving hearts, bitterly wounded her own. the repressed longing for her boy, the pain of knowing herself unloved and uncared for, had been a daily thorn in her heart, a wound "no after gladness could ever wholly heal." for a moment, as she looked at him in his manly beauty and brave renunciation, a better impulse stirred her heart, and thinking of the fair young creature who had made such sunlight in this dreary, splendid home, a vague wish came into her soul that she had let them have their way, and not so rudely sundered what god had joined together. too late! when we take it upon ourselves to shape the life-destinies of others we must not expect to undo our work when we find it completed and unsatisfactory to us. when we see the hearts that our intermeddling has bruised and torn go from us hungry and empty we must not expect them to turn to us for the happiness we denied them. oh, fathers and mothers, maneuvering sisters, aunts, and relatives, when the young birds are mating and building, why cannot you let them alone? why cannot you understand that your special experience and wisdom were given you by god for your guidance alone, and that every one cannot walk the same chalked-out path, that every thinking, living mind must choose for itself whether or not it be wisely or well? "as we make our beds we lie" has passed into a truth, but is it likely that any other will make it better for us than we try to do for ourselves? to be plain, no one has a right to dictate to us the way we are to walk in life; or, if they have, why has god given to every one of us thinking, reasoning, yearning minds, capable of knowing what we want and what we need better than any one can know for us? "bruce," she said, gently, "i have wronged you, you know. it was wrong of me to tempt you with my gold to desert the girl you loved, and who loved you. i never felt until this hour how basely i had acted. if i could undo my work i would. but i trust you may yet find happiness, and that the memory of all this suffering may pass from your soul as rain-drops from a rose, leaving it brighter and lovelier after the storm." "nay," he said, smiling faintly and sadly, "since you have descended to simile, let me remind you that there are two sides thereto. how often have i seen in this lovely garden of yours the crushed rose-leaves covering the ground, rain-beaten, pallid, and torn, as the storm had passed and left them. so it is most likely to be with me." "i trust not. at any rate, bruce, i ask your forgiveness. it is asking much, i know, when i reflect that but for me you would have wedded the girl you loved, and who, through my fault, is irrevocably lost to you. but you are all i have to love--all i have to love! don't deny me." "i do not," he answered, slowly. "don't blame yourself entirely aunt conway. blame my weak, wavering, vacillating will, that made me hesitate between grace grey and the noble inheritance you offered me. we are about equal, i think. i sold myself--you bought me!" oh, grace, you are avenged! deeply as you scorned him your contempt was not deeper than that which in this hour he felt for himself. "i thank you, bruce, dear boy, that you do not accord me all the blame, though i feel i fully deserve it. let us change the subject to one more pleasant." "in one moment, but first i have a confession to make. you may hear it from others, so i would like you to hear it first from me. you know that i am truthful, though unstable, and you can believe just what i say--not all the varnished reports you may hear." "go on," she said anxiously, as he paused. "well, then, i left you last night in a bad state of mind. i was mad, i think--simply mad--and in norfolk i took more wine than was good for me. i swore to myself that i would not give up grace. i hated her husband for having won her--i hated the child that calls _her_ mother and _him_ father--i hated you for separating us, and i swore that as she had loved me once she should love me again. under the influence of this madness i took a guitar and sung under the window of the grand winans' mansion a love-song--yes, aunt," laughing a little as she recoiled in dismay, "i dared to sing a love-song--i dared to serenade the married belle of society and queen of beauty with a love-song she had sung for me on the eve of our parting four years ago." "oh, bruce! what have you done?" "gotten myself into a difficulty, perhaps. the question is, did they hear me, or were they all asleep? if they heard and know me, i have undoubtedly provoked the wrath of that haughty senator who calls her his own. i propose to extricate myself from this dilemma by leaving the place as quietly as i returned; not through cowardice, aunt conway, i won't have you think that," his eye flashed proudly, "but because i have caused her trouble enough already. i'll not stay here to bring further trouble and comment upon her. i won't have her pure name dragged through the scandal of an affair of honor. the only thing is to go away--that is the only reparation i can make, to go away and forget her, and be myself forgotten." there was much that was noble in him yet; much that was high-toned, chivalric, high-spirited, and tender--all of it, alas, marred by that vacillating will, that wavering, doubting nature that was so long in making its mind up, and when made up soon changed it again. the tea-bell suspended further converse on the subject. he gave her his arm in courtly fashion, and they descended to the dining-room, both too preoccupied to observe the curious kindly black faces that peeped at them from obscure stations, eager to see the handsome young master they remembered so well, and to see how he looked "since he'd come back and found his sweetheart married and gone," as if people wore their hearts in their faces. ah, if they did what a gruesome looking crowd would meet us whithersoever we went. dainty and elegant as was the evening meal, i think bruce conway and his handsome old aunt scarcely did justice to it. her callous, worldly heart was stirred as it had not been for years. for bruce, i think he might as well have eaten chips for all he enjoyed the spring chicken, the pickled oysters, the rosy ham, and warmly-browned biscuit, the golden honey and preserves, the luscious fruits, the fragrant tea and chocolate. across the glimmer of flowers, and silver, and dainty cut-glass, and edibles, a shadowy form sat in the vacant chair at the opposite side of the table, which had been the wonted place of the rosy reality. a girl's fair face looked across at him, her white hands trifled with the silver knife and fork, reached the preserve across to him, poured the cream into his tea, showed him a dozen kindly attentions, and once he said, absently, "no, i thank you, grace," and looked up into the shiny black face of john, who was changing his plates for him, and who nearly exploded with repressed laughter, but said, with mock earnestness, and a pretense of misapprehension: "ole mis' nuvver say grace afore meals, marse bruce, cepen' 'tis when de minister stays to tea, sir." "leave the room, you young scamp," said mr. conway, irascibly, and john went, nothing loth to indulge himself in a fit of laughter at the expense of his beloved young "marse bruce." but the little incident served to make bruce more wide-awake, and rousing himself to realities the pansy-eyed phantom fled away from mrs. conway's well-appointed table. "that boy is a perfect clown," complained the lady; "he's not fit to wait on the table at all. i shall have to secure a good dining-room servant." mrs. conway had said this so often that there was small danger of its being put into execution. she was attached in a great degree to the servants around her, all of whom had belonged to her in the days of slavery, and who when "set free," during the war, had, unlike the majority of the freedmen who sought new homes, promptly taken service at extravagant wages from their whilom mistress and owner. john had grown up to his seventeenth year in the service of his indulgent "ole miss," and he was fully persuaded of the interesting fact that she "couldn't do 'thout him, nohow." after tea the two repaired to the brightly lighted drawing-room. the dull damp day rendered the closed shutters rather agreeable than otherwise, and shut out thus, from the sight of much that would have pained him, the young man made an effort to entertain his aunt, narrating many of his adventures abroad, and interesting an unthought-of listener, who was lazily curled up outside the door listening to the sprightly converse of the returned traveler. "wonder if all dat _kin_ be true," pondered john, dubiously; "but course 'tis, if marse bruce says so. john andrew jackson johnson, you ain't fitten to be a conway nigger if you can't believe what your young gentleman tells," and thus apostrophizing himself, john relapsed into silence. nevertheless, his mouth and eyes during the next hour were often extended to their utmost capacity, and i fear that if any other than bruce conway had presumed to relate such remarkable things, john would have been tempted to doubt his veracity. a sharp peal of the door-bell compelled him to forego his pleasant occupation to answer it. he came back with a card on a silver salver. "gentl'man to see marse bruce; showed him into libr'y, sir; he wished to see you 'lone, sir," announced john, with much dignity. mr. conway took the card, and mrs. conway looked over his shoulder. "captain frank fontenay, u. s. a.," he read aloud, and mrs. conway said: "a military gentleman--who is he, bruce? i don't know him." "nor i," said her nephew, grimly. he was white as marble, but his dark eyes never wavered in their firm, cold glitter. whatever else he was, bruce conway was not a coward. he gently released himself from his aunt's detaining hand. "i will go and see this gentleman," he said. "oh, bruce!"--she clung to him in a nervous, hysterical tremor--"i feel as if something dreadful were going to happen. don't see him at all." he smiled at her womanly fears. "my dear aunt, don't be hysterical. john, call mrs. conway's maid to attend her. aunt conway, there is nothing to alarm you--nothing at all;" and, putting her back on her sofa, he went out to meet his unbidden guest. the captain was a fine-looking man, of perhaps forty years, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, and much be-whiskered. he stood very courteously in the middle of the floor, hat in hand, as bruce entered the library. "mr. conway?" he interrogated, smoothly. "at your service, sir," said bruce. "mr. conway," said the gentleman, with a glittering smile that showed all his lovely white teeth, "i am the bearer to you of a message from senator winans. my friend, sir, considers himself insulted by you, and demands such satisfaction as all gentlemen accord each other." he placed an open note in mr. conway's hand, who silently perused it. it was a challenge to fight a duel. "any friend of yours can call on me to-morrow at three to settle the preliminaries," suggested the blonde captain, placidly smiling up into mr. conway's impassive face, and taking his acceptance for granted. "very well, sir; i will send a friend of mine to you quite punctually at three to-morrow. is that satisfactory for the present?" "quite so, sir; very much so, sir," smoothly returned captain fontenay, bowing his quite imposing military presence out. chapter v. what the winner's hand threw by. "here are a few of the unpleasant'st words that ever blotted paper."--shakespeare. "farewell!--a word that hath been and must be, a sound that makes us linger--yet, farewell!" --byron's childe harold. grace winans waked from her troubled sleep with a vague presentiment of impending evil. she heard the small clock on the mantel chiming seven, and looked about her half bewildered. the shaded taper burned faintly in the room, and the gray morning light stole dimly through the closed shutters and lace curtains. her baby lay on her arm, sleeping sweetly in his warm white nest. she raised her head a little, only to sink back wearily with a dull, fevered throbbing in her temples, and a sharp pang of remembrance that forced a low cry from her lips: "oh, paul!" where was he? she thought of the study, and with a pang at fancy of his tiresome vigil, eased the baby lightly off her arm, and tucking him softly round, donned dressing-gown and slippers, and stole gently down stairs, rapped slightly at the door, then opened it and entered. the light still burned in the room, looking garish and wan in the pale beams of morning; the easy-chair was drawn near the writing-table, but vacant. she glanced around her. he was not there, and no trace of him remained. the young wife slowly retraced her steps. "he will come presently," she whispered to herself, "but i wonder where he is;" and as she bent over little paul, laying her round, white arm on the pillow, the sharp edge of the note grazed her velvet-like skin. she looked at it, shrinking, afraid, it seemed, to touch it for the moment; then, with a terrible effort over herself, her trembling hand took it up, her shady, violet eyes ran over the contents: "oh grace!" it read, "you know that i adore you--too well, too well! for i cannot bear to live with you and know that your heart--the heart i thought so wholly and entirely mine--has ever held the image of another! you should have told me of this before we married. you wronged me bitterly, gracie, but i will not upbraid you. still, until i can learn to curb this jealous passion of mine, i will not, cannot remain where you are. i should only render you miserable. you and my boy will remain in my home--remember, i command this--and you will draw on my banker as usual for what sums you may need or want. i do not limit you in anything, my wife, my own idolized wife--please yourself in all things, do as you like, and try to be content and happy. if i can ever overcome this jealous madness--can ever reconcile myself to knowing that i was _second_ instead of first in your pure heart, i will come to you, but not till then. try to be happy with our little boy, and forgive your own, erring, unhappy "paul." white and still as marble, the deserted wife sat holding that mad note in her hand, looking before her into vacancy, moveless, speechless--yes, and pallid as she would ever be in her coffin. a terrible, overwhelming sense of her desolation rushed upon her; but, strangely enough, her first thoughts were not of her husband in his jealous grief, but of herself--of the scandal, the disgrace, the nine-days' wonder that would follow all this. she knew her husband well enough to know that once his mad resolve was taken it would be adhered to. he was no bruce conway, with wavering, doubting will, that could be blown aside by a passing breeze. firm, proud, sensitive, but unbending as adamant, was paul winans when once his resolution was taken. no one knew it better than his wife, though he had ever been kind and loving to her. a dumb horror settled on her soul as she realized the meaning of his letter. he blamed her as having willfully deceived him. she had not meant to do so; she had not thought it a matter of any moment to paul winans whether or not she had loved before she met him. other men would not have cared--why should he? he had not questioned her, had taken her past for granted. how could she tell him of that unsought, scorned, neglected love that had darkly shadowed the joy of her young girlhood? he was unjust to her. she felt it keenly in the midst of her sufferings. were all men like these two whom she had loved, she questioned herself, mournfully. not one of them was worthy of a true woman's love--no, not one. it had come to this--a deserted wife--through no fault of hers was this tribulation brought on her. she felt that the world had used her hardly and cruelly. the passion and pride that underlie firm yet sweet natures like hers, surged up to the surface and buoyed her up above the raging billows of grief and sorrow. she felt too indignant to weep. she had almost wept her heart out long ago. she meant to sit still with folded hands and tranquil heart, and let the cold, harsh world go by heedless of its pangs, as it was of hers. her husband was using her cruelly in bringing this unmerited disgrace upon her and her child. she half resolved to flee far away with her boy where he could never find her in the hour when shame and repentance should drive him back to her side. it was but for a moment. then she remembered the brief sentence in his note that commanded her to remain in his home, and then her resolution wavered; for when grace grey had taken that solemn oath before god to "love, honor, and _obey_," she had meant to keep her word. poor child! for hers was a strangely complex nature--a blending of the child and woman that we often meet in fine, proud feminine natures, and never wholly understand. a hundred conflicting emotions surged madly through her as she sat there, motionless and pale, until moment after moment went by, and the overtaxed brain, the overwrought heart gave way, and blessed unconsciousness stole upon her. with her hands folded loosely in her lap over that cruel note, a sharp despair shadowed forth in that lovely face, the stately head fell forward and rested heavily on the pillow beside the child, whose rosy, unconscious slumber was unbroken, as though the hovering wings of angels brooded above him and his forsaken mother. norah found her thus when the cooing voice of the awakened babe reached her ears in the nursery. his pretty black eyes were sparkling with glee, his rosy lips prattled baby nothings, his dimpled, white fingers were twisted in the bright curls of his mother's hair as they swept luxuriantly over the pillow. with all the art of his babyhood he was trying to win a response from his strangely silent mother. she came back to life with a gasping sigh, as norah dashed a shower of ice-water into her face, opened her eyes, said, "don't, norah, don't!" and drifted back to the realms of unconsciousness; and so deep was the swoon that this time all the restoratives of the frightened norah failed for a long time of any effect. "looks like she's dead!" muttered the irishwoman, divided between her care for the child's mother and the child itself, who began to grow fretful from inattention and hunger. better for her if she had been, perhaps. there are but few women who find the world so fair that the grave is not held as a refuge for their tired souls and bodies. but grace came back, with a little gasping sigh, to the life that had never held much attraction for her, and with a trembling arm drew her baby to her breast. "poor little paul!" she quavered, "he is hungry and fretful. go and get his bath ready, norah. i can't think how i came to faint. i feel well enough now, and it is quite unusual to me to lose consciousness so easily." she was herself again. pride sat regnant on her brow, on her curling lip, in her quiet eyes. it held her up when the poor heart felt like breaking. she had learned the lesson long ago--learned it too thoroughly to forget. so the day passed quietly away. she had briefly explained to the curious servants that their master had been called off by an emergency that required his absence from home. she did not know at what time he would return--he did not know himself yet. in the meantime all would go on in the house as usual. and with this miserable subterfuge, for which she despised herself, the young wife tried to shield her husband's name from the sharp arrows of censure. two or three visitors were announced that evening, but she quietly declined seeing company; and so one of the longest days of her life wore to its close, as even the longest, dreariest days will, if we only have patience to wait. she was not patient, nor yet impatient. a dull, reckless endurance upheld her in that and succeeding days of waiting that passed the same. she heard nothing from her husband. in the excited, unnatural state of her mind, smarting under the sense of injustice and wrong, it seemed to her that she did not care to hear. she spent her time altogether with her little son, never seeing company nor going out. when norah took the child out for his daily airing and ride through the fresh air, she whiled away the time till his return by reckless playing on the grand piano or organ, in the elegant drawing-room. she could not settle herself to reading, sewing, or any other feminine employment. she filled up the great blank that had come into her life as best she might with the sublime creations of the old masters. sometimes the very spirit of mirth and gayety soared in music's melting strains from the grand piano; sometimes the soul of sadness and despair wailed along the organ chords, but the fair face kept its changeless, impassive calm through all, while the white fingers flew obedient to her will. sometimes she tried to sing, but the spirit of song was wanting. she could not even sing to her child, could scarcely speak, and started sometimes at the hollow echo of her own sweet voice. and thus a dreary week passed away. but even this semblance of calm and repose was destined to be rudely broken. miss lavinia story effected an entrance one day, being determined not to be kept out any longer by the stereotyped "not at home;" and with her tenderest smile she took both hands of mrs. winans in hers, and looked with deep solicitude into her calmly beautiful face. "dear friend, you must forgive me for this intrusion, but i felt that i must see you, must condole with you in your trying situation. you are very pale, my dear, looking wretched i may say, but you bear up well, remarkably well, i think, considering everything." mrs. winans invited her visitor to a seat with freezing politeness and hauteur. then she went back to her place on the music-stool. "i was playing when you came in," she remarked, coolly. "if you will tell me what music you like, miss lavinia, i will play for you." "not for the world would i lacerate your feelings so much," sighed the old maid, putting her lace handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away a tear that was not there. "what, when all norfolk is sympathizing with you in your distress and mortification, and commiserating you, shall i be heartless enough to beg you to play for me, even though you are bearing up so sweetly and wonderfully. no, my love, don't exert yourself for me. i understand your feelings, and only wish to sympathize with you--not to be a source of annoyance." "i beg your pardon, miss lavinia"--the soft eyes looked gravely at her, the fair face keeping its chilling calm, the musical voice its polite indifference--"i did not know myself so honored by the good people of norfolk, and really, i must say their commiseration is wasted in a bad cause, and i do not know what has given them occasion for its exercise. when i need sympathizers and 'job's comforters,' i will seek them. at present i do not feel their need." "dear me! how high and mighty mrs. conway's companion has got to be," thought miss lavinia, spitefully, but she only said: "my dear, i am glad to see you bear up so well. your strength of mind is quite remarkable. now, had such a thing happened to me i feel sure i should have been extremely ill from shame and terror. but," with a simper, "i am such a timid, nervous girl. with your beauty and notoriety you have no doubt grown accustomed to this kind of thing, and do not mind it. but my sympathy is truly great for your little boy." "miss story!"--her hostess whirled around on the music-stool, an ominous fire blazing under her long dark lashes--"i pass over your contemptible innuendoes to myself as unworthy my notice, but will you kindly inform me what you are talking about--that is if you know yourself, for i assuredly do not." what superb anger there was in her look and tone. it was scarcely like her to be so irritable, but she was not herself this evening. the tamed leopard, when goaded too hard, sometimes turns on its keeper, and the gentlest heart has a spark of fire smoldering in its depths that may be rudely stirred into a destructive flame. miss lavinia recoiled timorously from the fire that blazed in those wondrous dark eyes. "i beg your pardon, mrs. winans," she answered, smoothly. "i did not know you were so angry about it, though, of course, you feel irritated about it, as every right-minded person must feel. i think myself mr. conway has acted unbecomingly. you had a right to change your mind in his absence if you liked, and it _was_ silly in him to make such ado about it all, when the best plan was to let it all blow over." "do you mean to insinuate that i was affianced to mr. conway during his absence, and threw him over for a wealthier rival, miss story?" demanded grace, indignantly. "that is what rumor assigns as the cause of the late 'unpleasantness,' to call it by a mild name," returned the persevering spinster, carefully taking down mental notes of the conversation to report to her gossips. "then rumor is, as usual, mistaken. mr. conway never has been, never can be, more than the merest acquaintance to me," answered mrs. winans, briefly and coldly. "indeed! thank you, my dear friend, for reposing such implicit confidence in me. i am glad to know the truth of the matter, and to be able to tell people that you are not the heartless flirt they try to make you out. mr. conway's folly is indeed reprehensible, and he no doubt deserves all he suffers." all he suffers! the pale listener wondered if he suffered half so much as she did. what was his selfish disappointment to the disgrace, the trouble, the sorrow he had brought on her and her innocent baby. her heart hardened toward him as she listened. "let us drop the subject," she said, proudly. "mr. conway is hardly worth being the protracted subject of our conversation. it were better had he remained on the other side of the ocean." "that's the truth," said miss lavinia, briskly. "the foolish fellow. to come all the way home to be shot down for a woman who never even cared for him, and a married woman at that." "to be shot down did you say, miss story? i confess i do not understand you. will you explain yourself? you have been talking in enigmas all this time." mrs. winans rose from her seat, and taking a step forward, looked at the incorrigible old gossip, her red lips half apart, her dusk-blue orbs alight, her whole appearance indicative of eager, repressed excitement. "why, you seem surprised," said the spinster, maliciously. "why mrs. winans, didn't you know of the almost fatal termination of the duel? ah, that accounts for your calmness and composure. i thought you were not utterly heartless. i see it all. they have kept the papers from you." "the duel! what duel?" "why, the duel between your husband and bruce conway, to be sure," answered miss lavinia, in surprise at grace's apparent stupidity. "miss story, do you mean to tell me that there has been a duel between these two--my husband and mr. conway?" "why, certainly there has. haven't i been talking about it ever since i came in here? and is it possible that you knew nothing at all of the affair?" "i did not." very low and sad fell the words from her white lips, and she leaned one arm on the grand piano to steady her graceful figure. "miss story, my husband--he was unhurt, i trust?" "he was not injured at all, and i hear has left the city, but that unfortunate mr. conway fell at the first fire, and is very seriously wounded, they say. indeed, i believe the surgeon has small hopes of his recovery. it's very sad, very shocking. it ought to be a warning to all young men not to go falling in love with other men's wives." chapter vi. lulu. "there is many a maiden more lovely by far, with the step of a fawn and the glance of a star; but heart there was never more tender and true than beats in the bosom of darling lulu." --osgood. go with me, my reader, not many squares distant from that stately winans' mansion, to an humbler home--a small brick edifice standing near to the street, and bearing over a side-door a small sign, with the name of willard clendenon, attorney-at-law, inscribed thereon in very handsome gilt letters. but we have no business to transact with the gallant captain, so we will not even look into his dusty office, but pass on up the stairs, and without even knocking, enter the guest-chamber of the house. it is a large, airy, prettily appointed chamber, but the shutters are closely akimboed, the lace curtains are drooped over the windows, and the quiet air of a sick-room pervades the apartment. on the low, white bed that occupies the center of the apartment is the recumbent figure of a man, in whose handsome features, even though his eyes are closed in a death-like sleep, we recognize bruce conway. he looks like marble as he lies there, his black hair flowing back from his broad, white brow, his closed eyes encircled with purplish rings, the dark mustache slightly shading his mouth, only revealing more plainly the deathly pallor and suffering of the lips. standing by the side of the bed, captain clendenon looks down at him with infinite pity and tenderness in his dark-gray orbs. and standing by the captain's side is a little figure that looks fairy-like by contrast with his manly proportions. she clings to his arm as he stands there, and her brown head leans lightly against him, her fair girlish face wearing a look of sadness and pain as she gazes at the sufferer's sleeping face. "oh, brother willie," she whispers, "i am so sorry for him! oh, it is so dreadful!" and then her red lips quiver like a grieved child's, and two pearly tears start on her cheeks, and, rolling down, are lost in the ruffles on the breast of her blue morning-dress. captain clendenon did not answer. he looked down at the quiet, handsome face that the surgeon thought might never wake from that death-like sleep, or if it did, it might only be to take on the deeper sleep of eternity. he had lain like that all day--it was noon now. the duel had taken place a few days before, at a little distance out of norfolk. the captain had done everything in his power to prevent the terrible affair, but in vain; had refused the application of bruce that he should become his second, in the hope that he might be enabled to compromise the affair by prevailing on bruce to offer winans an apology for his untimely serenade. bruce had changed his mind about going away, and chose to feel offended at the view taken by the captain of the whole affair; so he left him out of his councils, and the duel came off without the captain's knowledge or consent. a mere accident had brought the matter to his knowledge at almost the hour appointed for it, and hurrying off to the scene of action, he had arrived only in time to see him fall at the first fire. the appointed place was seven miles from mrs. conway's residence, and after the surgeon had dressed the wound and declared its serious nature, the captain took the right of an old friend to convey him to his own home in norfolk, which was nearer, more especially as the surgeon thought the last lingering hope of recovery would be destroyed by jolting him over seven miles to his home at ocean view. that was how he came to be lying there in that pleasant chamber, with captain clendenon's pretty sister crying her brown eyes out over him. "poor boy! poor bruce!" he murmured. "how the bitter consequences of his wrong-doing has followed him! and now, in all probability, he must die; yet, after all," thought this loyal heart, "it cannot be so very hard to die for her." the noiseless entrance of his pleasant-faced mother made him look up. taking a seat by the bed, she quietly dismissed them from the room. "i will watch by him myself," she said, kindly, "and the fewer in the room the better, you know. both of you go and rest yourselves." they both withdrew with lingering steps, and eyes that seemed loth to quit that pale sleeper, but quietly obedient to their mother's wishes, and content in knowing that she would do for him all that lay in human power. but down in the quiet little parlor the brother and sister sat down to talk it all over. "oh, brother! what did mrs. conway say when you told her?" "went off into strong hysterics. the maid had to put her to bed. i sent the doctor out there as i rode in town." "how dreadful! all she had to love, poor, proud old lady; how i pity her!" and the little maiden's tears flowed afresh from her sympathizing soul. "she may thank herself for the most of it," he answered, half bitterly. "why did she tempt his weak mind with her wealth and pride? she knew better than any one else how wavering a will was his. why did she continually thwart all his best impulses?" "but, brother, he ought to have had more manliness. but it is too late to blame him now. i wonder if mrs. winans knows--how she feels about it? do you know, brother willie, i would give much to see this wonderful woman whose beauty has only been for bane. you have seen her. is she so very beautiful? what is she like?" "like nothing you ever saw, little lulu--like some fair saint, or angel." the passion in his heart broke through his words. a faint red flushed his brown cheek, and his eyes drooped as his sister looked up with soft, astonished gaze. "why, brother, did you love her, too? "that is the first time you have accused me of loving any one but yourself, little sister," he answered, lightly, parrying the question. "well, tell me this, brother. did you ever go to see her at all? did you like her--did she like you?" "i went there sometimes--not often," his glance falling with unconscious pathos on the empty sleeve that lay between him and any aspiration toward woman's love. "i liked her very much indeed. she was very sweet and attractive, very obliging always. she liked me a little; i suppose, as a mere friend. i never presumed to ask for a deeper regard. i knew she loved bruce. i felt, lulu, it seemed to me then, in her dark days, every pang that struck home to that trusting and deceived young heart. i felt sorry for her, and admired her for the brave yet womanly strength that carried her through that bitter ordeal. i rejoiced with her when she married a better man than bruce and seemed to have forgotten the past." the tender brown eyes looked gravely at him as he spoke, reading his heart with a woman's quick intuition. she put both arms about his neck and touched her lips to the noble brow over which the brown curls fell so carelessly. the mute caress told him that she understood and sympathized in his unspoken grief. the man's heart in him could not bear it. he rose, putting her kindly and gently aside. "lulu, she has a noble husband; a handsome, generous fellow, a 'man among men,' but he is marred almost as much by his unreasoning jealousy as is bruce by his unstable character. i pity her. she is worthy of confidence and all respect. it is an honor to any man to have loved her even though hopelessly." "and senator winans has left her, they say, brother willie?" "so rumor says," he answered, meditatively. "why don't you see him, brother, and talk with him, and try to make him look at things fairly? it seems a pity she should suffer so, through no fault of hers, too. my heart aches for her in her loneliness." he did not answer. he was walking slowly up and down the floor, pausing now and then to look out of the window which overlooked the elizabeth river and the wharves crowded with the shipping of all nationalities. his sister rose and paced the floor, also, her young heart full of sympathy for the four people whose life-paths crossed each other so strangely and sadly. she shuddered and hoped she would never love. of the three men who each loved grace winans in his own fashion, she wondered which was the most unhappy; the husband who had stained his hands in human blood for his selfish passion; bruce conway who was dying for her, or her brother whose heart was silently breaking for her. the little maiden who was all unversed in the lore of life found herself bewildered in the maze of metaphysics into which she was drifting. she sat herself down with a sigh, and thought of the handsome face lying so deathly white up stairs, and half wishing her mother had not banished her from the room. "lulu!" "yes, brother willie." he was looking at her as she looked up at him with a flitting blush on her round, dimpled face. she was wonderfully pretty, this lulu clendenon, with her arch brown eyes, and pink and white skin, the wavy brown hair that was gathered in a soft, loosely braided coil at the back of her small head, and her blue lawn dress, with its frillings, and flutings, and puffings, was very becoming, setting off the whiteness of her throat and wrists as no other color ever does for a pretty woman. "well," she said, as he did not answer her first reply. "my little sister, i won't have you tangling your brain up with useless speculations over things that must happen as long as the world stands and men and women live, and breathe, and have their being. don't let me see that pretty brow all puckered up again. what would mother and i do if our household fairy became dull, and dreamy, and philosophical." "brother willie, am i always to be a child?" "always, my sweet? why how old are you--sixteen?" "i am nineteen, brother, and this mrs. winans of whom all norfolk is raving, who is a wife and mother--she, it is said, is barely more than twenty." "yes, love; but the loss of parents and friends forced grace grey into premature womanhood and premature responsibilities; she took up the cross early, but you, dear little one----" a low tinkle of the door-bell cut short whatever else he meant to say, and he answered the summons himself. it was a messenger from mrs. conway to inquire concerning her nephew. he sent back a message that he still lay sleeping quietly. for the rest of the day the house was besieged with callers and inquirers from all parts of the city, and captain clendenon found himself kept busy in replying. in the midst of it all, in his deep grief and anxiety for his friend's life, in his pity and sympathy for the exiled duelist, a fair face brooded over all his thoughts, a pang for a woman's suffering struck coldly to his heart. to know that she was mourning alone, bowed to earth in her unmerited sorrow and shame, was the height and depth of bitterness to the man who loved her tenderly and purely as he did his own little sister. and the spring day wore to its close, and the silence of the balmy spring night, with its wandering breeze of violets, its mysterious stare, fell over all things. the string of inquirers from among the friends of the wounded man thinned out, the surgeon came and went, and still bruce conway lay locked in that strange pallid sleep on whose waking so many hearts hung with anxiety and dread. at ten o'clock the captain admitted john, who had come to seek fresh tidings for his mistress. his honest black face looked up in vague, awe-struck grief at the captain's mournful features. "oh, marse cap'en!" he pleaded, "lemme see him, if you please, sir, once more before he dies!" "be very quiet, then," said the captain, "and it will do no harm for you to go in." the black boy went in with footfalls noiseless as the captain's own. lulu and her mother were there, one on each side of the bed, watching the sleeper with anxious eyes. they looked up at the strange face of the boy as he paused and gazed at the still, white face on the pillow. his dark skin seemed to grow ashen white as he looked, his thick, ugly lip quivered convulsively, and two tears darted from his black eyes and rolled down upon his breast. he gazed long and mournfully, seeming to take in every lineament of that beloved face; then, as he turned reluctantly away, stooped carefully down, and touched his rough lips tenderly and lightly on the cold, white hand that lay outside of the coverlid. "twas a hand that never struck me, and was always kind to me," he murmured, mournfully, as he went out, followed by the injunction from mrs. clendenon to report that mr. conway was still in the same condition--sleeping quietly. lulu looked down at the hand lying so still and lifeless on the counterpane. a tear-drop that had fallen from the eyes of the poor black boy lay on it, shining purely as a pearl in the subdued light. lulu would not wipe it away. it was a precious drop distilled from the fountain of unselfish love and sorrow; it seemed to plead mutely to the girl for the man who lay there so still and pale, unable to speak for himself. "there must have been much good in the poor young man," she thought, impulsively, "or his servants would not have loved him like that." by and by she stole down to her brother, who was still pacing, with muffled footfalls, the parlor floor. he turned to her, inquiringly. "well?" he queried. "no change yet--not the slightest." "probably there will not be until midnight. i trust it will be favorable, though we have no grounds to expect it. the surgeon fears internal hemorrhage from that great bullet-wound in the side--it narrowly escaped the heart. he will be here again to-night before the crisis comes." once more comes a low, muffled door-bell. lulu drops into an arm-chair, shivering, though the night is warm. willard goes to the door. presently he comes back, ushering in a stranger. she rises up, thinking as a matter of course that this is the surgeon. "my sister, lulu, senator winans," said her brother's quiet tones. lulu nearly dropped to the floor in astonishment and terror. she was very nervous to-night--so nervous that she actually trembled when he lightly touched her hand, and she almost pushed his away, thinking, angrily, that that firm white hand had done bruce conway to death. he was not so terrible to look at, though, she thought, as with woman's proverbial curiosity she furtively scanned the tall, fine figure. he was very young to fill such a post of honor in his country--he certainly did not look thirty--and the fine white brow, crowned by curling, jet-black hair, might have worn a princely crown and honored it in the wearing. beautiful, dusk-black eyes, gloomy now as a starless midnight, looked at her from under slender, arched, black brows. the nose was perfectly chiseled, of grecian shape and profile; the mouth was flexible and expressive--one that might be sweet or stern at will; the slight, curling mustache did not hide it, though his firm chin was concealed by the dark beard that rippled luxuriantly over his breast. it was a face that breathed power; whose beauty was thoroughly masculine; that was mobile always; that might be proud, or passionate, or jealous--never ignoble. altogether he was a splendidly handsome man. lulu could not help acknowledging this to herself--the very handsomest man she had ever seen in her life. but for all that, after she had politely offered him a chair, she retreated as far as possible from his vicinity. why had he come there in his proud, strong manhood and beauty, and bruce conway lying up stairs like _that_? he did not take the offered seat, but merely placing one hand on the back of it, looked from her to her brother. "i feel that this is an unwelcome intrusion, captain clendenon," he said, slowly, and in soft, sad tones, that thrilled the girl's heart, in spite of the anger she felt for him, "but i cannot help it, though you may not believe me when i tell you that it was so impossible for me endure the suspense and horror of to-night that i have come here to beg you for news of the man whom i have almost murdered." black eyes and gray ones met each other without wavering. soul met soul, and read each other by the fine touchstone of a fellow-feeling. even in his anger for his friend, willard clendenon could not withhold a merited kindly answer. "i do believe you," he answered, quietly, "and am glad you came, though i can tell you nothing satisfactory. the patient has slept all day--still sleeps---he will awaken to life or death. we are only waiting." "waiting!" that word chilled the fiery, impulsive soul of paul winans into a dumb horror. waiting!--for what! to see his work completed. what had he done? taken in cold blood a human life that at this moment, in his swift remorse and self-accusation, he would have freely given his own to save; in the height of his jealous madness committed a deed from which his calmer retrospection revolted in horror. he looked from one to the other in pale, impotent despair. he had gone his length--the length of human power and passion--now god's hand held the balance. "then, at least, you will let me wait," he said. "if he dies, i shall surrender myself up to justice. if he lives, i shall all the sooner know that i am not a murderer." "you shall stay, certainly, and welcome," willard said, cordially, touched by the evident suffering of the other. "very well; i will sit here and wait, with thanks. i do not deserve this kindness." lulu stole from the room, leaving them alone together, and resumed her place up stairs. the patient slept calmly on, her mother placidly watching him. once or twice her brother looked quietly in, and as quietly withdrew. there was something on his mind that must be spoken. he turned once and looked at his companion as he sat upright in his chair, still and pale almost as his victim lay up stairs. "winans," he said, slowly, "we have known each other for a long time, and i knew your wife long before you ever met her, and knew her but to reverence her as a pearl among women. will you pardon me if i confess to an interest in her that lends me to inquire frankly if you think you are doing her justice?" "clendenon, i know that i am not. i know that i am unworthy of her--pure, injured angel that she is--but what can i do? i dare not remain near her. i should but make her miserable. it maddens me, in my jealous bitterness, when i remember that young, fair, and sweet as she was when i first met her, the pure page of her heart had already been inscribed with the burning legend of a first love. her first love lost to me, her second only given to me, i cannot bear! when i can overcome this fiery passion, and if bruce conway lives, i will return to her--not till then." "you are wrong, my friend--bitterly wrong. think of what she suffers, of the scandal, the conjecture that your course will create. you should be her defender, not leave her defenseless to meet the barbed arrows of caviling society. return to your injured wife, winans. take the candid advice of one who esteems you both. it is so hard on her. she suffers deeply, i feel." "clendenon, hush! you madden me, and cannot shake my firm resolve--would that i had never met her." "possibly she might have been happier," clendenon says, with sudden scathing sarcasm, "but i will say no more. it is not my province to come between man and wife. may god have more mercy on her than you have!" the words pierced that proud heart deeply. the erring, passionate man arose and looked at the other in his calm, truthful scorn, and burning words leaped to his lips. "clendenon, you don't know what you are talking of. you blame me for what i cannot overcome. do you know where i was born? under the burning skies of louisiana. the hot blood of the fiery south leaps through my veins, the burning love of the southern clime pours its flood-tide through my heart, the passionate jealousy of the far south fires my soul. i cannot help my nature. i cannot entirely control nor transform it into a colder, calmer one. blame me if you will, think me unmanly if you will, but i have told you the truth. it shall be the study of my life to bring this madness into subjection. till then i will not hold my wife in my arms, will not kiss her dear lips. it is for the best. i will not frighten her from me forever by showing her how like a madman i can be under the influence of my master-passion." slowly, slowly the hours wore on until midnight. mrs. clendenon fell into a light doze in the sick-room, but lulu was still watching that still form. the shaded lamps burned dimly, the room was full of shadows, the strange silence and awe that fill a room at an hour like this brooded solemnly over all things. poor lulu looked at her mother. the sweet old face, framed in its soft lace cap, was locked in such gentle repose the girl had not the heart to awaken her. it grew so lonely she wished her brother would return to the room. presently she bent forward and looked into conway's face, and laid her hand tenderly on his brow; it felt warmer and more natural; he stirred slightly. before she could move her hand his white lids unclosed, the dark eyes looked at her with the calm light of reason in their depths. "gracie, is it you?" he whispered, faintly. "not gracie--lulu," she answered. "not gracie--lulu?" he slowly murmured after her, and wearily closed his eyes. "i think he will live," said a voice above her. she looked up. her brother and the surgeon had come in so quietly she had not heard them. she rose from her wearisome vigil and glided softly down stairs, moved by a divine impulse of pity for the pale watcher below. "i think it is life," she said, simply. he sprang up and looked at her, two stars dawning in the dusk eyes, a glory shining on his darkly handsome face. "thank god!" he cried, "i am not a murderer!" and strangely as he had come he was gone. chapter vii. "i hate it--i hate her!" "when first i saw my favorite child, i thought my jealous heart would break, but when the unconscious infant smiled, i kissed it for its mother's sake." --byron. with the rosy dawn of the summer day consciousness returned to bruce conway--a dazed, half-consciousness, though, that only took in part of the scene, and a memory that only held grace winans. he muttered of her in his distracted slumbers; he waked and asked for her with a piteous anxiety that went to lulu's tender heart. "had we better send for her?" she wistfully queried of her brother. "no, indeed, little sister; it would only complicate matters. she would not come; he does not deserve it. poor boy! i am sorry, but we can do nothing." "nothing, brother?" "to bring her here, i mean. try to reason with him, lulu, and talk him out of this feverish fancy." "grace--gracie!" came in a whisper from the bed. lulu was by him in an instant. "will not i do as well as grace?" "no." his pallid brow contracted in a vexed frown. "go away; you are not grace." "no, but i am willard's sister. cannot you like me a little for his sake, and not worry yourself so much?" she asked, gently and persuasively. "cannot you get grace to come--won't you try?" he whispered, in a faint voice. a low tinkle of the door-bell seemed to echo his words. half raising his handsome head, he looked at her eagerly. "that may be grace now," he said. "won't you go and see?" "yes," she answered, gently, though she sighed as she went; "i will go and see." she started in astonishment when she opened the door. outside was a pleasant-faced irishwoman, dressed plainly and neatly, with a pretty babe in her arms. it was mrs. winans' nurse and child. grace had learned from miss story where bruce was, and when norah went out to take the little boy for his morning airing, she had directed her to call and inquire of captain clendenon how mr. conway was getting on. norah introduced herself and her business briefly and clearly, and lulu invited her in and gave her a seat. "and this is mrs. winans' baby?" she said, taking the beautiful boy from the nurse's arms and kissing his rosy face. "how lovely he is!" little paul smiled fearlessly back at her, and something in the dark flash of his eyes so vividly recalled his father that she thought suddenly of bruce conway waiting up stairs for her. "i will bring my brother down to tell you exactly how mr. conway is," she said; and turning away with the little bundle of lace, and cambric, and laughing babyhood in her arms, she went back to bruce conway's room. her brother looked surprised at the strange little visitor. she smiled and went up to the bedside, holding triumphantly up the tiny baby that, quite unabashed by the strange scene, jumped, and crowed, and smiled brilliantly at bruce. "mrs. winans did not come, but she sent her representative, mr. conway," she said, thinking it would please him to see the pretty child. "this is her son." "her son!" bruce conway's eyes dwelt a moment on that picture of rosy health and beauty, and a shudder shook him from head to foot. "her child! his child! take it away from me, miss clendenon. i hate it! i hate her!" lulu recoiled in terror at the sharp, angry tones and the jealous pain and madness that gleamed in his eyes. she turned away surprised and frightened at the mischief she had done, and was about to leave the room. "lulu, let me see the baby," said her brother's voice, as she reached the door. his tones wore strangely moved, and as he came across to her she noted the faint flush that colored his high forehead. he took it in his arms and looked long and earnestly at the little face, finding amid its darker beauty many infantile beauties borrowed from the fair lineaments of its mother. "god bless you, little baby," he said, touching reverent lips to the innocent brow, with a prayer in his heart for her whose brow was so mirrored in that of her child that he flushed, then paled, as he kissed it, thinking of hers that his lips might never press. he loved the child for its mother's sake. bruce hated it for its father's sake. it was a fair exponent of the character of the two men. he gave it quietly back to lulu, but she, explaining her errand sent him to tell norah, with the child in his arms, while she went back to soothe the irritated invalid. "i am sorry," she began, penitently, "i would not have brought the babe, but i thought, i fancied, that you would like it for its mother's sake. forgive me." the moody anger in his eyes cleared at sound of her magical, silver-sweet tones. "forgive _me_," he said, feebly. "i was a brute to speak to a lady so--but i was not myself. you don't understand a man's feelings in such a case, miss clendenon. thank you for that forgiving smile." he caught up the little hand gently straightening his tumbled pillows, and with feeble, pallid gallantry, touched it to his lips. a shiver of bitter-sweet emotion thrilled the young girl as she hastily drew it away. "you must not talk any more," she said, gently, "or brother will scold, and the surgeon, too. brother will be back in a minute, so be quiet. don't let anything occupy your mind, and try, do, to go to sleep and rest." she put her finger to her lip and nodded archly at him. he smiled back, and half-closing his eyes, lay looking at her as she took a chair at the other end of the room, and busied herself with a bit of fancy work. "how pretty she is," he thought, vaguely, and when he fell into a fitful slumber, her fair face blent with grace's in his dreams, and bewildered him with its bright, enchanting beauty. chapter viii. "but as for her, she staid at home." to aid thy mind's development, to watch the dawn of little joys, to sit and see almost thy very growth, to view thee catch knowledge of objects, wonders yet to see! to hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, and print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss. --byron's childe harold. to bruce conway the months of slow and tardy convalescence seemed like dead weights on his impatient, restless soul; to grace winans, in her splendid but strangely silent home, where but few guests were received, and which she rarely left, time passed as it did to mariana in the moated grange. but for all that, the summer passed like a painful dream, and the "melancholy days" had come; "time does not stop for tears." mrs. conway had prevailed on bruce to compromise his intention of going abroad again by spending the winter with her amid the gayeties of washington--the "paris of america." how far a pretty face had influenced him in making this decision it is impossible to say; but mrs. conway, in her gratitude to the clendenons for their kindness to her idol, had fairly worried them into consenting to let lulu pass the winter with her in the gay capital city. for lulu it may be said that no persuasion was needed to obtain her consent, and how far her fancy for a handsome face had influenced _her_, we will not undertake to say either. however this may be, the washington newspapers duly chronicled for the benefit of fashionable society the interesting intelligence that the elegant mr. bruce conway, the hero of the much talked of norfolk duel, and his still brilliant aunt, mrs. conway--both so well known in washington circles--had taken a handsome suite of rooms at willard's hotel for the winter. and the newspapers--which will flatter any woman in society, be she fair or homely--added the information that mrs. conway had one of the belles of norfolk for her guest--the lovely miss c.--concluding with the stereotyped compliment that her marvelous beauty and varied accomplishments would create a stir in fashionable society; and thus was lulu clendenon launched on the sea of social dissipation. a deep flush of shame and annoyance tinged the girl's dimpled cheeks, as leaning back in a great sleepy hollow of a chair in their private parlor, skimming lightly over the "society news," she came upon this paragraph about a week after their arrival. bruce conway, lounging idly in an opposite chair, marked that sudden rose-flush under his half-closed lids, and wondered thereat. on her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. "as i have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night," he spouted, in his old non-commital fashion of quoting tennyson to pretty girls. she glanced across at him, her color brightening, "all the spirit deeply dawning in the dusk of hazel eyes," but she uttered no word. "well, brownie, what is it?" he queried, giving her the name he often called her for her nut-brown hair and eyes. "this." she folded down the paragraph and tossed it across to him, with a willful pout of her red lips, and watched with solicitude for the sympathetic indignation she expected to read in his eyes. he finished it, and laughed. "umph! some people wake up and find themselves famous. well, what is the matter with that? is not the notice sufficiently flattering?" "it is not that!" she sprang up and began walking excitedly up and down the floor. "i do not like it--i--it is a shame to drag a young girl's name before the public that way. it puts a modest girl to the blush. a 'stir in society,' indeed!" her lip curling, a comical anger in her brown eyes. "i have a great mind to go home to mamma and brother willie." bruce conway opened his sleepy eyes in polite amazement at this home-bred girl, whose pure modesty recoiled from what was so grateful to the ears of most modern belles. "well, but you are a novelty," he laughed. "in these days of women's rights, and shoddyism, and toadyism, and all the rest of the isms! why, the majority of the belles of society would give their ears for a notice like that! that is why they court the journalists--assiduously inviting them to receptions, soirees, and the like. they always expect a flaming compliment. and new arrivals are always honored by a flattering notice. the thing is quite _a la mode_." "well, i do not like it. i think it is an abominable fashion," persisted the little maiden. "i agree with you," said bruce, seriously. "it is 'brushing the delicate bloom from the grape.' but don't air such opinions in public, lulu, or barnum will be wanting you for one of his curiosities." his glance turned from her and roved down the society column--then he rose, his face a trifle paler, and crossing to the window, read a paragraph almost directly beneath the one which had incited the indignant protest of the little norfolk beauty. "and by the way, society will miss its most brilliant jewel from its setting, in the absence of the youthful and lovely hon. mrs. winans, of norfolk. rumor reports that the fair lady is so devoted to her infant son that, with the concurrence of the indulgent senator, she gladly foregoes the dissipations of fashionable life to watch the budding and unfolding of his infantile charms." and it, this grandiloquent style society, which knew perfectly well all about the difference between senator winans and his lovely wife, was informed that he did not intend to bring her to washington during the ensuing session of congress. conway ground his firm white teeth. "so he dares show the world how he neglects her," crushing the paper viciously in his hand as though it were paul winans himself. "poor gracie--poor wronged and injured girl!" sighing deeply. "neither winans nor i was worthy of her." lulu, who had resumed her seat, looked up wondering at the clouded brow and unintelligibly muttered words. he smiled, subduing his emotion by a strong effort of will. "you have not told me yet what are your plans for to-day--ah! here comes my lady aunt. dear madam, will you kindly designate what are your plans for to-day, and command your humble servant?" mrs. conway smiled her brightest smile on her idol. "let me see," glancing at her watch: "only ten o'clock. you can be off for your morning cigar and stroll on the avenue--when you come back we will have decided." he rose, handsome, smiling, _debonaire_, but desperately ennuied, and glad, if truth must be told, to get away. small talk was a bore to him just then, in his perturbed mood. he picked up lulu's embroidered handkerchief that she had carelessly let fall to the floor, and presenting it with a jaunty "by-by," went his way followed by their admiring eyes. he was his aunt's acknowledged idol; lulu's unconscious one. mrs. conway plunged at once into the subject of amusements for the day. "let us see--there is mrs. r's reception at two--we musn't fail them. you will see the _creme de la creme_ there, my dear. when we get away we will have a drive over to the little city of alexandria; at six, dinner; at eight, the opera; at twelve, you and bruce shall have an hour for the german at mrs. morton's ball, and then--well, home again." "quite an attractive programme," smiled her companion, from the depths of the "sleepy hollow." mrs. conway smiled musingly, as she fixed her dark eyes on the pattern of autumn-tinted leaves that trailed over the velvet carpet. "yes," she said, with the indifference of one who is used to it all, "it is last season over again; it is all very charming to one unaccustomed to the round. poor gracie was here last winter--these, by the by, were her rooms then, the handsomest suite in the hotel--we went everywhere together. she enjoyed it all so much." a look of interest warmed the listless gaze of lulu. the pet curiosity of her soul was grace winans, heightened, perhaps, by an indefinable jealousy that went far back into the past, when grace grey's violet-pansy eyes had been the stars of bruce conway's adoration. she said, regretfully: "is it not a wonder that i have never seen mrs. winans? and there is no one i would like so much to see. is she so very beautiful?" "'perfectly beautiful, faultily faultless,'" was mrs. conway's warmly accorded praise, "and as lovely in mind as in person. she inherits both qualities, i believe, from her mother, who was, i have heard, the most amiable and beautiful woman in memphis to the day of her death." "ah! is mrs. winans not a virginian, then?" "no, only by adoption. her father was a slave-holder before the war--one of the out and out aristocrats of memphis. he was a colonel in the confederate army, and killed at the head of his regiment during the first of the war. he was a very noble young fellow, i believe, and devoted to his wife and little daughter. the wife died broken-hearted at his loss, and left this little grace to the care of relatives, who placed her in a boarding-school, where she remained until the close of the war freed the slaves her father left her, and she was penniless. i advertised about this time for a companion; she answered, and i engaged her. she has been in virginia ever since. she was just sixteen when she came to me--a charming child--she is about twenty-one now." a tender throb of sympathy stirred lulu's heart as she listened. brought up in the warm fold of a mother's love, caressed, petted, beloved, all her life, she could vaguely conjecture how sad and loveless had been the brief years of grace grey's life. "i regret that bruce's unfortunate affair has, in some sort, put an end to our intimacy," mrs. conway went on, pensively. "i was fond of grace, and had grown so used to her in her long stay with me, that she seemed almost like one of my own family. i would have been proud of her as my daughter. she might have been something almost as dear but for--well, let us call it an error of judgment on my part and my nephew's." she paused a moment, sighed deeply, and concluded with, "i would like you to know her, lulu. your brother admired her very much, i think." "i think he did," lulu answered, simply. "next week congress convenes," said the older lady, brightening; "then i shall take you quite frequently to the capitol to hear the speeches of the eminent men. winans will be there, i presume. i hear he has been traveling all summer, but he must, of course, be here in time for the session. he is quite a brilliant speaker, and was excessively admired last session." "has all the far-famed louisiana eloquence and fire, i presume?" says lulu, curiously. "yes, although he has been many years away from there, but he has the hot temper and unreasoning jealousy of the extreme south, as one may see from his cruel treatment of his wife and child." "i have just seen him," said bruce's voice at the door. "seen whom?" "winans, to be sure, the man you're talking of," sauntering in and flinging his handsome person recliningly on the divan and looking extremely bored and fatigued in spite of the shy smile that dawned on lulu's lip at his entrance. "where did you see him?" mrs. conway queried, in some surprise and anxiety. "oh, tearing down the avenue on a magnificent black horse as if he were going to destruction as fast as the steed would carry him--that is just his reckless way though." "you recognized each other?" his aunt made haste dubiously to inquire. "oh, certainly," says bruce, with a light smile. "i threw away my cigar to make him a polite bow; he returned it with a freezing salutation, but there was something in his face that would have stirred a tender heart like brownie's here into pity for him, though stronger ones like mine, for instance, acknowledge no such sentimental feelings." "how did he look?" queried brownie, unmoved by his half-jesting allusion to her. "like a proud man who was trampling on the heart he had torn from his bosom to save his pride; pale, cynical, melancholy, defiant--pshaw! that sounds like a novel, doesn't it, lulu?" "poor paul winans!" she answered only; but the compassion in her voice for him was not so great as the pained sympathy that looked out of her speaking glance for bruce conway. for lulu saw with preternaturally clear vision, the struggle that was waging in the young man's soul; saw how truth, and honor and every principle of right were battling for one end--the overthrow of the love that having struck down its intertwining roots in his soul for years, was hard to be torn up. she pitied him--and, ah! pity is so near akin to love. something of her pity he read in her expressive face, and straightway set himself to work to dispel her gloom. bruce never could bear to see the face of a beauty overshadowed. "brownie, have you tried that new song i sent you yesterday?" lulu confessed she had not. "try it now, then," he answered, rising, and throwing open the piano. she rose, smiling and happy once more, and took the seat at the piano. he leaned by her side to turn the pages, and presently their voices rose softly together in a sweet and plaintive love-song. but his heart was full of another, and, as he turned the pages for lulu with patient gallantry, he remembered how he had turned them for another, how his voice had risen thrillingly with hers in sweeter songs than this, mingling with her bird-like notes as it never should "mingle again." chapter ix. "when a woman will, she will." "although the airs of paradise did fan the house, and angels offic'd all, i will be gone!" --shakespeare. "and underneath that face, like summer's oceans, its lip as noiseless, and its cheek as clear, slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, love--hatred--pride--hope--sorrow--all, save fear." --fitz-green halleck. it was january, and the keen, cold sea-air swept over norfolk, freezing the snow as it fell, and chilling the very marrow of the few pedestrians whom necessity compelled to be abroad that inclement morning. the fast-falling flakes obscured everything from view, but mrs. winans stood at a window of her elegant home gazing wistfully out at the scene, though the richly appointed room, the fragrance of rare exotic flowers that swung in baskets from the ceiling, the twitter of two restless mockingbirds, all invited her gaze to linger within. but the delicious warmth, the exquisite fragrance, the sweet bird-songs, held no charm for the fair and forlorn young wife to-day. now and then she moved restlessly, disarranging the fleecy shawl of soft rose-color that was thrown about her shoulders, and turning at last, she began to walk swiftly across the floor, wringing her little white hands in a sort of impotent pain. "i can't bear this, and i won't!" stopping suddenly, and stamping a tiny slippered foot on the velvet carpet that scarcely gave back the sound. "i am to stay here because _he_ says so; because he chooses to desert me. he wearies, perhaps, of his fetters. why cannot i go to washington, if i choose, for a few days anyhow? i could go up to the capitol vailed, and see _his_ face, hear his voice once more. ah, heaven! that i should have to steal near enough to _see him_! my darling--beloved, though so cruel to me--how can i bear this and live? i must, must go--must look in for the last time in life, on your dear, too cruelly dear face!" the violet eyes brightened strangely as the words fell from her lips whose firm curves showed a fixed resolution. "yes," she whispered to herself, firmly, "i _will_ go!" what was it that seemed to clutch at her heart like an icy hand, freezing in her veins the warm blood that but a moment before had bounded with passionate joy at thought of seeing her husband again? what meant that chill presentiment of evil that seemed to whisper to her soul, "you are wrong--do not go!" "i _will_ go!" she said again, as if in defiance of that inward monitor, and folding her arms across her breast, she resumed her slow walk across the floor. the pretty shawl fell from her shoulders, and lay, like a great brilliant rose, unheeded on the floor; the long, sweeping train of her blue cashmere morning-dress flowed over it as she walked, the white ermine on her breast and at her throat trembling with the agitated throbs of her heart. her pure, pale cheek, her eyes darkening under their black lashes, the white, innocent brow, the mobile lips, all showed the trace of suffering bravely borne; but now the patient spirit, tried too deeply, rose within her in desperate rebellion. for this one time she would take her own way, right or wrong. go to washington she would, see her husband, herself unseen, once more, she would; then she would go back to her dull, wearisome life--her rebellion extended no farther than that. but she wanted, oh, so much, to see how he looked; to see if suffering had written its dreary line on his face as on hers; to see him because--well--because her whole warm, womanly heart hungered, thirsted for a sight of the dusk-proud beauty of her husband's face. the honest irish face of norah, entering with little paul, clouded as she took in the scene. she had grown wise enough to read the signs of emotion in the face of the young lady, and now she saw the stamp of pain too plainly written there to be misunderstood. "pretty mamma!" lisped the toddling baby, stumbling over the pink shawl in his eagerness to grasp the skirt of the blue dress in his baby fingers. she stooped and lifted her idol in her arms, pressing him closely and warmly to her aching heart. "what should i do without my baby, my darling? why, i should die," she cried, impulsively, as she sunk among a pile of oriental cushions and began to play with the little fellow, her soft laugh blending with his as he caught at her long sunny curls, his favorite playthings, and wound them like golden strands about his fingers. the shadow of her clouded life never fell upon her child. in her darkest hours she was always ready to respond to his mirth, to furnish new diversion for his infant mind, though sometimes her heart quailed with a great pang of bitterness as the laughing dark eyes, so like his father's, looked brightly up into her face. but sad as her life was, it would have been unendurable without her baby. he was so bright, so intelligent, so full of rosy, sturdy health and beauty. the slowly increasing baby-teeth, the halting baby-walk, the incoherent attempts at speech, were all sources of daily interest to grace, who was ardently fond of babies in general, and her own in particular. and this baby did for grace winans what many another baby has done for many another wretched wife--saved her heart from breaking. "norah," she said, looking suddenly up with a flitting blush, "what do you say to a trip to washington next week, after this snow-storm is quite cleared away--do you think it would be safe for little paul?" "hurt him! i think not. he is so strong and healthy; but has the senator written for you to come on?" asked norah, eagerly. "no"--her brow clouded, and that warm flush hung out its signal-flag on her cheek again--"he has not. i do not mean for him to know anything about it. i shall stay but a day or two, only taking you and baby; then we shall return as quietly as we went, and no one be the wiser; and now, norah, baby is falling asleep, take him to his nursery, and bring me the washington papers, if they have come in yet." "they came hours ago; it is eleven o'clock, mrs. winans, and you have taken no breakfast yet. won't you have it sent up here to you?" said the kind-hearted nurse, solicitously. "have i not taken breakfast? i believe i do not want any; i have been thinking so intently i have lost my appetite, and was actually forgetting that i had not breakfasted," then noting the pained look that shaded norah's face, "oh, well, you may bring me a glass of milk with the papers." but norah, after depositing her sleeping burden in his crib in the nursery, brought with the papers a waiter holding a cup of warm cocoa, a broiled partridge, stewed oysters, warm muffins and fresh butter, the specified glass of milk crowning all. depositing the waiter on a little marble table, she wheeled up a comfortable chair and installed mrs. winans therein. "you are to take your breakfast first," she said, with the authority of a privileged domestic, "then you can read the papers." she laid them on a stand by the side of her mistress and softly withdrew to the nursery. and lifting the glass of milk to her lips with one hand, grace took up the washington _chronicle_ with the other and ran her eyes hastily over the columns, devouring the bits of congressional news. as she read her cheek glowed, her pearly teeth showed themselves in a smile half-pleased, half-sorrowful. praise of her husband could not but be dear to her, but her pride in him was tempered by the thought that he cared not that she--his wife--should be witness of and sharer in his triumphs. and turning away from the record of his brilliant speech on southern affairs, she glanced indolently down the column of society news, recognizing among the names of women who stood high in the social scale many who had been among her most intimate friends the preceding winter. she had been the queen of them all then, reigning by right of her beauty and intellect no less than by her wealth and high position--best of all, queen of her husband's heart--and as the thought of all that she had been "came o'er the memory of her doom," the dethroned queen sprang from her chair and paced the floor again, burning with passionate resentment, stirred to her soul's deepest depths with the bitter leaven of scorn, not less a queen to-day though despoiled of her kingdom. and thus one vassal, still loyal, found her as the servant ushered him quite unceremoniously into the bright little parlor, startling her for a moment as he came forward, a few wisps of snow still clinging to his brown curls, and melting and dripping down upon his shoulders in the pleasant warmth diffused around. she glanced at him, shrank back an instant, then came forward with rising color and extended hand. "captain clendenon! this is indeed a pleasant and very welcome surprise." he bowed low over the slim white hand, murmured some inarticulate words of greeting, and stooped to replace the shawl that still lay unheeded where she had dropped it on the floor. "allow me," he said, with grave courtesy, and folded it with his one arm very carefully, though perhaps awkwardly, about her shoulders. then a momentary embarrassing silence ensued, during which he had seated himself in a chair indicated by her, and opposite the one into which she had languidly fallen. in that silence she glanced a little curiously at the face whose dark gray eyes had not yet lifted themselves to hers. she had not seen him in some months before, and he looked a little altered now--somewhat thinner, a trifle more serious, but still frank and noble, and with an indescribable respect and sympathy in the clear, honest eyes that lifted just then and met her glance full. "i must ask your pardon for intruding on the entire seclusion that you preserve, mrs. winans," he said, with the slight pleasant smile she remembered so well. "the fact that i am your husband's lawyer, and that i come on business, must plead my excuse." she bowed, then rallied from her surprise sufficiently to say that an old and valued friend like captain clendenon needed no excuse to make him welcome in her home. a faint flush of gratification tinged his white forehead an instant, then faded as a look of pain on the lovely face before him showed that some indefinable dread of his mission to her filled her mind. "i am not the bearer of any ill news," he hastened to remark. "ah! thank you--i am glad," the fading color flowing back to her lips, "we women are so nervous at thought of ill news--and--and i get so depressed sometimes--i suppose all women do--that i can conjure up all sorts of terrors at that word--the woman's bugbear--'business.'" "yes, i presume all women _do_ get depressed who preserve such inviolate seclusion as you do, mrs. winans," he answered, gravely, "and that brings me to my object in coming here this morning. i had a letter from your husband yesterday, in which he made special mention of you in alluding to various reports which have reached him relative to your utter retirement from society." "well," she asked, coldly, as he paused, a little disconcerted by her steady gaze, and by his consciousness of touching on a delicate subject. "and," he went on, "your husband seemed annoyed, or rather fearful that your health might suffer from such unwonted seclusion. he begged me to speak with you on the subject, and assure you that he would rather hear that you took pleasure in the society of your friends, and passed your time in walking, driving, and, in short, all the usual pursuits that are so conducive to your health and the diversion of your mind from brooding over troubles that cannot at present be remedied." a faint sarcastic curve of her red lip betrayed her contempt before it breathed in her voice: "is that all?" "not quite," he flushed again beneath her steady gaze, and said, abruptly, "mrs. winans, i trust you do not blame me for fulfilling your husband's trust. it is not intended, either by him or myself to wound you, and i have undertaken it, not--well, because i thought i could express his wishes regarding you, to you better than another." "i am not thinking of blaming you," she said, gently, "not at all. i thank you for your kindness; i do indeed. captain clendenon, you should know me well enough to think better of me than that implied. please go on." "there is but little more," he answered, more at ease. "you will recollect, i suppose, having signified to senator winans a wish to revisit the home of your childhood?" she slightly bowed her head. "he merely wished me to tell you that should you still desire it, you are at liberty to visit memphis now, or whenever you wish to do so, to remain as long as you please." he rose at the last word, and she rose also, pale, proud, defiant, woman-like, having the "last words." "ah, indeed! i may go to memphis, then, if it so please me?" "yes, mrs. winans;" and taking a step forward, he looked down at the fair face that he saw for the first time shaded with contempt and anger. "you are not angry?" a mutinous quiver of the red lip answered him; just then it seems impossible for her to speak. a great, choking lump seems to rise into her throat, and prevent her from speech. her heart is in a whirl of contending emotions--joy that her husband remembers and cares for her comfort--grief, pain, indignation evoked by his message--he is willing she should go far away from him, he is indifferent about seeing her, while she--she has been so wild to see him. while she stands thus, the captain says, in his grave, singularly sweet tones: "mrs. winans, i have known you so long, and am so much older, and perhaps, wiser, than you--i have learned wisdom knocking around this hard old world, you know--that you will pardon a word of advice from an old friend, as you were kind enough to call me just now. try and overlook what seems to you injustice in your husband. his course toward you seems to him the wiser one, and he is perhaps the best judge of what was right for him--in this lately expressed wish of his he seems actuated solely by a desire for your comfort and happiness--he wishes ardently that you may content yourself during the period of his voluntarily enforced absence. think as kindly as you can of him. i am sure that all this tangled web of fate will come straight and plain at last." she responded to his wistful smile with another, as chill and pale as moonlight. "thank you; and, captain clendenon, you may tell your correspondent that i shall avail myself of his gracious permission to visit another city--not memphis. i have no desire to visit there at present." he looked down at the sweet, flushed, mutinous face with a yearning pity in his eyes, and a great throb of pain at his heart--the anguish of a man who sees a woman that is dear to him bowed beneath sufferings that he cannot alleviate. all he could do was to clasp the small hand in sympathetic farewell, and beg her earnestly to call on him if ever she needed a friend's services. "since you will not go to memphis," he said, relinquishing the small hand. "no, i will not go--at least, not now," she answered, supplementing the harsh reply by a very gentle good-by. when she _did_ go, paul winans would have given all he possessed on earth to have recalled that freely accorded consent. "i like captain clendenon so much," she wrote, in daintiest of italian text, that night, within the sacred pages of her journal. "there is something so supremely noble about him, and to-day he looked at me so sorrowfully, so kindly, as i have fancied a dear brother or sister might do, had i ever been blessed with one. i used to shrink at seeing him; he brought back the first great shock of my life so vividly, and does still, though not so painfully as of old. it is only like touching the spot where a pain has been now--'what deep wound ever healed without a scar?' and i do not mind it now, though the unspoken sympathy in his great gray eyes used to wound my proud spirit deeply. i don't think he ever dreamed of it, though. mrs. conway used to think that he liked me excessively. i don't know--i think she was mistaken. i cannot fancy willard clendenon loving any woman except with the calm, superior love of a noble brother for a dear little sister. and he has a sister, though i have never seen her--charmingly pretty, norah says she is. i believe i should like to know her, if she is at all like her brother. but all women, as a rule, are so frivolous--or, at least, all those whom fate has thrown in my way. at least, i should like to have a brother like this quiet, unselfish captain--this sterling, irreproachable character with the ring of the true metal about it--and a sister like what i fancy his pretty sister must be. oh, paul, were you not so cruel my poor heart would not be throwing out its bruised tendrils so wildly, seeking for some sure support on which to lean its fainting strength. it is so hard to stand alone----" she closed the book abruptly at a sound of baby laughter from the nursery, and gliding into the room stood looking at norah's busy movements. she was giving master paul his nightly bath on the rug in front of the fire. up to his white and dimpled shoulders, in the marble bath of perfumed water, the little fellow was laughing and enjoying the fun to his heart's content. it won the child-like young mother to laughter too. she seated herself on a low ottoman near him, and watched the dear little baby, with its graceful, exquisite limbs flashing through the water, a rosy, perfect little cupid, and something like content warmed her chilled and perturbed spirit. "i can never be utterly desolate while i have him," she murmured, running her taper, jeweled fingers through the clustering rings of his dark hair. norah, looking across at her mistress, asked, timidly, if she were quite resolved on going to washington next week. mrs. winans' soft eyes fixed themselves on the bright anthracite fire in the grate, as if an answer to the question might be evoked from its mystic hearth. her baby seized the opportunity thus afforded to catch the nearest end of one of her floating ringlets, and dip it in the bath with mischievous fingers. she caught it from his fingers with a fitful smile, and began wringing the water from the golden tendrils, and asking absently: "what was it you asked me, norah?" "i asked if you really intended visiting washington next week," explained norah, clearly and intelligibly. she was an educated irishwoman, and did not affect the brogue of her countrymen. "yes, i certainly do so intend," decisively this time, and leaning a little forward, twisting the damp curl into a hundred glittering little spirals, she went on: "for a few days only though, as i believe i told you this morning." "you will not take much baggage, then, i suppose?" "no," smiling at the baby's antics in the water, and dodging the drops he mischievously splashed in her direction, "only a small trunk with necessary changes for baby and myself. i certainly shall not stay more than three days at the most." _shall not?_ on the mystic page of our irrevocable destiny our resolves are sometimes translated crosswise, and _will_ sometimes becomes _will not_, and _shall not_ oft becomes _shall_! we, who cannot see a moment beyond the present hour, undertake in the face of god to say what we shall or shall not do in the unknown future! but poor human hearts, "feeble and finite, oh! what can we know!" chapter x. at the capitol. "alone she sat--alone! that worn-out word, so idly spoken and so coldly heard; yet all that poets sing and grief hath known, of hopes laid waste, knells in that word--alone!" --the new timon. "how changed since last her speaking eye glanced gladness round the glittering room; where high-born men were proud to wait, and beauty watched to imitate." --byron. it was a crisp, cold, sunny morning toward the last of january, and all the world--at least, all the washington world--was packed in the senate galleries at the capitol, the occasion being the speech of one of the master minds of the senate on a very important subject that was just then agitating the country north and south. but we have nothing to do with this brilliant speech. we will leave the gentlemen in the reporters' gallery to report it in irreproachable short-hand. for ourselves we are looking for friends of ours who have eddied thither with the crowd, and are occupying seats on the east side, where they command a good view of the senate floor. there they are--mrs. conway in black silk, bonnet to match, gold eye-glasses, and the yellowest and costliest of real lace shading throat and wrists--an out-and-out aristocrat from the tip of her streaming ostrich plume to her small kid boot. near her sits lulu clendenon, the brilliant center of many admiring eyes. the little norfolk beauty has become a noted belle under the chaperonage of mrs. conway, and to-day she looks rarely beautiful in her brown silk dress, with soft facings and trimmings of seal-brown velvet, her soft brown furs, and a sash of fringed scarlet silk at her throat, confining the soft lace frill. her great velvet-brown eyes hold two restless stars, her round cheeks are dashed with fitful scarlet, all her nut-brown hair is arranged on the top of her head in a mass of lustrous braids, and one long heavy ringlet floats over her sloping shoulder. the daintiest little hat of seal-brown velvet, with the scarlet wing of a bird fluttering one side crowns the small head, whose stately poise is grace itself. bruce conway, languid, handsome, elegant, in attendance on the little beauty, is the envy of half the washington fops. they sit dutifully still and listen to the learned harangue from the senator on the floor below, admire his tropes, follow his gestures, wonder how much longer he is going to continue, until bruce, who has come there every day that week, and listened to "that sort of thing" till he wearies of it all, loses his interest in the subject, and allows his appreciative glance to wander over the galleries at the beaming faces of the "fair." "lots of pretty girls here," he whispers to lulu. "yes," she murmurs back, then stifling a pretty yawn. "what a long speech this is! don't you think so?" bending one ear to him and the other to the speaker. "awfully slow," he answers, glancing at his watch. "oh! i say, did i tell you, brownie, or did you know that winans is expected to reply to this speech?" "no. is he?" she asks, eagerly. "yes; and the other is winding up his peroration now, i think. ah! there he sits down, and there is my lordly winans rising now--how kingly he looks!" says bruce, in honest admiration of the man who is his enemy. lulu settled herself for strict attention, as did every one else, a low hum of admiration echoed through the galleries, and then silence fell as the musical, resonant voice of paul winans filled the grand old senate chamber, weakening the strong points of his opponent in the political field with clear practical reasoning, handling his subject skillfuly and well, keen shafts of wit and sarcasm flashing from his lips, his dark eyes burning with inspiration, his whole frame expanding with the fiery eloquence that carried his audience along with him on its sparkling tide. he had never spoken so ably and brilliantly before, and low murmured praises echoed on all sides from the audience and the members, and pencils flew fast in the reporters' gallery. lulu sat still and speechless, charmed with the eloquence of the speaker, her eyes shining, her full red lips apart. at some argument more telling than the rest, something that appealed forcibly to her clear mind, she turned instinctively to seek sympathy in the eyes of bruce conway, only to discover, with dismay, that he was not looking at her nor the speaker. his face was strangely white, his eyes were looking across at the opposite gallery at some one--a pretty girl lulu judged from the expression of rapt interest he wore. silently her glance followed his, roving over the sea of faces till it found the focus of his, and this is what she saw: near to, and on the right of the reporters' gallery, a lady leaning forward against the railing, her dark, passionately mournful eyes following paul winans with deep, absorbing interest. all the faces of fair women around her paled into insignificance as lulu looked at that pale, clear profile, as classically chiseled, as "faultily faultless," as if cut in white marble by some master-hand; the vivid line of the crimson lips, the black, arched brows so clearly defined against the pure forehead, the ripple of pale-gold hair that, escaping its jeweled comb at the back, flowed in a cascade of brightness over the black velvet dress, that fitted so closely and perfectly to the full yet delicate figure as to reveal the perfection of gracefulness to the watcher. a tiny mask vail of black lace that she wore had been pushed unconsciously back over the top of her little black velvet hat, and so she sat in her pure, melancholy loveliness before the eyes of the girl who interpreted bruce conway's look aright, and knew before she asked a word that this could be no other than the being she had so long wished to gaze upon--the fair, forsaken wife, the beautiful and determined recluse--grace winans. she touched his arm with an effort, her heart throbbing wildly, her breath coming in a sort of gasp. "will you tell me the earthly name of the divinity who absorbs your flattering notice?" he started violently and looked round like one waking from a dream. her voice in its tones was much like her brother's, and she had used almost his very words at ocean view when he first saw grace. no effort of his will could subdue his voice into its ordinary firmness, as he answered: "oh, that is the hon. mrs. paul winans." and lulu answered, with an unconscious sigh: "i could not have imagined any one so perfectly lovely." "grace here--is it possible?" commented mrs. conway, lifting her eye-glass to stare across at the young wife. "well, really, i wonder what has happened, and why she is here, and where she is staying? i must find out and call." in which laudable desire she continued to gaze across, trying to catch the young lady's eye; but mrs. winans had neither eyes nor ears for any one but her husband. her whole soul was intent on him, and when the speech came to an end she remained in the same rapt, eager position until, just as he was resuming his seat amid the prolonged applause, one of those strange psychological impressions that inform one of the intense gaze of another caused him to look up, and his dark eyes, still blazing with eloquent excitement, met the deep, impassioned gaze of her violet orbs, swimming in unshed tears; he sank into his seat as if shot. as for her, she started up, horrified at having betrayed her presence, and was trying to get out of the thronged gallery when a sudden request to have the galleries cleared while the senate went into executive session set all the crowd on their feet and moving toward the doors. mingling with them and quite unaccustomed to visiting the capitol unaccompanied, grace found herself suddenly alone, and quite lost in a maze of corridors far away from the moving throng of people. perplexed and frightened at she knew not what, she hurried on, only losing herself more effectually, seeing no outer door to the vast, wandering building, and, strangely enough, meeting no one of whom to learn the way out, until as she desperately turned into yet another long corridor she stumbled against a gentleman coming in the opposite direction. looking up she met the surprised eyes of bruce conway, and remembering only that she wanted to get out of that place, that she was in trouble, and that he had been her friend, her white detaining hand caught nervously at his coat-sleeve. "oh, mr. conway," she almost sobbed, "i have lost my way and cannot get out of the capitol; will you set me right?" before a word had passed his lips, while she yet stood with her dark, uplifted, appealing eyes burning in conway's soul, a quick, ringing step came along the corridor, and paul winans stood beside them, towering over both in his kingly height and beauty. and the untamed devil of a jealous nature rose in his eyes and shone out upon the two. "great god!" he breathed, in tones of concentrated passion, "grace winans, are you as false as this?" the small hand fell nervelessly from conway's coat-sleeve and transferred itself to her husband's arm, her eyes lifted proudly, gravely to his. "i am not false," she answered, in a ringing voice; "you know that i am not, paul." "am i to disbelieve my eyes?" he questioned, in fiery tones. "i saw you in the gallery--here in washington, without my knowledge or consent--i go to seek you and place you under proper protection, and find you--you _my_ wife--clinging to this man's arm, your eyes uplifted in such graceful adoration as would make your fortune on the tragic stage--and yet you are not _false_! it would seem that mr. conway has not suffered enough at my hands already." the latent nobility in bruce conway's nature passed over the taunt unnoticed in his solicitude for the young creature who stood trembling between them, beloved by each, rendered so fatally unhappy by both. "senator winans," he said, coldly, but earnestly and remarkably for one of his wavering nature, "there is no need for this scene. i encountered your wife in a purely accidental manner only this moment. she could not find her way out, and requested me to show her the entrance. she was frightened and alarmed, and had you not come up as you did, i should have complied with her wish, placed her in her carriage, and left her. i could not do less for any lady who needed my momentary protection. this is all for which you have to upbraid mrs. winans, whom, pardon me, you have injured enough already." senator winans passed over the concluding home thrust, and bowed coldly but disbelievingly. he turned to his wife, still burning with resentful anger, but the words he would have spoken faltered on his lips as he looked at her. she had removed her hand from his arm, and fallen back a pace or two from him, her slender figure thrown back, the trailing folds of her rich black velvet robe sweeping far behind her on the marble floor. her small hands hung helpless at her sides, her fair face looked stony in a fixed despair that seemed as changeless as the expression on the marble face of the statue that stood in a niche near by. poor child! her heart was aching with its unmerited humiliation. here stood the man who had won her young heart in earlier days, only to cast it aside as a worthless toy, a mute witness of the same thing re-enacted by another, and that other one who had promised to love, cherish, and protect her through all the storms of life. to her proud, sensitive soul it was like the bitterness of death to stand there as she stood between these two men. "well, madam, i am waiting to hear what you have to say for yourself," her husband said, coldly. she whirled toward him, a sudden contempt burning under her black lashes, her voice cool, clear, decisive. "this: that i do not choose to stand here and bandy words with you, senator winans, exposed to the comment of any chance passer-by. whatever more on the subject you can have to say to me i will hear at my private parlor at willard's hotel this evening between eight and nine o'clock, if you will do me the honor to call. at present, if one of you gentlemen will take me to my carriage, which is in waiting, i will put an end to this scene." she looked quite indifferently from one to the other, feeling all her latent pride rise hotly to the surface, as neither stirred for an instant. then her lawful master drew her hand through his arm, with the cold deference he might have accorded a stranger. she bowed to mr. conway, and was led away and placed in the carriage that awaited her, without a word on either side. and bruce went back to his aunt and lulu, whom he had left talking with some friends in the rotunda. he said nothing to them, however, of the scene that had just occurred. but the fact of mrs. winans' presence at the capitol was very well known by this time. some of her "dear five hundred" friends had seen her when the little mask vail had been unconsciously thrown back in her eager excitement, and those who had not seen her were told by those who had. many eyes curiously followed the hero of that long past love affair, whose shadow still brooded so pitilessly over grace winans' life, as he moved away by the side of the brown-eyed belle to whom society reported him as _affianced_. "what next?" he queried, smiling down into the slightly thoughtful face. "i don't know--that is--i believe mrs. conway spoke of the art gallery next," she answered, listlessly. "after luncheon, though. we go to the hotel first for lunch," interposed mrs. conway, briskly, who not being young, nor in love, was blessed with a good appetite. "after that the art gallery, and there is that masquerade ball, you know, to-night." "as if our daily life were not masquerade enough," he thinks, with smothered bitterness, as he attends them down the terraced walks to the park, thence to the avenue, for they decide on walking to the hotel, lulu having a penchant for promenading the avenue on sunny days like this when all the city is doing likewise. "for i like to look at people's faces," she naively explains to the young man, "and build up little romances from the materials culled thereby." "ah, a youthful student of human nature! can you read faces?" he retorts, brusquely. "sometimes, i fancy, but very imperfectly," she says, flushing a little under his keen gaze, as she walks on, her silken skirts sweeping the avenue, in the perfection of grace. "read mine, then," he answers, half jestingly, half curious as to her boasted power, as they fall a little behind the elder lady. "i cannot," she answers, "i would not attempt it." "nay," he insists, "fair seeress, read me even one expression that has crossed my tell-tale face to-day--come, i want to test your power." "well," she answers, half-reluctantly, "once to-day in the gallery, there was a look on your face--flitting and momentary, though--that reminded me of this line which i have somewhere read: "'despair that spurns atonement's power.'" "was i right?" looking away from him half-sorry that she had said it, and fearful of wounding him. and "silence gave consent." chapter xi. "it may be for years, and it may be forever." "enough that we are parted--that there rolls a flood of headlong fate between our souls." --byron. between eight and nine o'clock grace had specified as the hour when her husband might call--and the french clock on the mantel of her private parlor at willard's hotel chimed the half-hour sharply as he was ushered in by an obsequious waiter. the room was entirely deserted--no, a child was toddling uncertainly across the floor, jingling in its baby hand that infantile source of delight an ivory rattler, with multitudinous silver bells attached thereto. what discordance will not a mother endure and call it music for the baby's sake? one searching glance, and paul winans had his child in his arms, clasped close to his hungry, aching heart. his boy! _his!_ long months had flown away since he had looked on the face of his child, and now he held him close, his proud, bearded lip pressed to the fragrant lips of the babe, his breath coming thick and fast, his jealous, passionate heart heaving with deep emotion. but the child started back, frightened at the bearded face of the stranger, and his low cry of fear struck reproachfully to his father's soul. "a stranger to my own child," he muttered, bitterly. "why, my baby, my baby, do you not know your own papa?" "mamma! papa!" repeated the child, and with a sunny, fearless smile, he stroked the noble brow that bent over him. grace had taught his baby lips to love the name of "papa," and now at the very sound his terror was removed, and he nestled closer in the arms that held him as though the very name were a synonym for everything that was sweet and gentle. the unhappy mother entering at that moment with pride and reserve sitting regnant on her brow, reeled backward at that sight, with a quivering lip, and pale hands clasped above her wildly throbbing heart. it was but for a moment. as he turned to the rustle of her silken robe, with their child clasped in one strong arm, she came forward slowly, very slowly, but standing before him at last with bowed head and hands clasped loosely together. captain clendenon had said of her long before, that as much of an angel as was possible for mortal to possess was about her. i don't know about its being so much angel--i, who know women better than the captain did, think that the best of them have quite sufficient of the opposite attribute about them; but, at this moment, all of the angel within her was roused by the sight of her husband with their child in his arms. a moment before her soul had been charged with desperate anger and rebellion--now her face wore a soft, sad tenderness, her lifted eyes the clear glory of a suppliant angel's. "oh, my husband," she breathed, in low, intense accents, "you have scorned all words of mine, turned away from me with my defense unheard--let the pure love of our innocent babe plead for its innocent mother!" it was like the low plaint for forgiveness from a wayward child that comes sobbing home to its mother with its small fault to confess--and she was so child-like, so very young, so very wretched. a sharp thrill of agonized pity and self-reproach made his firm lip quiver as he looked down at her, fiery love and hate struggling in his soul. a wild impulse to clasp her to his bosom--to crush against his sore heart all that pale yet glowing beauty, for one moment rushed over him, to be sharply dispelled by the memory of his jealous vow, and he answered not, but gazed on her for speechless moments, marking with eyes that had hungered weary months for a sight of her, every separate charm that distinguished this fatally fairest of women. and she was looking very lovely to-night. her entire absence of color, while it robbed her of one charm, bestowed another. that glowing yet perfect pallor of impassioned melancholy--that dark brilliance of eyes that could, but would not weep--made her beauty more luring than before; for a sorrowful face always appeals most directly to the heart. she wore a dress he had always admired--a dinner-dress of pale, creamy-hued silk, shading, as the lustrous folds fell together, into pale wild-rose tints. a fragrant, half-blown tea-rose blossomed against her whiter throat, among frills of snowy lace, and a slender cross of pearls and diamonds depended from a slight golden chain that swung almost to her slim, girlish waist; a bandeau of rare pearls clasped on her brow with a diamond star held her golden hair in place, and gave the last touch that was wanting to make her fairly royal in her loveliness. this was _his_ wife! in all his jealous love and hatred, that name thrilled his soul like a pã¦an of triumph. all that beauty was his, his own; but--the undying thought thrilled him like a sword thrust--it might have been another's, had that other asked it first. that other! he had seen her clinging to his arm that day, her magical eyes uplifted to his in deep emotion. in the anger that rose at the remembrance, he forgot the passionate pride and love that had shown on him from the gallery that morning--forgot everything but that later scene; and as it rushed vividly back to his mind, he put his hand to his face and groaned aloud. and still she stood mute, moveless, with that hunted look deepening on her face, as no word or sign betrayed his answer. "you will not even answer me!" she moaned, at last. "it needs not his love to plead your cause, grace," he answered, in heart-wrung accents. "while i thought that your only fault was in deceiving me before our marriage, my own love pleaded unceasingly for you, my every effort was directed to the destruction of my fiery jealousy and anger toward you. i was succeeding. god knows this is true. the message i sent you by captain clendenon was the outgrowth of that milder mood. in all probability i should soon have returned to you--glad to call you mine, even though i knew you to have once loved another. _once!_ my god! how little i knew of the dark reality! how little i dreamed of your deception until i saw you here to-day--with him!" "oh! not _with him_!" she cried, in indignant denial--"oh! not _with him_! i had met him but that moment, and by the merest accident. paul, was i to blame for that?" "mamma, pretty mamma!" lisped the baby, reaching his arms to her in vague alarm at the papa who was grieving her so, and, with cold deference, he laid him in his mother's arms, as he answered: "not to blame for meeting him accidentally, of course, grace; but you were to blame for stopping him, for clinging to him, for looking into his eyes as you did, knowing what you did of the feelings existing between himself and me--deeply to blame." "i was frightened," she pleaded. "i did not think--it would have happened just the same had it been a stranger, and not mr. conway." "ah, no!" he sneered, beside himself with jealous passion. "i have learned, too late, that your marriage with me was one of ambition and pride. there was love in the look you gave him, grace--such love as you have never accorded me." he was walking excitedly up and down the floor, never even glancing at her. she sighed bitterly, pillowing her burning cheek against her child, as though to gather strength before she spoke again. "you are mistaken; it was fright, alarm, foolish nervousness; not love, god knows; anything else but that! i do not know how to please you, my husband. you are fearfully, causelessly jealous--oh! what _did_ you want me to do?" "i did not want you to touch him; i did not want you to speak to him or notice him. i _am_ jealous, grace," stopping suddenly beside her, and gathering all her long fair ringlets into his hands, and lifting one bright tendril caressingly to his lips--"so jealous that i am almost angry with the very winds when they dare lift this treasured glory from your shoulders." she trembled so violently that she was forced to put down the child on a cushion at her feet. as she turned, with a mute gesture, as if to throw herself into his arms, he dropped the golden mass from his hands and coldly turned away. "i would like to know, madam," after a long pause, his voice ringing, clear, cold, steady, from the opposite side of the room, "why you chose to come to washington at all--knowing it to be against my wishes--what object could you possibly have had, unless it were to see him?" that cruel insult struck the warm fountain of tears, too oft repressed by the proud, loving young wife. her face dropped in her hands, bright tears falling through her fingers; her voice came to him mournfully earnest through its repressed sobs and moans: "because, oh! because i wanted to see _you_, paul, so much--oh, so much!--that i felt i could brave your blame--dare all your anger, but to look on your dear face once more! i hoped you would not see me. i did not know you could be so cruel and unjust to me, or i would have fought harder against the temptation to come." moving toward her, he half opened his arms, then dropped them again at his sides, with something like a moan. "oh, god, if i could only believe you!" "and do you not?" she asked, slowly. "i cannot. the miserable doubt that you have never loved me, the fear that your marriage with me arose from selfish considerations while your heart was in the keeping of one who valued it so little then, however much he may now--gracie, with all these torturing doubts on my soul, i try to believe you, and--i cannot." "once for all," she says, still patiently, "let me tell you, whether you credit or not, paul, that my love for bruce conway compared with my love for you was as moonlight unto sunlight, or as water unto wine. he was the ideal of my silly, inexperienced girlhood--nay, childhood--he _never_ could have been the choice of my maturer years. you are all i can ask for in perfection of manliness, saving this unhappily jealous nature, and my whole heart is yours. i did not marry you for any selfish consideration, except that i loved you and wanted always to be near that strong, true, noble heart, sheltered by its warm affection. paul, can you believe these things if i tell you so on my very knees?" he flung himself away from her with a heart-wrung sigh. "god help my jealous nature, i cannot!" "and you will leave me again after this--indefinitely--or forever?" leaning her elbow on the low marble mantel, and looking at him with a sort of wistful wonder in her tear-wet eyes. "i must. my vow is recorded--i cannot help myself--it must be fulfilled." she smiled slightly, but with something in her smile that half maddened him. the tears were quite dry on her lashes, her cheeks were pink as rose-leaves, her bosom rose and fell more calmly. the smile that played on her lips was not "all angel" now. she had sued for the last time to her unjust lord. "since this is your decision," she answered, in calm tones, that belied her tortured heart, "would it not be as well to separate altogether? would not your freedom be better insured by a complete divorce from one who has so deeply deceived you that it seems impossible to trust her again? i confess that it is irksome to me to live upon the splendors your wealth supplies while i am an exile and an alien from your heart. once fairly divorced, and we could go away--my baby and i--and never trouble you again. i have worked for myself before; i am sure i can do it again." he glared at her speechless, her cool, quiet words stinging him sharply, and widening the gulf between them. before it was a turbulent stream; now a rushing river. "and then you might be bruce conway's wife," he says, bitterly, at last, "and be happy ever after in his love. is that what you mean, fair lady?" "oh, no, no, no! i should never marry again! i should not want to--nor dare to! oh, heaven, what has love ever brought me but agony?" with a despairing gesture of her clenched white hand. "ta, ta!" he says, with a light, sarcastic laugh. "you should not judge the future by the past. you 'may be happy yet,' as one of your songs prettily expresses it. certainly, you may have a divorce if you wish, only,"--stooping to lift his boy in his arms--"in that case, you know, the law will give this dear little fellow into my sole care and keeping; though, of course, the blissful bride of conway will not miss the child of the man she never loved." if that last taunt struck home she did not betray it, save that she whitened to her lips as she slowly reiterated his words. "the law would take my baby from me?" "yes, of course; that is the law of the land--do you still desire to have a divorce?" "oh, god, no! i never did, except for your sake. i felt myself to be a burden on your unwilling hands, on your unwilling heart, and i simply could not bear the thought. but my baby--don't take him from me, paul! i have suffered until i thought i could bear no more, and that, oh! that would be death. he is all i have to love me now." she caught her child from his arms and held him strained to her beating heart, feeling for the first time the awful agony of a mother's dread of losing her loved one. her husband looked at her with no trace of his feelings written on his still face, and merely said: "do not fear; i shall not take him from you, unless in the event to which we have alluded. but i hope you will let me see him while he is so near me. when do you propose to leave washington?" "on the day after to-morrow. i only came yesterday." "ah! then i shall look for norah, to-morrow--you have norah with you?" "yes, of course." "then i shall expect norah and my baby to call on me quite punctually, at ten to-morrow. i want to see all i can of the little fellow while he is here." he penciled his address on a card, and laid it on the marble mantel. she watched him mutely as he turned toward her, thinking gravely to herself what a great, grand, kingly nature was marred by the jealous passion that laid waste the fair garden of this man's soul. "hear me now, grace, and understand that what i wrote you in my parting note is still my wish. you will remain in our home with our little boy; command my banker for unlimited sums, and be as happy as you can. do not, i beg of you, seek to see me again." "no," she answers, slowly and proudly; "the next time, _you will seek me_!" "indeed, i hope so," he gravely answers, "so do not worry, and think as kindly of me as you can until we meet again." "until we meet again," she murmurs, under her breath. "until we meet again," he repeats, with a lingering look, and a deep, low bow. she makes a pained, impatient gesture. he turns and goes out, humming with a cruel lightness that breaks her heart, the sad refrain of an old song: "it may be for years, and it may be forever." chapter xii. "fate has done its worst." "i touch this flower of silken leaf my earlier days that knew, its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew." --emerson. four o'clock striking in mrs. conway's parlor, and our three friends variously disposed therein; mrs. conway trifling with some light affair of fancy work, in bright-colored berlin wool; bruce with the daily paper; lulu, a trifle restless, and sitting before the piano, striking low, wandering chords and symphonies, turning now and then an impatient glance at the newspaper that diverts the gentleman's attention from her. women are invariably jealous of newspapers. "what a nice thing it is to be interested in politics," she says, petulantly, at last. he is deeply immersed in a synopsis of the speech of senator winans, having missed it the preceding day by being absorbed in contemplation of the senator's wife; but he looks up to retort, lightly: "what a nice thing it is to be a belle and take on airs." she pouts, with a toss of her small head, then smiles. "meaning me?" she queries. "meaning you," he answers, glancing at the white fingers that go straying over the keys, waking a low accompaniment, to which she sings, softly: "violets, roses, sweet-scented posies, who'll buy my roses, all scattered with dew?" "meaning the mammoth bouquet that came this morning with the captain's compliments?" he interrupts her to ask, with a glimmer of fun in his dark eye. she breaks off, laughing, half-blushing, and saucily retorting: "indeed, no. were i ever so avaricious a flower-vendor i could not part with the gift of the gallant captain." "by the way," he says, suddenly and mischievously ("by the way" being a byword of the captain under discussion), "it strikes me as rather droll that such a charming flirtation should have sprung up between you and captain frank fontenay--the man who tried to help kill me, and the little fairy who helped cure me." "ah, yes, now i think of it," with an infinitesimal shudder, "he _was_ senator winans' second in that affair. well," saucily this, "you could not have been _seconded_ by a finer gentleman." he rises and saunters over to her side, out of reach of mrs. conway's ears, who is near the window (exactly what lulu wishes him to do). long ago he has read, like an open page, the pure, adoring heart of this girl--no vanity in him, for it is so palpable to all; to a certain degree he loves her, admires her fresh, young beauty, her sunny ways; means certainly some day to make her his wife; and something under her surface gayety now that reveals a wistful, unsatisfied yearning touches him to greater tenderness than he has ever felt for her before. as he bends to speak she turns her head, with a deepening flush; the movement wafts to him the subtle fragrance of a white rose worn in her brown hair, and the words she longs to hear die unspoken on his lips. what is there in the fragrance of a flower that can pierce one deeper than a sword-thrust with the sweet-bitterness of memory? what kinship does it bear to the roses that blossomed in other days, in other hands that we have loved? who can tell? impatiently he disengages it from its becoming brown setting and tosses it far from him. "never wear white roses where i am, lulu; i cannot bear their perfume--it absolutely sickens me. i like you best in scarlet. it suits your piquant beauty best." "did _she_ wear white roses?" she queries, with inexpressible bitterness, and reaching conclusions with a woman's quick wit. "_she_ wore white roses--yes," he answers, slowly, as if impelled by some power stronger than his own volition; "and, lulu, she sat one evening with her lap full of white roses, and her hands glanced among them as white as they--you have heard the whole story before--and the only really cowardly act of my life, the only dastardly speech of my life, was made then--oh, heaven! i shall never forget the eyes she lifted to my face; white roses always stir me with remorse--always breathe the funereal air of dead hopes." "it is a sin to love her so--now," she whispered, under her breath. "i know, i know; but cannot you understand, lu, that this is remorse that has built its habitation over the grave of love? another love is rising in my heart above the wreck of my earlier one, but my regret for what _i_ caused her to suffer then--for what i have unwittingly caused her to bear since--is, and must ever be, unceasing." "you need not grieve so deeply," she urges, trying to comfort him. "she found consolation--she has 'learned to love another.'" "yes, my loss was his gain, but still the influence of what i did in the past throws its blighting consequence over her life; but let us not speak of it, lulu. there are themes more pleasant to me--ah, if i mistake not," glancing out of a near window, "there's the captain's faultless equipage outside--do you drive with him this evening?" "i believe i did promise him," she says, reluctantly, and the next moment the fine-looking captain is ushered in, and bruce goes back to his former seat. coolly polite are the greetings between the two gentlemen. the words that pass between them are of the briefest, while lulu goes for her wrappings. he smiles, as standing at the window he meets her regretful smile, and knows how much rather she had been with him than dashing off in that handsome phaeton. she carries that smile in her heart as they whirl down the avenue, past the white house, and off by a pretty circuitous route for the little city of georgetown. there is a glow on her cheek, a sweet, serious light in her eyes, a slight abstraction in her manner, that charms her companion. he bends near her, a sparkle in his blue eyes, a gratified smile on his lips, for he fancies that he has called that added charm to her face. she has taken his heart by storm, and before she can realize it, he has capitulated and laid the spoils of war at her feet--namely, the battered old heart of a forty-year-old captain in the u. s. a., a brown-stone front on capitol hill, and fifty thousand dollars. she looks up in utter amaze at the fair blonde face of the really handsome veteran, with its rippling beard and sunny expression of good-humor, then her eyes fall, and she softly laughs at his folly in the charmingly incredulous way with which some women refuse an offer. "my dear sir, you do me too much honor, and i would not for the world exchange my maiden freedom for 'a name and a ring.'" the captain is not so very much disheartened. he is of a sanguine temperament, and says he will not despair yet--in short, means to try again at some fitting future period; and she, leaning back, listless, half sorry for him, and a little flattered at his preference, wishes with all her heart that this were bruce conway instead. "ah! by the way," he breaks in presently, "there is a rumor--i beg your pardon if i offend--but is it true, as society declares, that you are to marry conway?" her heart gives a great muffled throb, that almost stifles her, then the small head lifts erect and calm. "it is not a fact--at least, i am not aware of it--unless, indeed, society means to marry us willy-nilly." "society has made worse matches," he lightly rejoins. "conway is a prize in the market matrimonial--miss clendenon certainly has no peer!" she laughs. indeed, it is one of her charming ways that she laughs at everything that can be possibly laughed at, and since her laugh is most musical, and her teeth twin rows of pearls, we can excuse her--ah, how much nonsense we pardon to youth and beauty! "ah, by the way," (this favorite formula), "talking of conway reminds me of my friend, winans--in the senate, you know. a strange affair that of his child--don't you think so?" she is busy fighting the wind, that blows the long loose strands of her solitary brown ringlet all over her pink cheeks, and turns half-way to him, the sunny smile utterly forsaking her lip, answering vaguely and in some surprise: "what about it? i have heard nothing." "have not?--ah!" as they turn a corner and come upon a lovely view of the noble potomac. "there you have a fine view, miss clendenon." she looks mechanically. "yes, it is grand, but--but what did you say about the child of senator winans?" "ah, yes, i was going to tell you, i had not forgotten," he smiled. "why, it seems that his wife was in the city, and he called on her last evening at the hotel where she is stopping--he told me, poor fellow, in confidence that they parted more bitterly alienated than before. i blame him, though, the most. i know his hot temper, you see, miss lulu--and he desired her to send the child and nurse around to his hotel this morning, that he might see as much as possible of the child before she returned to norfolk, as she designed doing to-day." "well?" she breathes eagerly. she is twisting the wayward ringlet round and round one taper finger and listening with absorbing interest as he goes on. "well, norah o'neil, the nurse, took the child very punctually to its father at ten o'clock this morning. he received them in his private parlor that opened on a long handsome hall, where similar parlors opened in a similar manner. and--but this cannot be interesting to you, miss clendenon, since you do not know the parties." "on the contrary, i am deeply interested," she said. "go on if you please." "well, it seems that winans kept the little thing so long with him that it began to grow hungry and fretful. winans suggested that norah, the nurse, you know, should go down to the lower regions of the hotel and bring up some warm milk and crackers for the hungry child. she went, attended by a waiter winans summoned for the purpose, and remained some time--ah! miss clendenon, here we are on prospect hill with a charming sea-view before us--and there--you see that romantic-looking cottage not a stone's throw from us--that is the home of the well-known novelist, mrs. southworth." "ah!" she said, brightly, turning a look of deep interest at the spot. "but about the child--what happened while the nurse was gone?" "in a moment, miss lulu," touching whip to the prancing iron-gray ponies and setting them off at a dashing rate. "yes, as i was saying, winans played with the child that kept fretting for norah and the milk, and i dare say he grew tired of playing the nurse--i should in his place, i know--and thought of taking a comfortable smoke. he left the baby sitting on a divan, stopped into his dressing-room, selected a good weed, lighted it, and stepped back again." "and what happened then?" lulu inquired. "would you believe it!--the little thing that could no more than toddle by itself--that he had left but a moment before, sitting on the divan, fretting for norah and its milk--it was gone." "gone--where?" asked lulu, staring blankly at him. "the lord in heaven knows, miss clendenon. winans ran to the door--it had stood ajar all the time for fresh air--and looked up and down the hall for him, in vain though. then the nurse came up with the milk, and they began to search together, called up the waiters, alarmed the whole house, in fact; and all was useless. every room was searched, every one inquired of, but not a trace of the child was found; he was clearly not in the house. i happened in just then and joined in the search. at four this evening the search had become widespread; two detectives have scoured the city, and it seems impossible to throw the least light on the affair. winans is perfectly wild about it--never saw a man suffer so." "oh, how dreadful!" breathed lulu, "and who broke it to _her_--the wretched mother?" "norah absolutely refused to go to her with news which she said must certainly kill her. winans shrunk from the task in the same desperate horror. she does not know it yet, and he clings to a hope of finding it before dark, and sending it back by norah as though nothing had happened; but i fear he will fail. little paul has undoubtedly been stolen for the sake of a ransom, no doubt, or his fine clothes; and it is probable they will get him back, but scarcely to-day." "oh, poor unhappy grace!" murmured lulu, and all her miserable, half-indefinable jealousy of the beautiful woman melted in a hot rain of tears for the terribly bereaved young mother. the captain, greatly surprised at this feminine outburst, was really at a loss to offer consolation. having all a man's horror of woman's tears, he let the sudden rain-storm have its way, and then hazarded a remark: "why, you do not know her; i beg your pardon, do you?" "no," brushing away the pearly drops with a dainty lace-bordered handkerchief. "i have seen her, heard her trouble, and take a very deep interest in her, and," as she dried the last tear and looked pensively up, "i am such a baby that my tears are ready on all occasions." "an april day," is his oft-quoted comment, "'all smiles and tears.'" silence falls. captain fontenay looks a little sad, intensely thoughtful, evidently revolving something in his mind. "you speak of having heard of mrs. winans' troubles," he ventured at last. "mrs. conway is one of her friends, i believe?" "yes, she has known mrs. winans for years--loves and admires her greatly." "perhaps then," pulling his mustache doubtfully, as they drive slowly on, and looking anxious as to how his remark will be received, "perhaps since winans and the nurse both are so reluctant to carry the news to mrs. winans--perhaps mrs. conway would be a proper person to break it to her--that is if she would undertake the painful task." "i am sure she would do so; painful as it would be to her i feel she would rather it were her than a stranger; she could tell it more gently than one unaccustomed to grace--i call her grace because i have gotten into the familiar habit from hearing mrs. conway call her so," she said, apologetically. "then, if you think so," he makes answer, "i will call on our return and ask her to do so, seeing winans afterward to let him know of her willingness to assume the unpleasant task. then, if he thinks best, i will call and take mrs. conway to her hotel." they drove back, and broke the sad news to mrs. conway. shocked, surprised, and grieved as she was, she eschewed for once the nerves of a fashionable, and professed herself willing and anxious to go to the bereaved young mother. at seven o'clock that evening the captain called for her. "no tidings of him yet," he said, "and winans is anxious you should go to her at once and break it with all possible tenderness, with the assurance that he expects at any hour to find the baby and bring it to her. norah will come back after it is told. poor lady! fate has done its worst for her." at the door of grace's room let us pause, dear reader. we have heard the moan of that aching, tortured heart so often, as she quailed before the shafts of fate, that we dare not look on the agony whose remembrance will haunt even the callous heart of the fashionable and world-worn mrs. conway through all her future years. it was the agony of rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they were not. chapter xiii. on the ocean. "wan was her cheek with hollow watch, her mantle torn, red grief and mother's hunger in her eye." --tennyson's "princess." "there is none in all this cold and hollow world, no fount of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within a mother's heart." --hemans. at dusk of the next day paul winans walked impatiently up and down the floor of his room at the arlington house. he was waiting for the appearance of keene, the best detective in the district, who had promised to meet him at six o'clock that evening, to report progress. norah had gone back to her suffering mistress the night before, and a vague report that had reached winans to-day relative to grace's illness weighed heavily on him, as, with clasped hands and a beating heart, he walked up and down, restlessly, striving with his agony. remorse was busy with his soul. in this great shock that had come upon him and his wife he lost sight of his own personal grievance, and thought only of her, forgetting his hot rage of two nights before, and thinking only that the breach his senseless jealousy had made between their two hearts was now immeasurably widened by the hand of fate. in some sort he felt himself an innocent agent in the child's loss, and scarcely dared hope for his wife's forgiveness. "come in," he said, pausing, as a knock echoed on the door with military precision. "ah! fontenay, is it you? i expected keene, the detective. come in--sit down." captain fontenay did as requested, turning a silent look of commiseration on his friend. "i have just come from calling on miss clendenon," he observed, "and learned that mrs. conway has not yet returned from mrs. winans' hotel. in fact, i believe she thinks best to remain with her until she gets better. she has, as miss lulu informed me, taken rooms for herself, and miss clendenon, of course, who is to rejoin her there this evening--conway remaining at his hotel." "ah! that is kind of mrs. conway," said winans, surprisedly. "i should not have expected so much kind feeling from one who has always appeared to me a mere cold-hearted devotee of fashion and pleasure." "the devil is not as black as he is painted," the captain quotes, sententiously. "this miss clendenon seems a pleasant, or rather, a sweet little creature," mused the senator, aloud; "one of the sort of women, i think--don't you?--who is worthy the devoted affection of any one." "i think so," says the captain, with enthusiasm. "i was thinking"--musingly this--"that i would like her to know my wife--like to see a cordial friendship grow up between the two. grace has never had an intimate female friend. she is singularly quiet, reticent, and reserved with every one. it would, i think, be something of a comfort to her to be brought into familiar intercourse with willard clendenon's sister. she needs the sympathy and society of one of her own sex." "let us hope they may become friends," says the captain, heartily. "but, fontenay, this illness of grace--i heard a rumor of it to-day--our unfortunate affairs are by this time a town-talk. she is not seriously out of sorts, i presume, and i am not brave enough to go there now, and look on the desolation i have wrought." fontenay walked across the room and laid his hand on the other's arm, gravely and sympathizingly. "no--yes," he says; "well, the truth is, winans, i hate to be the bearer of the tidings, but the fact is simply this: mrs. winans' excessive agitation and grief have culminated in what the physician calls a serious attack of brain fever." "great heaven! what have i done?" the strong man reeled backward as if from a blow just as another professional rap sounded on the door. "come in," he says, with a strong effort at self-control. this time it was keene. slender, small, and shrewd-looking, he fits his name, and his name fits him. he bows to both gentlemen, leisurely taking the seat he is offered. "anything new?" he is asked. "a moment, if you please. senator, if you will be so kind as to order up the chamber-maid who attends the ladies' parlors on this floor, i will ask her a few questions." winans rang the bell violently. "you do not suppose _she_ has stolen the child?" he queries, a little astonished. "not at all," mr. keene smiled cheerfully back. a white-aproned waiter answered the bell just then, winans gave the desired order, and resumed his moody walk again, until interrupted by the entrance of the maid he had summoned. a rather pretty and pleasant-faced girl she was, neatly dressed, and with a due modicum of modesty, for the color came into her smooth, round cheek, and she looked down and trifled with her apron-string as mr. keene smiled approval at her. "what is your name, my girl?" "annie brady, sir." "ah, yes. well, miss annie, you preside over the ladies' rooms on this floor? attend to the ladies, i mean?" "oh! yes, sir." "well, annie, i have heard--you can tell me if it is true--did any of the ladies you have been waiting on in this hotel leave here yesterday for a foreign port?" the pretty irish girl reflected. "yes, sir," with a small courtesy; "and indade i believe there was wan." "you believe. are you quite _certain_?" "yes, sir, i am quite certain. it were the poor english lady whose room was opposite this one--number 20, sir." she half-opened the door and indicated number 20 with her finger. "just across the hall." "the _poor_ english lady; and why do you call her poor?" asked the detective, curiously, while the two gentlemen listened in silence, and the girl herself edged nearer the door in surprise and bewilderment commingled. "was she in bad circumstances?" "why, no, sir, not that way; she seemed quite comfortable so far as money went. it were her mind, sir," said the girl, tapping her forehead significantly. "she seemed not quite right here, sir." "and what sort of a lady was she, and what was her name?" "her name? it was mrs. moreland, sir, and she looked about thirty year old--a pretty little blue-eyed lady, quite broken down with trouble and grief. she came on here a few days ago from new york, and was going home to her friends in london." "ah! and was she alone? did she talk with you much, and tell you the cause of her trouble?" "she did talk to me sometimes. she seemed lonely and unsettled-like, and i thought it did her good to talk to some wan of her trials. a sore heart, ye know, sir, is all the betther for telling its griefs over to a sympathizing heart," said annie, apologetically. "yes," said keene, a little impatiently, "but you have not told us what her trouble was." "to be sure," answered annie, good-humoredly. "she had come over some two years since from london with her husband to seek a better fortune, and just when they were so snugly settled down in a dear little home in brooklyn, and beginning to do well in the world, and wan little baby-bird come to make sunshine in the home, the husband and baby sickened and died, wan after the other, sir, and the poor heart-broken widdy is just going back to her friends almost crazy with the grief of it all," concluded annie, quite breathless with her long speech. a sparkle of blue lightning flashed in keene's eyes. "she had lost a child, you said?" "yes, sir, a pretty boy, scarce a year old. she showed me a photograph of them all--five little ones she had lost, he the last of them all--black-eyed, curly-headed little beauties they were--like their poor father, she said." "and she was inconsolable at the loss of the baby?" "yes, sir; she fretted for it all the long days, sir--not quite right in her head, she was not, i know, but," said annie, wiping away a glittering tear from her pink cheek, "it were pitiful like to see her a tossing on the sofa, and moaning, and like as not laughing wildly as she talked of baby earle, as she called him." "seemed insane, you think?" asked keene, in his quick, short manner. "not like that," answered annie, with mild wonder at the gentleman's pertinacious curiosity, "but a little out of her mind--you've heard of people being melancholy mad, sir." "yes, oh, yes," said keene, "and so you said good-by to this interesting little widow yesterday at about between eleven and twelve o'clock, and she left here and took the steamer for liverpool?" "she did go away at that time, sir, but i told her good-by earlier as my duties called me to another part of the building. she told nobody good-by. indeed, all the waiters in the house--she always had a kind word for them, ye see--they all wondered they did not see her go out, and so missed saying good-by to her." "but her baggage, annie? how did her baggage go down?" "oh! her passage was taken, and her baggage sent to the steamer, yesterday." "yes; thank you, miss annie, and i believe that is all i want to ask you this evening." senator winans supplemented keene's thanks with a banknote, and annie went bowing and smiling back to the regions whence she came. the three men looked at each other, keene breaking the ominous silence that had fallen: "this is what i came to tell you, senator winans. mrs. moreland is on the ocean with your little boy. i have already telegraphed to liverpool to have her stopped when she lands there. i have found that a woman answering her description left on the steamer yesterday with a child answering the description of yours; with the cunning of insanity that poor creature probably saw the child at the moment of leaving, and kidnapped it with the thought that it was her own." he turned away, inured as he was to sorrow, from the white anguish of the father's face. "it is very probable you will get him back; don't give up all as lost," he said, cheerfully. "i will not," the stern energy of the man asserting itself. "we will follow them on the next steamer, and track every inch of ground till we find him. every dollar i own shall be expended if necessary. but, oh, heaven! i cannot--his mother--she is ill, wretched--perhaps death-stricken. i dare not leave here." "i don't know that it is necessary to follow them," keene said, doubtfully. "if they get him in liverpool, he can be sent home in the captain's care. you will not care, i suppose, to punish her. she is probably half insane, and under a natural hallucination that it was her own, and abducted it." "no, poor creature! she has already suffered enough," said winans, pityingly. "ah, by the way, winans," here interposed the captain, "why not call and see your wife to-night, and learn if her illness is too serious to admit of your leaving; she may be better, and you at liberty to go. it seems the best thing under the circumstances, in my humble judgment, that you should pursue this woman as speedily as is possible." "perhaps so. then, mr. keene, i suppose we can do nothing more till to-morrow. if you will call on me at an early hour in the morning we will discuss the best steps to be taken in the matter." and there being no more to say on the subject, the detective bowed himself out, leaving the two friends alone together. "fontenay, i am afraid to go to her. she would spurn me from her presence; i deserve it." he strode across the room, and began stirring the coal fire, shaking down the ashes, and tearing open its burning heart, just as wounded love and bitter pain and yearning were sweeping the ashes of pride and jealousy from his, and showing him the living fire that burned undimmed below. "you can but try," said the gallant captain. "'faint heart never won fair lady.'" and winans resolved to "try." chapter xiv. "in his heart consenting to a prayer gone by." "the boon for which we gasp in vain, if hardly won at length, too late made ours, when the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain." --hemans. "fare thee well! yet think awhile on one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee; who now would rather trust than smile, and die with thee than live without thee." --moore. sitting at her window watching the radiant day hiding its blushes on the breast of night, lulu clendenon's heart was full of a strange, aching pain. she had, as captain fontenay had told winans, removed to the hotel where mrs. conway had taken rooms, to remain until mrs. winans recovered from her attack of impending brain fever. as yet she had not seen mrs. winans, no one being permitted to enter the sick-room excepting those who were in close attendance on the patient; and, truth to tell, lulu was lonely. she missed bruce conway. for many weeks now the twilight hour had been the pleasantest of the day to her, for it had been passed in his company. now as she sat at the window, cuddled up in a great easy-chair, her cheek pressed down in the hollow of her little white hand, her wistful brown eyes watching the fairy hues of sunset, lulu was waking to a realization of her own heart. the little sister that captain clendenon had wanted to keep a child forever was a child no longer. love--the old, old story, old as the world, and yet new and sweet as the blushing flowers of to-day's blossoming--had opened for her the portals of a broader existence, and lulu was learning the strength and depth of her woman's heart first by its intense aching. according to the verdict of the world, it is a woman's shame to love unsought; and yet i think that that is scarcely love which waits to be given leave to love. flowers blossom of their own sweet will, and often as not their sweetest perfume rises under the heedless feet that trample them down. it is much so with the human heart. it gives love, not where it is asked always, but often where it is uncared for and unknown; and the cold steel of disappointment is but to such love as the knife that digs round the roots of our flowers--it makes the fibers strike deeper in the soil of the heart. "successful love may sate itself away, the wretched are the faithful." lulu wished idly that she were floating in ether on the top of that gold-tinged cloud that rose in the far west, wave on wave, over masses of violet, rose, and crimson; or that she might have laid her hot cheek against that white drift that looked like a chilly bank of snow, and cooled the fever that sent its warm flushes over her face. the pretty lip trembled a little, and lulu felt as if she wanted to go home, like a tired and weary child, to her mother. mrs. conway's light footsteps, as she entered softly, startled her from her painful reverie. she roused up into a more dignified posture, and inquired touching the state of the young patient. "she has been delirious to-day, but is now for the time being quite rational, though still and silent. i want to take you to see her, my dear. you will have to help nurse her (we cannot leave her solely to the care of that nurse and the doctor--it would be cruel), and it is better to have her get acquainted with you now, and accustomed to seeing you about her room. you can come now, if you please, dear. i have spoken to her of you, and she will be prepared to see you." lulu rose from her easy-chair, shook out her tumbled skirts, trying to shake off a portion of her heart's heaviness at the same time, and smoothing her dark braids a little, followed her friend. but her heart rose to her throat as they crossed the threshold of the sick-room, and stood in the presence of a woman who had always been such an object of interest to her. the fading winter sunshine glimmered into the apartment and shone on norah, where she sat, grave and anxious-looking, at the side of the low french bed, whose sweeping canopy of lace thrown back over the top revealed the form of grace winans lying under the silken coverlet, like some rare picture, her cheeks flushed scarlet with fever, the white lids drooping over her brilliant eyes, her arms thrown back over her head, her small hands twisted in the bright drift of golden hair that swept back over the embroidered pillow. "dear grace," mrs. conway said, softly, "this is my young friend, lulu, mrs. winans, miss clendenon." slowly the sweeping lashes lifted, and the melancholy gaze dwelt on lulu's face, but the lips that opened to speak only trembled and shut again in that set, firm line with which proud women keep back a sob. one little hand came down from over her head, and was softly laid in lulu's own. as it lay there, warm, feverish, fluttering like a wounded bird, the young girl's heart swelled with a throb of passionate sympathy. she bent impulsively and pressed her cool, dewy lips on the fevered brow of the other, while she registered a vow in her unselfish soul, that she would stand between grace winans and every sorrow that effort or sacrifice of hers could avert. how potent is the spell of sympathy! the light pressure of those soft lips touched a chord in grace's tortured heart that never in after years ceased to vibrate. her husband had spoken truly in saying that she had no intimate woman-friend, but it was scarcely her fault. her nature was a singularly pure and elevated one; the majority of the women she knew had few feelings in common with her, and she was too much superior to them not to be an object of envy rather than a congenial friend to most. she had found a kindred spirit at last in the sister of willard clendenon; and if the shifting current of fate had ordered her life otherwise than what it was--had she married willard clendenon, maimed, comparatively poor, unskilled in the current coin of worldly compliment though he was, she would have found her soul-mate. but these strange mistakes lie scattered all along the path of life, and it is true that matches, if made in heaven, sometimes get woefully mismatched coming down. "her fever is getting higher," mrs. conway said, as she anxiously fingered the blue-veined wrist. it rose higher and higher; delirium set in, and in restless visions the young mother babbled of her lost child; she was seeking him--seeking him everywhere, through the wide, thronged avenues of washington, the long corridors of the capitol, the dull, narrow streets of norfolk, by the moonlit shores of ocean view; and the red light of a meteor in the sky was blinding her so that she could not see; and when it faded she was in darkness--and now burning reproaches scorched the sweet lips with their fiery breath, and paul winans' name was whispered, but with inexpressible bitterness. the impression on her mind, strengthened by his words at their last interview, was that he had intentionally secreted her baby to punish her in some sort for what seemed to him faults in her. he had struck a blow at her heart where it was most vulnerable; she had told him it would be her death, and he had wanted her to die; and this dismal refrain haunted her fevered slumbers through long hours. in vain norah cooled the burning head with linen strips, holding masses of powdered ice; the white arms tossed restlessly, the lips still babbled incoherent grief and anger; the physician came, watched her for an hour, went through the formula of prescribing, and shaking his head and promising to see her in the morning, went his way; and the hours went on--it was ten o'clock, and quieter slumbers seemed to fall upon the worn-out patient; she talked less incoherently, tossed and moaned less often. "a gentleman to see mrs. conway," was announced by the subdued voice of a servant at the door. supposing that it was her nephew, she glided softly out, returning in ten minutes, to find grace feebly tossing again and staring with wide-open eyes at every object in the dimly lighted room. she bent over her and tried to fix her wavering attention. "my dear, will you see your husband? senator winans desires an interview with you." something in the name seemed to fix and hold her wandering thoughts. she half-lifted herself, resting on her elbow and sweeping her hand across her brow. "my husband--did you say that?" "yes; listen, dear. he has come to see you, and is waiting in the parlor. may i bring him in? will you see him?" a flash of hope in the fever-bright violet eyes, a hopeful ring in the trembling voice: "the baby--he has brought the baby?" "no, not yet; he hopes to soon," taking the small hands and softly caressing them with hers, "indeed, you are mistaken, gracie, in thinking, dear child, that he is deceiving you in this matter. he is in great distress, longs to tell you so, and to try to comfort you; say that you will see him." "no, not i; you do not know him--he is so cruel. oh, my poor heart!" clasping her hands across her heaving breast, "he has come to triumph in my anguish, to laugh at the wreck he has made of my life." "not so, gracie, dear little one, he has come to sympathize with you--won't you let him come?" "no, no, never!" rising straight up and shaking herself free of mrs. conway's detaining hand, the delirium clouding her brain again. "oh, never till he comes to me with our baby in his arms will i look upon his face again. tell him this, and say that if he entered that door i would most surely spring from that window rather than look on his face with its smile of triumph at my suffering." she fell back, exhausted and quite delirious now, and mrs. conway turned with a heavy heart to carry the ill tidings to the man who waited in the next room. she was spared that pain. the clear, bell-like voice, sharpened by anger and scorn that was strange to that gentle spirit, had penetrated the next room, and he knew his doom and felt it to be just, as he stood in the middle of the floor, his hands clasped behind him, his head bowed on his breast, a perfect picture of humiliation and despair. "i have heard," he said, with a ghastly smile, as her fingers touched his arm. "my poor boy!" she said. "it is just," he said, in a whisper of intense pain. "god knows i merit worse at her hands, but, all the same, it goes hard with me--the worse because, as i told you just now, i leave for europe to-morrow in quest of our child. oh! mrs. conway, take care of her while i am gone. don't--don't let her die!" "she shall not die," said lulu's soft, low tones, as she glided into the room and up to his side. "i will--we all will--do everything to keep her for you until you come back to make her happiness your chief care in life hereafter. she must not, will not, die!" he looked up, caught her hand, and touched it gratefully to his lips. "god bless you for those words, miss clendenon! you always come with renewed life and promises of hope. oh! watch over her well, i entreat you; and, oh! teach her, if you can, to think less harshly of me. may god forgive me for my folly and wickedness to her, and give me a chance to retrieve the past by the future." the two ladies looked at each other, deeply moved. "i am coming back at the very earliest possible day after i recover my child," he went on; "but never till then. i have heard my doom from her own lips." then he stopped, too deeply pained for words, and with only a heart-wrung "good-by," was gone. "the next time _you will seek me_," she had said, at their last fatal interview. there are many thoughtless words spoken that afterward seem like prophecies. mrs. conway and lulu went back to the room where they were doomed to watch for many long weeks yet to come over the sick-bed where life and death were waging fierce warfare over a life-weary, reckless victim. but the "balance so fearfully and darkly hung" that a touch may turn the scale toward "that bourne whence no traveler returns," wavered, and dropped its pale burden back into the arms of those who loved her; and, shadowy, wasted, and hopeless, grace winans took up the cross of her life again, with all the sunshine gone out of it, the only comfort left to her bruised heart that "comfort scorned of devils"--that comfort that is "sorrow's crown"--"remembering happier things." chapter xv. "hope springs eternal in the human breast." "ah! one rose, one rose, but one by those fair fingers culled, were worth a hundred kisses, pressed on lips less exquisite than thine." --tennyson's "gardener's daughter." it is the latter part of the month of february, and norfolk is waking up from its winter torpor. our friends who wintered in washington are all at home again. mrs. conway and her well-beloved nephew are located once more at ocean view. mrs. winans, only just recovered from her severe and lengthy illness, is once more established in her handsome residence in cumberland street, and has prevailed on miss clendenon to spend the first few weeks after their return with her--mrs. clendenon, though lonely without her, willingly giving up those weeks of her daughter's treasured society to the fair woman of whom both son and daughter speak in terms of such unqualified praise. they are very fond of each other--grace and lulu--and, indeed, the fair mistress of that grand home feels as if life will be a blank indeed when lulu, too, leaves her, for her pleasant company helps to dispel the aching sense of waiting and suspense that broods drearily over her own heart. senator winans has not returned to the united states--indeed, seems in no haste to return--for he has resigned his seat in congress, and writes that he will never return until accompanied by the child so strangely lost. at present the fate of that little child is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. the detectives in liverpool who were watching for the arrival of the steamer there, were eluded by the cunning of his poor, half-insane abductor, and not a trace of her afterward could be found, though the story was widely circulated in the prominent papers, munificent rewards offered for his restoration to his father, and the best detectives employed to hunt the woman down. in vain. whether the little paul yet lived was a matter of doubt to many who considered the subject carefully, and remembered how irresponsible, how poorly fitted to take care of the tenderly nurtured babe, was the poor, grief-stricken, demented creature. but winans remained abroad, resolved that he would never give up the search nor return home until success crowned his efforts. and with him, to make a resolve was generally to keep it. as for grace, the first sharp agony of her grief being past, a sort of apathy settled upon her, a quietude that appeared to infold her so closely it seemed as if joy or pain could never touch her more. very still and quiet, though sweet, and gently observant of the cares of others, she glided through the elegant rooms of her strangely quiet and solitary home, and books and music, and long, lonely drives, shared only by lulu, formed the only objects of her daily occupation. health returned to her so slowly that life seemed slipping from her grasp by gradual declining, and the fair cheek, never very rosy, wore the settled shadow of an inward strife, the girlish lip a quiet resolution that moved the gazer to wonder. and for lulu, also, a slight paleness has usurped the place of the brilliant roses she carried to washington. the starry brown eyes hold a grave thoughtfulness new to their soft depths, and sometimes, when suddenly spoken to, the girl starts, as if her thoughts had strayed hundreds of miles away, though the truth of the matter is they never strayed further than ocean view, where the handsome object of their thoughts dawdled life away, "killing time" and thought as best he might, and seldom coming into norfolk--"recruiting after a fatiguing season," he was wont to say, when rallied on the subject by his numerous friends in the city, and had lulu been at her mother's, he would very possibly have called occasionally to see her, but while she staid with grace she was debarred the pleasure of seeing him, for bruce never expected to cross the threshold of the house that called mrs. winans its mistress, and where lulu sat one bright, sunny morning, toward the last of the month of february. as is often the case, february had borrowed a windy day from march, and the "homeless winds" shrieked around the corners, and moaned dismally in the trees that were just putting out the safest and greenest of velvet buds, and lulu, sitting alone in the cozy morning parlor, idly turning the pages of a new volume, started up in surprise and pleasure as a servant ushered "dear brother willie" quite unexpectedly into the room. "so glad to see you," she said, brightly, putting both hands in his one, and rising on tiptoe for a kiss. he stooped and gave her a dozen before he accepted the chair she placed for him beside her own. "mother is well? i haven't seen her these two days," she queries, anxiously. "mother is well--yes, and sent her love." "now," she chattered, laying aside her book, and concentrating all her attention on him, "give me all the news." "well, lulu, all the news i have is soon told. i am come to bid you good-by. winans has been urging me so earnestly in his letters to join him abroad in his search for the little paul, that i have not the heart to refuse, if i wished, which i do not, and i start to-night. there is no use putting it off, and i do not need to. the only thing i regret is that this will curtail your stay with mrs. winans, as mother cannot spare us both at once, and will want to have you with her to console her anxieties while 'with a smile at her doleful face, her willie's on the dark blue sea.' still, dear little sister, you can spend much of your time with mrs. winans, which i hope you will do." "i certainly will do so," she gravely promises. "it is solely for her sake that i go," he concluded. "otherwise i do not care for the trip, and it rather encroaches on my business at this time. but if i can help lift the cloud from her life, no effort of mine shall be wanting. _noblesse oblige_, you know, little sister." she glanced up into the soft, serious, gray eyes, that met her gaze so kindly with a smothered sigh. "how noble and calm was that forehead, 'neath its tresses of dark curling hair; the sadness of thought slept upon it, and a look that a seraph might wear." "my darling," he bent and looked into the face that lay against his shoulder, "you are not well--you do not look like my bright, happy bird. what is it--what has troubled you?" "nothing; indeed it is nothing. i have the least bit of a headache, but it is wearing off in the joy of seeing you," she answered, smiling a little, and then, woman-like, touched by a sympathizing word, breaking into tears and sobbing against his shoulder. he put his arm around her, inexpressibly shocked and pained. "something _has_ troubled you, and i know it. tell me, lulu, or i cannot be content to cross the ocean leaving you with some untold grief in your happy young heart. come, you do not have any secrets from brother willie." "no, no, it is nothing, dear brother, but i am so nervous of late--have learned to be a fashionable lady, you know," smiling faintly to allay his anxiety, "and i am so shocked to think you are going away--so far, and so _soon_--how long do you mean to stay?" "i cannot tell. i shall write to you often, anyhow, so that you and mother shall not miss me so much. i shall throw all my powers into this undertaking. and, lulu, i think--that is--i should like to see _her_ and say good-by--if you think she would see any one?" "she would see you, certainly; she is very fond of you; talks often of you. you can go down into the conservatory; she was there a little while since. i know she is there still. after you tell her good-by, you will come back to me--will you?" "yes, dear," he answered, as he rose and left her, passing on through the continuation of the elegant suite of rooms leading out to the door of the conservatory and glancing in for her he sought. she was there. he caught his breath with a pang as he saw the slender figure standing under a slim young palm tree, looking like a sculptured image of thought with her downcast eyes and gravely quiet lips. a furred, white morning robe of fine french merino, girded at the waist by silken white cords and tassels, fell softly about her form and trailed its sweeping length on the marble floor. there were faint blue shadows around the glorious eyes, though they may have been but the shadow of the sweeping black lashes--there was a glow but no color on the pure, fragile cheek, and a dumb suggestion of quiet martyrdom in the droop of the hands that loosely clasped each other, as "stiller than chiseled marble standing there, a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair," the eyes of captain clendenon dwell on her for a moment with a mist before their sight, and then--but then she lifted the sweeping lids of those rare pansy-vailed eyes, and looked up at him. the ghost of a smile touched her lips as she gave him her hand. "it seems a long time since i saw you," she said, "though it really is not two months." "sometimes," he answered, gravely, "so much suffering can be crowded into two months that it may well seem two centuries." "ah! yes." she set her lips suddenly in the straight line with which she was wont to keep back a sob. after a moment, "have you seen lulu?" "yes, i have seen her," going over patiently, and at more length, the information he had just given his sister, talking this time brightly and cheerfully. "i feel almost assured he will be found; he must be--'there is no such word as fail,' you know, in the 'lexicon of youth,'--and i think you are giving up too easily. you will undermine your health already weakened by your severe illness. why, you have the appearance of one who has given up all hope." "and i have," she calmly made answer. "that is simply suicidal," he said, trying to rouse her into hope with all the strength of his strong, true nature. "you are so kind, captain clendenon," she flashed a blinding ray of gratitude from her dusk eyes upon him, "so kind to go and look for him--my baby--believe me, i never, never can forget it, though i feel that all search will be in vain--still, still, it is so kind, so noble in you to do all this, and i know you are doing it for me," laying her small hand mechanically on his coat-sleeve in a childish fashion she had, and keeping the grateful eyes still on his face. "mrs. winans," he answered, quite gravely, "i would go to the ends of the earth to serve you--any man who knows your unmerited sufferings, and appreciates you as well as i do, could not do less, i think." "thank you," she murmured, with the faintest quiver in the music of her voice. "and now," he spoke less gravely, and more brightly, "i think i must be saying good-by. is there anything i can do for you on the other side of the atlantic--any commission for parisian finery--any message for your husband?" "nothing--thanks," she answered, decisively. he sighed, but did not urge the matter. "you are not going to send me to europe without one flower, and so rich in floral blessings?" his glance roving over the booming wilderness of beauty and fragrance all around her. "no, indeed, but you are not going yet. you will certainly stay to luncheon, will you not?" "i cannot--thanks!" "you shall have all the flowers you want. what are your favorites? pray help yourself to all you fancy, and welcome," she urged, earnestly. he glanced around. everything rare, and sweet, and bright he could think of, glowed lavishly around him, but the only white rose that had blown that day she had quite mechanically broken and placed on her breast. "i only want one flower. i like white roses best," he answers. she turned her head, bending forward to see if any were there, and one of her long, fair curls swept across and tangled itself in a thorny bush beside her. she caught it impatiently away, leaving a tangle of broken gold strands on the thorny stem. before she turned back to him he had broken off the spray and hid it in his breast. "there is not a rose," lifting regretful eyes to his face, "excepting this one i wear. i carelessly broke it, but it is still fresh. you are welcome to that, if you will have it," she said, sweetly. "if you please." she disengaged it, and put it in his hand. he retained hers a moment. "thanks, and--good-by." "good-by," her voice said, regretfully, then added: "oh! captain clendenon, find him for me, if you can! oh, try your best!" "i pledge you my word i will," he answered, "but promise me that you will have faith in my endeavor; that you will live in hope." "oh! i cannot, i cannot! i feel that i can never hope again!" she cried, but with a brightening glance. "but you will," he answered, cheerily. "health, and hope, and love will all come back to you in time. 'hope springs eternal in the human breast.' god bless you, and good-by." their hands met a moment in a strong, friendly clasp; her violet orbs dusk and dewy with feeling; her voice scarce audible as it quivered: "good-by!" chapter xvi. "smiling at grief." "come, rouse thee, dearest; 'tis not well to let the spirit brood thus darkly o'er the cares that swell life's current to a flood." --mrs. dinnies. "and if i laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that i may not weep; and if i weep, 'tis that our nature cannot always bring itself to apathy, which we must steep first in the icy depths of lethe's spring ere what we least wish to behold will sleep." --byron. "lulu, i have come to take you for a drive," said grace winans, as she glided lightly into miss clendenon's sanctum, looking fair and fresh, and smiling, in faultless summer costume of frilled and fluted white muslin, and the daintiest of gray kid driving-gloves, for it is six months since captain clendenon went to europe, and the last days of august are raining their burning sunshine on the sea-girt city of norfolk. but lulu's room, cool, fresh, inviting, a very bower of innocent maidenhood--offers an exquisite relief from the burning heat and general parched look of the world outside. a cool, white india matting covers the floor; the chairs are light graceful affairs of willow-work; the windows are shaded with curtains of pale green silk and lace, swaying softly in the faint breeze that stirs the trees outside. a few rare paintings adorn the creamy-hued walls--pictures of cool woodland dells and streams, with meek-eyed cows standing knee-deep in meadow grass; a charmingly romantic sketch of the chesapeake bay, and over the white, dainty-covered lounge, where lulu is reclining at ease, a picture of a cross, to which a slender form, with a vail of sweeping hair, clings with dark, uplifted eyes that breathe the spirit of the inscription beneath: "helpless to thy cross i cling." a vase of fragrant and beautifully arranged flowers adorns the marble center-table where the poems of tennyson, hemans, owen meredith, and all the authors, peculiarly the favorites of young ladies, are ranged in bindings of green and gold. lulu, herself, lying idly with white arms clasped over her head, her face like a rose, her dainty white morning-dress loosely flowing, "a single stream of all her soft brown hair poured on one side," looked as if rose, the "gardener's daughter" had stepped down out of tennyson and laid herself down to rest. "to drive--where?" she asked, as she rose to a sitting posture, and "wound her looser hair in braid." "to ocean view, to call on mrs. conway. my neglect of her since her great kindness to me in my illness is really unpardonable, so we will drive down this morning, make a long, informal call, stay to luncheon, and drive back in the cool of the afternoon." "hum! is not nine miles a long distance to drive this warm day?" asks lulu, rising and flitting into her dressing-room, the door of which stands open beyond. "what! through the cool leafy arches of the woods, with the birds singing, the bees humming, the flowers wasting their perfume for our sole benefit, the spirit of summer abroad in the air--it will be exquisite!" mrs. winans answers gayly, as she floats up and down the room, and, pausing before a mirror, settles her broad straw hat a little more jauntily on her waving ringlets. "sit down, won't you?" lulu calls, from the dressing-room, where she is attiring herself in fresh white robes similar to those of grace. "i thank you, no," she is answered back. "i am fidgety. i am restless--not in the mood for keeping quiet. i prefer to walk about." "ah! hysterical, i presume--is that it?" questions lulu's rosy lips at the door, glancing at her with gently solicitous eyes. "i dare say," not pausing in her restless walk, and lulu, looking closer under the light mask of gayety, reads with a sigh traces of unrest in the fair, proud face. it is a peculiarity of grace's constitution or temperament that she can never keep still under the pressure of excitement or trouble. she is always in a quiver, and even when sitting down she is always rocking or tapping her foot, or perhaps it is only in the convulsive pressure of her pearly teeth on her red lips that she betrays inward unrest. i cannot give any psychological nor physical reason for this. i only know that it is so, and lulu had found out this characteristic of grace long ago. "darling," she says, coming into the room, swinging her broad straw hat by its blue ribbons. "darling, what is it that troubles you?--anything new?" "anything new?" mrs. winans laughs, provokingly. "lulu, dearest, is there anything new under the sun?" "i am certain the sun never shone on anything before as rare as yourself," lulu answers, with winning affection, lifting the small, half-gloved hand to her tender lips. mrs. winans pulls it away, and dashes it across eyes that look suspiciously misty and dark. "don't, lulu, you silly child! you are always making me cry." "and i wish i could," she answers. "i am tired of this surface gayety, my liege lady. oh, i am going to talk plainly! you don't mean it--i know how you suffer, grace, darling, bravely as you repress it, and i know, too, that you would feel better if you let it all blow over in a great passionate storm--rain! but you won't. you have been living the last few months in a whirl of gayety and pretended pleasure, and damming up the fountain of feeling, till now it is breaking over all your frail barriers of pride and scorn, and you will not give it way, and it is bearing you on its current--where, oh! dearest, where?" "hush!" came in a stifled moan, from behind the hands that hid the girlish wife's convulsed face. "you shall not talk so--i cannot bear it!" "but i must, love," and lulu's arm stole around the convulsed form that still held itself proudly erect, as if disdaining human help and sympathy. "i must, and you will forgive poor lulu, for it is her duty, and i must be less your devoted friend than i am if i did not speak. oh, you know you are not taking the right course to procure oblivion of your sad and grievous troubles! it does not make you happy to whirl through the thoughtless rounds of society amusements and pleasures; it does not make you happy nor contented to dazzle men's eyes and hearts with your inaccessible beauty, when seas are rolling between you and the only man in whose eyes you care to seem fair. darling, i know when you go back to your silent home your heart sinks heavier by the contrast; i know that when you lay this lovely head upon its pillow you recall, with agony, the time when your baby's cheek was pillowed there against your own----" "oh, heaven!" shuddered the listener, "be silent, lulu. you will drive me mad. i cannot, cannot bear the least reference to my child! only just now, as i drove up main street in my little phaeton, taking a silly sort of triumph to myself at the sensation created by my pretty face and cream-white ponies, i met the funeral of a little child on its way to the cemetery--the casket was covered with lilies and roses--and, oh, lulu, i thought of my own little one, and its probable fate! and, oh, i wished my heart would break! why, why does not god let me die!" and, shivering with repressed agony, the young wife suffered lulu to hold her in her close-clasped arms, while she wept and moaned on her breast. and lulu, wise in her young experience, let the saving tears flow on, until mrs. winans lifted her head and said, mournfully; "oh, lulu, you should not reproach me for trying to fill up in some way the great blank in my life as best i can! i dare not brood alone over my vacant heart and wretched doom, for i should go mad. i must seek diversion, oblivion!--what would you have me do?" lulu's brown eyes lifted to the picture that hung over the lounge. "gracie," she said impressively, "is there no other way to fill up your vacant heart and life than by utter abandonment to the pleasures of the social world?" the listener's eyes followed hers. "'simply to thy cross i cling,'" she repeated listlessly. "if you must have a salve for your wounded heart," lulu went on, as she toyed with the bright curls that lay against her shoulder still, "there is nothing on earth that so fills up vacant heart and life as the cross of christ the crucified; gracie, do you ever pray?" "i am too wretched," she answered, hopelessly. "too wretched! oh, gracie, dear friend, do you forget how in the darkest hours our lord spent in the garden of gethsemane that, _being in an agony, he prayed more earnestly_? it is in hours of the deepest suffering that we should pray most. when we feel that earth offers no consolation, where can we look but to heaven? and the blessing of god _must_ follow such prayers, since christ himself has set us the example," continued the young mentor, earnestly. "no blessings ever follow my prayers," answered the mourner, with her eyes fixed sadly, through a mist of tears, on the figure that clung "helpless" to the cross, "even when i pray, which i do--sometimes." "you do not pray in the right spirit, then," said her friend, gently but firmly. "you do not expect a blessing to follow your prayers, and we are only healed by faith, not by the simple act of prayer, but by the faith that breathes in it. if you asked a blessing nightly, it would follow prayer, be sure. remember his promise, 'ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find.'" "i know, i know," answered grace, mournfully; "but heaven and earth alike seem to have no mercy on me. come, lulu, my little ponies are impatient waiting so long," and pausing a moment to bathe her tear-stained face in a basin of perfumed water, she floated down the stairs, followed by the sweet little preacher. "now, then," with a forced laugh, as they disposed the elegant blue silk carriage-robe over their white dresses to keep out the summer dust, and dashed off in the exquisite little phaeton that was the envy of all norfolk; "now, then, we are off like the wind for ocean view." she was a skillful driver, and the beautiful, spirited little ponies knew no law but her will. they flew like the wind, as she had said; but as they rode on out of the narrow streets of norfolk, and into the cool, shady forest road, the sunshine glinting down through interstices of the trees, the leafy boughs bending till they swept against the brims of their broad straw hats--in the midst of all her idle and incessant chatter, she heard one low sentence ringing in her ears, and an involuntary prayer was rising in her heart: "lord, teach me to feel that simply to thy cross i cling." she had been too proud almost to humble herself even before the throne of god; she had felt that god himself was unjust to her, and willful and wretched, she had gone on her darkened way, asking no pity from god nor man. to-day, the kind words of lulu had stirred a chord in her thoughtful heart that vibrated painfully as the question forced itself on her mind: "have i been unjust to and neglectful of my god?" in a mind so pure and clearly balanced as was hers, the seeds of evil could not take very deep root, and the word spoken "in season" by the gentle lulu was beginning to bear fruit already, though lulu dreamed not of it, as she kept time with the stream of light and careless words her companion unceasingly kept up. "let me drive," she said, at last, noting the unwonted rose-tint that colored the fair cheek, and thinking it was the effect of fatigue; "you have been driving nearly an hour, and it will be another hour before we see ocean view," and taking the reins with gentle force, drove on; while the other, relieving her fair hands of their damp driving-gloves, folded them across her lap, and laying back her head, gave herself up to mournful retrospection, watching the blue heavens smiling over their heads, the play of the sunshine on the leaves and flowers as they flashed past, and the transient glimpses of the sea now and then glimmering through openings in the woods. lulu's gaze dwelt pityingly on the fair face that looked so child-like as it lay back against the silken cushioning of the phaeton, the long black lashes shading the flushed cheek, the golden locks, moist with the warmth of the day, clustering in short, spiral rings all about the pearl-fair forehead, whose blue veins were so distinctly outlined that lulu could see how they throbbed with the intensity of her thoughts. there was so much fire and spirit, combined with sweetness in that face; its exquisite chiseling, its full yet delicate lips, its round, dimpled chin, the small, sensitive nostril, the perfection of dainty coloring and expression, that lulu could well understand how this beauty, joined to so sweet a soul, could hold men willing captives, and at thought of her brother, lulu sighed deeply, and to shake off the depression that was creeping over her, she said, gayly: "a penny for your thoughts, lady fair." the black lashes fluttered upward, and the pansy eyes met lulu's own with such impotent anguish in their soft depths that the girl started. "darling, what can you possibly be thinking of?" "of nothing that need alarm you, my dearest," answered grace, summoning a smile to her lips as she said, "and here we are at last at ocean view." "and there is john to take the horses," jumping lightly out, and shaking her tumbled skirts. "is mrs. conway at home, john?" "ya'as'm, ole miss is at home," answered john, with a grin of delight, as the fairy idol of the conway retainers sprang lightly out, and stood looking listlessly about her, nodding graciously to john as she followed lulu's example by shaking out her innumerable white frills and embroideries, and leading the way to the house. "clar to gracious!" john said, looking open-mouthed after them, "if she don't grow mo' angelical every day of her life! shouldn't wonder if she took wings any day and flew away to heben. t'other's pretty enough for anything, but _she_--oh! _she's_ a fitter mate for de _president_!" with which compliment he led away the ponies for food and water. mrs. conway was charmed at the arrival of her two favorites. "just thinking of you both," she said, in her graceful way. "talk of angels and you'll see their wings." the young ladies pleasantly returned the compliment as they refreshed themselves with the iced wine and sponge cake she had ordered for them immediately after their long and tiresome drive. "and, indeed, grace," she said, with some concern, "you do not look as well as you should be doing by this time--really seem harassed and worn. i am afraid you are too gay. i hear so frequently of your appearance in social gatherings and society in general, that i hope you are not overtaxing your strength." "i think not," mrs. winans answered, with her grave, sweet dignity. "my constitution is superb, you know." "i should say it was," mrs. conway said, "after all it survived in washington. still you are not looking over strong now. your drive in the warm sun has wearied you. won't you go up to your old room and lie down to rest?" "no, thank you; i am feeling very well;" and lulu, seeing the rapid flutter of grace's fan, knew she was getting excited and nervous, and interposed with some trifling remark that diverted the attention of their amiable hostess, who remembered then to ask when captain clendenon had written, and how he was progressing in his mission abroad. "he writes hopefully," lulu answered, checking a sigh; "has nothing definite, but still keeps on with the search, which he thinks must at last be crowned with success." "let us hope so," mrs. conway said, fervently. presently our old friend, bruce, saunters in, handsome, perfumed, elegant as ever. he bows low to mrs. winans, offers a light congratulation on her improving health, and shakes hands with lulu, who is blushing "celestial rosy red," for she has not seen him for a month before, and her fluttering pulses move unsteadily, her whole frame quivers with subdued ecstasy. oh! love, conquerer of all hearts, whether high or lowly, what a passionate, blissful pain thou art! "and you had the energy to drive out here this sweltering day?" in subdued surprise he queries. "yes, giving mrs. winans the credit of planning the trip--her energy is untiring in creating pleasurable surprises for my benefit." grace turns aside from her chatter with her hostess to acknowledge the compliment with a passing, fond smile on her favorite. "if i remember rightly," mr. conway bows slightly toward her, "mrs. winans has always had a quiet fund of energy in her composition that is a reproach to many who are stronger physically, but, alas! weaker in mental gifts. i am, unfortunately, miss lulu, one of those unstable ones who shall not excel in anything." mrs. winans never glances that way. she holds her small head high, her underlying pride never more noticeable than now as she goes on talking with mrs. conway, languidly fanning herself the while. is memory busy at her heart? we think not, or if it is she would not go back to those happy, idly dreaming hours this spot recalls could they bestow all the happiness they promised then, and denied her. so often in our maturer experience we see the wisdom of god in withholding gifts we craved, whose attainment could but disappoint expectation and anticipation. bruce conway would make lulu, with her loving capacity of twisting love's garlands over wanting capabilities, a very happy wife--he never could have quite filled up the illimitable depths of grace's heart, nor crowned her life with the fullness of content. "will you go to see our flowers?" he asks, bending to lulu with one of his rarely sweet smiles. "you favor my aunt so seldom in this way that i must needs do the honors in as great perfection as is possible to me--one never expects any great quota of perfection from my indolence, you know." she smiles as she dons again the broad straw hat that, by mrs. conway's request, she has laid aside, and rises to go. he rises, too--oh, how peerless in her eyes, in his suit of cool white linen, and his graceful indolence. "i am going to rifle your flower-garden of its sweets, mrs. conway," she says, lightly, as she follows him out on the broad piazza, down the steps, and into that exquisite garden that lay budding and glowing in the burning august sunshine. "ah, life is sweet when life is young, and life and love are both so long!" chapter xvii. "to be, or not to be." ah, me! what matter? the world goes round. and bliss and bale are but outside things; i never can lose what in him i found, though love be sorrow with half-grown wings; and if love flies when we are young, why life is still not long--not long. --miss muloch. "it has been almost a month since i saw you," conway says, drawing the small hand of lulu within his arm as they saunter down a shady path where the crape myrtle boughs meet over their heads, showering pink blossoms in prodigal sweetness beneath their feet. no answer. she is looking ahead at a little bird hopping timidly about the path, and only turns to him when he goes on pathetically: "i have missed you so much." "you know where i lived," she answers, dryly. an amused smile outlines itself around the corners of his handsome mouth. "so you think it is solely my own fault that i have missed you--have not seen you. well, perhaps it is--yet----" "yet what?" "oh, nothing--it does not matter." "no, i suppose not," she responds, a little scornfully. "nothing seems to matter much to you, mr. conway. i believe you have found the fabled lotos. it would suit you, and such as you, "in the hollow lotos land to live and lie reclined on the hills like gods together, careless of mankind." "whew! since when has my little brownie learned to be sarcastic?" he queries, in genuine astonishment, trying to look into her face, but it is turned away from him, and she is idly stripping the thorns from the stem of a rose she has just broken. ah! if she could only as easily eradicate the thorns that rankle in her gentle heart! "why don't you talk to me?" he says, pettishly. "and have i not been talking?" turning an innocent, unconscious face toward him, a piquant smile on her lips. "i know, but without taking any interest," he says, in an injured tone. "don't you care to talk? are you weary of me?" "weary of you!" she laughs. "ah! that gives me a pretext to quote poetry to you," and she repeats, with a very faint tremor in her voice, the delicious lines of mrs. osgood: "weary of you! i should weary as soon of a fountain playing its low lute tune, with its mellow contralto lapsing in like a message of love through this worldly din." he looks down into the faintly flushed face with a light, triumphant smile she does not see. he knows as well, and better than herself, how much she means the poetry that she has repeated in that light, jesting tone. "thank you," he answers only. "i wish i could think you meant it." she stoops suddenly and breaks off a half-dozen great purplish velvet pansies from a bed on the side of the patch, and puts them into his hands. "'there's pansies--that's for thoughts,'" she says, gayly. "think what you will." "may i think that you love me?" he queries, audaciously, as only bruce conway can do. "i have said think what you will," she answers, growing suddenly crimson. "but why are you throwing my pansies away?" a faint flush crimsons his fair forehead, too. their eyes look at each other as he answers: "i--i do not like pansies; they are too sad. sometimes when i stroll down this path with my morning cigar, lu, they look up at me bathed in glittering dew, and--i am not romantic, child, but they always remind me of blue eyes swimming in tears." "they always remind me of the velvet darkness of grace winans' eyes," she says, meditatively. "'there's _rue_!'" he says, and is suddenly silent. the little, irresistible feminine shaft has struck home. he looks down at the flickering sunshine lying in spots on the graveled path, and reflects on the acute perceptions of woman--this little woman--in particular. she sees his pain, and is sorry. "i wonder"--stirring up a little drift of pink blossoms on the path with the tip of her small slippered foot--"i wonder if all our life-path is to be flower-strewn!" a light flashes into his handsome dark eyes as he clasps in his the small hand lying within his arm. "lulu dearest," he murmurs, "if you will promise to walk hand in hand with me through life, your path shall be strewn with all the flowers love's sunshine can warm into life." a shiver thrills her from head to foot; the blue heavens darken above her head; the warm and fragrant air that rushes down the myrtle avenue sickens her almost to fainting. passionate bliss is always closely allied to passionate pain. "'to be, or not to be!'" he questions softly, bending over the drooping form, though he feels very sure in his heart what the answer will be. she is silent, leaning more heavily on his arm, her face growing white and mournful. "dear, am i to take silence for consent?" he persists, as though talking to a petulant child who is going to yield, he knows. "i asked you is it to be or not to be?" "_not._" she outdoes his usual laconics in this specimen of brevity. it is fully a minute before he recovers from his astonishment enough to laugh: "don't jest with me, lulu, i am in earnest." "so am i." for answer he lifts her face and scrutinizes it closely. the soft gaze meets his--half-happy, half-grieved--like a doubtful child's. "you are not in earnest, lulu. you do love me--you will be my wife?" "i cannot." he stops still under a tall myrtle and puts his arm around her slim, girlish waist. "brownie, willful, teasing little fairy that you are--you cannot, you will not deny that you love me--can you, honestly, now?" "i have not denied it--have i?" her gaze falling before his. "not in so many words, perhaps; but you refuse to be my wife--if you loved me, how could you?" "if i loved you i would still refuse." "brownie, _why_?" "because----" "that is a woman's reason. give me a better one." "how can i, a woman, give you a better one?" she answers, evasively, tilting the brim of her hat a little further over her face. she does not want him to see the white and red flushes hotly coming and going. "because a better one is due me," he persists, his earnestness strengthened by her refusal. "surely, a man, when he lays his heart, and hand, and fortune at a lady's feet, deserves a better reason for his refusal than '_because_.'" her cheek dimples archly a moment, but she brightens as she says, almost inaudibly: "well, then, it is because you do not love me." "lulu, silly child, why should i ask you to be my wife then? i do love you--as love goes nowadays--fondly and truly." "ah! that is it," she cries, bitterly, "as love goes nowadays--and i do not want such love--my heart, where it loves, resigns its whole ardent being, and it will not take less in return." "and have i offered you less?"--reproachfully this. she nods in silence. "lulu, dear, unreasonable child that you are--why do you think that i do not love you? be candid with me and let us understand one another. i will not be offended at anything you say to me." "nothing?" "nothing! if you can show just cause why and wherefore such a thing as my not loving you can be, i surely cannot be offended." "i know you love me a little," she returns, trying hard to speak lightly and calmly, "but i also know, dear bruce, that your heart, it may be unconsciously to yourself, still retains too much of its old feeling for one i need not name, for you to love me as i should like to be loved. understand that i am not blaming you for this, but you know in your heart, bruce, that were she free, and would she listen to your suit, you would not look twice at poor me." another home-thrust! he stands fire like a soldier, rallies, and meets her with another shot. "this from you, lulu! i did not think it in you to twit me with loving another man's wife!" "i did not mean it that way," she answers, flushed and imploringly. "i meant--only meant to show you, bruce, that i could not--oh! that i cared too much for you to be happy with you unless your love was strong and deep as mine." "i did not think you could be so jealous and exacting, child." "i am not jealous nor exacting. i am only true to my woman's nature," she answers, sweetly and firmly. "nonsense!" he answers, brusquely, "let all that pass--i do love you, brownie, not as i loved her, i own it. but you are so sweet and lovable that it will be easy for you to fill up my heart, to the exclusion of all other past love. try it and see, dear. promise me that you will give yourself to me." "i cannot." "is that final?" "final!" she gasped, as white as her dress, and leaning unwillingly against his shoulder. "why, brownie, child, dearest, look up--heavens! she is fainting," cried bruce, and taking her in his arms, he ran into a little pavilion near by, and laying her down on the low, rustic bench within, opened the gold-stoppered bottle of salts that swung by a golden chain to her belt, and applied it to her nostrils. she struggled up to a sitting posture and drew a long breath, while tears rolled over her cheeks. both lily white hands were uplifted to prevent another application of the pungent salts. "don't please," she said, "you are taking away all the breath i have left." "you deserve some such punishment for your cruelty to me," he retorts, in a very good humor with himself and her, for he feels he has done his duty in his second love affair, and if she will not marry him, why that is her own affair, and he cheerfully swallows his chagrin, and also a spice of genuine regret as he smiles down at her. "i am going back, if you please." she steps out of the pavilion while speaking, and he attends her. as they walk silently on he gathers a flower here and there, the rarest that blow in the garden, and putting them together they grow into a graceful bouquet before they reach the house. then he presents it with the kindest of smiles and quite ignoring the unkind cut she has given his vanity. she takes it, thanks him, and notes with quick eyes that no roses, no white ones at least, nor pansies are there--those flowers are sacred to memory, or, perchance, remorse. "we may be friends at least?" he queries, trying to look into the eyes that meet his unwillingly. and "always, i hope," she answers, as they reach the piazza steps. mrs. winans is at the piano singing for her hostess. a dumb agony settles down on lulu's racked heart as the rich, sweetly trained voice floats out to them as they ascend the steps, blending its music with the deep melancholy notes of old ocean in the plaintive words of an old song that is a favorite of mrs. conway's: "oh! never name departed days, nor vows you whispered then, o'er which too sad a feeling plays to trust their tones again. regard their shadows round you cast as if we ne'er had met- and thus, unmindful of the past, we may be happy yet." "let us take that for an augury, little one," he says, cheerfully; "'we may be happy yet.'" chapter xviii. "other refuge have i none." "there's a stone--the asbestos--that flung in the flame, unsullied comes forth with a color more sure- thus shall virtue, the victim of sorrow and shame, refined by the trial, forever endure." --osgood. mrs. winans sat in her dressing-room before the mirror in the softest of easy-chairs, the daintiest of dressing-gowns, under the skillful hands of norah, whom she had retained as her personal attendant. it was a chilly night in november, but a soft warmth pervaded the rooms, which were heated by latrobe stoves in the basement of the house, and the light, and fragrance, and beauty within seemed even more delightful by contrast with the cold winds that whistled sharply and sullenly without. a look of sadness was noticeable on norah's rosy face as with gentle touches she brushed out the long curls of grace's hair that crinkled and waved in spite of all effort to straighten it. "norah," mrs. winans had said, a moment before, "it is the fifteenth day of november--do you recollect? little paul--dear little baby--is two years old to-night." "and sure did i not recollect?" answered norah, brushing away a quick-starting tear; "but did not speak of it to you hoping it had escaped your own memory." "as if i could forget," murmured grace, looking down, and beginning to slip the diamond ring that blazed on her taper finger nervously off and on; "as if i could forget." "'tis so strange he can't be found," mused norah, keeping time to her words with the brush that she was plying on that lovely hair, "and such a great reward offered by his father for his restoration--forty thousand dollars--why that's a fortune itself. mrs. winans, have you heard nothing of the matter lately?" "miss clendenon received a letter from her brother yesterday--she came around to tell me this morning--in which he stated there was positively not the slightest cue yet. the supposition is that--oh, norah, think of it!--is that my little boy is _dead_. captain clendenon is coming home by christmas--he has been in europe ever since february, now, and even he, hopeful as he was, has given up the search in vain!" "and your husband, ma'am? has he also given up the search? is he, too, coming home?" asked norah, cautiously. "he has put the whole affair in the hands of skillful detectives to be kept up six months longer; then if unsuccessful to be abandoned as hopeless. captain clendenon has the management of his business affairs, and will take charge of this as of the others. senator winans himself, norah, has gone over to paris--to france." "to france?" norah echoes in surprise, "why there is a war there--the french are fighting the dutch." "yes, there is a war there," comes the low reply, "my husband is by birth a louisianian, norah, and partly, i believe, of french extraction--his whole sympathies are with that nation. he has joined the french army and is gone to fight the germans--ah! there goes my ring--pick it up, norah. it has rolled away under the sofa." norah obeys and in silence replaces the ring on the little hand that in spite of the warmth pervading the room is cold and icy as she takes it in hers. "you are nervous," she ventures to say, watching the still, impassive face, "will you take some valerian, wine, or something?" "nothing, norah," but, all the same, norah goes out and comes back with a silver salver holding a small venetian goblet of ruby wine. "just a few drops," she urges with loving voice, and touching the glass to the pale lips. "i think you always take your own way, norah," her mistress answers, as she takes the goblet and drains it obediently. "now, finish my hair, please, and you can go. it is almost eleven o'clock." silently norah obeys, gathering up the shining mass in her hands, and twisting it into a burnished coil at the back of the small head where she confines it with a diminutive silver comb. then with a wistful sigh, and pitying backward glance, she says good-night and grace is left alone. alone! how cruelly alone! all her life-time now it seems to her she will be thus solitary. she leans her small head back, and stares vacantly at the face whose wondrous beauty is reflected there in the mirror, and a light scornful smile curves her lips as she thinks: "is this the form- that won his praise night and morn? she thought: my spirit is here alone, walks forgotten, and is forlorn." rising suddenly she threw up the window and looked out into the night. a gust of cold wind and rain blew into her face. she faced it a moment, then, shutting down the window and dropping the crimson curtains together, passed into her sleeping apartment. but she could not rest. her downy pillows might have been a bed of thorns. she rose, and gliding across the floor and, pausing one moment in grave irresolution, put her hand on the sliding door of the adjoining nursery, pushed it open and entered by the light that streamed from her own apartment. all was still and silent here. shadows lay on everything as heavy as those that clouded her life. she stood gazing mutely around her for an instant; then, with a low, smothered sob of agony, rushed forward, and pushing up the sweeping valenciennes canopy of the rosewood crib that stood in the center of the room, buried her face in the small pillow that still held the impress of a baby's head. then silence fell. some women carry beneath a calm, perhaps smiling, face, a deeper pain than was ever clothed in words or tears. the acme of human suffering crushes, paralyzes some hearts into terrible silence. it was thus with grace. her sorrow had sunk to the bottom of the sea of anguish, so deep that not a ripple on the surface, not a sparkling drop, leaped up to show where it fell. ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by. she lifted her face at last--as white and chill as that of the dead, but lighted by "melancholy eyes divine, the home of woe without a tear." she comes to this room as to a grave. over the grave of the child of her heart she may never kneel. she fancies it in her mind sometimes away off under foreign skies, lying in the shadow of some frowning english church, with not a flower on its low mound, unless nature, more loving than cold humanity, has dropped it there like a jewel in the grass. she sees the sunshine lying on it in the quiet days, hears the birds--the only thing that ever sings in a graveyard--warbling matin songs and vesper hymns in the ivy that clings to the imaginary old church. _there_ she may never kneel--here are gathered all her simple mementoes of him- "playthings upon the carpet, and dainty little shoes- with snow-white caps and dresses that seem too fair to use." there is the crib where she has watched his rosy slumbers; there in the corner is the little bathing-tub where she has seen the dimpled struggling limbs flashing through the diamond spray of cold water, like polished marbles; there upon the wall, smiling down at her in its infantile beauty and joy, hangs the pictured semblance of the face that her foreboding heart whispers to her is moldering into kindred dust beneath the coffin-lid. this room is to her alike a shrine and a grave. how it rains! in the dead, unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof, with what vivid distinctness does memory recall scenes and hopes that are past. poor grace hears the winds and the rain as they hold their midnight revels outside, and shudders as the thronging ghosts of memory flit by. her brief and exquisite wedded happiness, her love for the dark-eyed husband who has wronged her so cruelly--she shudders and tries to put these thoughts away. but she cannot. she has tried before. so long as her child was left, with "baby fingers" to "press him from the mother's breast," she had tried to put her husband away from her heart; tried to be content with his darling little prototype; tried with all the strength of her resolute young soul to crush her love for him. but there are some things that the strongest and bravest of us cannot do. love is "beyond us all;" the battle is not always to the strong; success does not always crown the bravest efforts. it is something to know that they who fail are sometimes braver than they who succeed. now, when the little child that was such a darling comfort to her sad, lonely life is so rudely wrested from that yearning heart, her thoughts irresistibly center about the father of her child. she had loved her baby best--the maternal love was more deeply developed in her than the conjugal--but even then her husband had been blessed with a fervent, tender worship that is the overflow of only such deep, strong natures as hers--natures prodigal of sweetness. latterly, when the terrible news that he had six months before joined the army of france had come to her with all its terrible possibilities, she had only begun to fathom the depths of her unsounded love for him. it amazed herself--she put it from her with angry pain, and rushed into the whirl of social life to keep herself from thinking; wore the mask of smiles above her pain, and sunned herself in the light of admiring eyes, but though fashion and pride and station bowed low to the senator's deserted wife, acknowledging her calm supremacy still, though sympathy and curiosity--(softly be it spoken) met her with open arms, though the wine-cup circled in the gay and brilliant coterie, it held no lethean draught for her, and weary and heart-sick she turned from it all, and sought oblivion in the seclusion of home, and the ever welcome company of cheerful lulu clendenon. but her heart would not be satisfied thus. failing in its earthly love and hope, true to itself through all her mistakes and follies, the heaven-born soul yearned for more than all this to fill up its aching vacancy, for more than all this to bind round the tortured heart and keep it from breaking. "where shall i turn?" she asked herself, as with folded arms she paced the floor with rapid steps, keeping time to the falling rain outside that poured in swift torrents as "though the heart of heaven were breaking in tears o'er the fallen earth." human love, human ties seemed lost to her, earth offered no refuge from her suffering. poor, wronged, and tortured young spirit, "breathing in bondage but to bear the ills she never wrought"--where could she turn but to him who pours the oil of comfort on wounds that in his strange providence may grow to be "blessings in disguise?" she paused in the middle of the floor, lifting her eyes mournfully upward, half-clasping her hands, wavered an instant, then falling on her knees, lifted reverent hands and eyes, while from her lips broke the humble rhymic prayer: "other refuge have i none, helpless to thy cross i cling; cover my defenseless head with the shadow of thy wing." surely, if "he giveth his angels charge concerning us," that pure, heart-wrung petition floated upward on wings seraphic. chapter xix. a new year's gift. "and why, if we must part, lulu! why let me love you so? nay, waste no more your sweet farewells, i _cannot_ let you go- not let you go, lulu! i cannot let you go!" --mrs. osgood. on the following christmas morning mrs. clendenon, mrs. winans and lulu, together with the returned captain, all attended divine service at the protestant episcopal church. it seems strange how many of us become recognized members of the church of christ under religious conviction, without ever having any great and realizing sense of the saving power of god, not only in the matter of the world beyond, but in the limitless power of sustaining us among the trials of this. this had been peculiarly the case with our heroine. she had for years been a member of the episcopal church, and, as the world goes, a dutiful member. but religion had been to her mind too much in the abstract, too much a thing above and beyond her to be taken into her daily life in the part of a comforter and sustainer. she had gone to the world for consolation in the hour of her trial. it had failed her. to-day as the glorious old "te deum" rose and soared grandly through the arches of the temple of worship, filling her soul with sublime pathos, she began to see how he, who had dimly held to her the place of a saviour in the world beyond, is an ever-present comforter and sustainer in the fateful gethsemane of this probationary earth. captain clendenon, as he sat by her side and heard the low, musical voice as it uttered the prayerful responses to the litany, thought her but little lower than the angels. she in her deep and newly roused humility felt herself scarcely worthy to take the name of a long misunderstood saviour on her lips. few of the congregation who commented, on dispersing, relative to the pearl-fair beauty and elegant apparel of the senator's deserted wife, fathomed the feelings that throbbed tumultuously beneath that pale calm bearing as they left the sacred edifice. "lulu," she queried later, as up in the young lady's dressing-room they had laid aside their warm wrappings and furs. "lulu, what do you do for christ?" lulu turned about in some surprise: "what do i do for christ?" she repeated. "oh, gracie, too little, i fear." "'tell me," she persisted. "well, then, i have my sabbath-school class, my list of christ's poor, whom i visit and aid to the best of my ability, my missionary fund, and finally, gracie, dearest, whatever my hand 'findeth to do,' i try to do with all my might." gracie stood still, twisting one of the long curls that swept to her waist over one diamond-ringed white finger. "darling, why do you ask?" lulu said, with her arm about the other's waist. the fair cheek nestled confidingly against lulu's own. "i want to help you, if you will let me--let me go with you on your errands for christ. i belong to the world no longer. show me how to fill up the measure of my days with prayerful work for the master." one pearly drop from lulu's eyes fell down on the golden head that had pillowed itself on her breast. "god, i thank thee," she murmured, "that there is joy in heaven to-day over the lamb that has come into the fold." she whispered it to brother willie that day at a far corner of the parlor when they happened to be alone for a moment together. he glanced across at the slender, stately figure standing at the window between the falling lace curtains, looking wistfully out. "it is natural," he said. "a nature so pure, so strong, so devotional as hers must needs have more than the world can give to satisfy its immortal cravings. poor girl! she is passing through the fire of affliction. let us thank god that she is coming out _pure gold_." after awhile, when lulu had slipped from the room, leaving them alone together, he crossed over to her side, and began telling her of his experiences and adventures abroad. she listened, pleased and interested, soothed by his kind, almost brotherly tone. "you do not ask me after winans," said he, playfully, at last. she did not answer, save by a heightened flush. "you did not know that through his reckless bravery, his gentleness and humanity to his men, he has risen to the rank of general in the army of france?" a soldierly flash in the clear gray eyes. "yes," she answered in a low voice; "i have seen it in the newspapers." "you have? then you have seen also that he----" he paused, looking down at her quiet face in some perplexity and doubt. "that he--what?" she asked, looking up at him, and growing slightly pale. "i do not know how to tell you, if you do not know," his eyes, full of grave compassion, fixed on hers. one of her small hands groped blindly out, and clung firmly to his arm. "captain clendenon, i know that the franco-prussian war is ended. is that what you mean? is he--my husband--is he coming home--to america?" she read in his eyes the negative she felt she could not speak. "tell me," she said, desperately, "if he is not coming home, what is it? i am braver than you think. i can bear a great deal. is he--is he--_dead_?" "may god have mercy on your poor, tired little soul," he answered, solemnly. "it is more than we know. in the last great battle, general winans was wounded near unto death, and left on the field. when search was made for him he was not found. whatever his fate was--whether he was buried, unshrouded and uncoffined, like many of those poor fellows, in an unknown grave, or whether an unknown fate met him, is as yet uncertain. we hope for the best while we fear the worst." one hand still lay on his coat-sleeve--the other one followed it, clasped itself over it, and she laid her white face down upon them, creeping closer to him as if to shield herself against his strong, true heart from the storms that beat on her frail woman-life. one moment he felt the wild throb of her agonized heart against his own; then all was still. lifting the lifeless form on his arm, he laid it on a sofa and called to lulu: "i had to tell her!" he exclaimed. "she did not bear it as well as we hoped. i am afraid i have killed her." ah! grief seldom kills. if it did, this fair world would not have so many of us striving, busy atoms struggling for its possession. she came back to life again, lying still and white in lulu's loving arms. captain clendenon and his mother went out and left them together. they would not intrude on the sore heart whose wound they could not heal. "after all we can hope still," lulu said, cheerily. "all is uncertainty and mere conjecture. we can still hope on, until something more definite is known." "hope," repeated the listener, mournfully. "hope, yes," was the firm reply. "hope and pray. one of brother willie's favorite maxims is that hope springs eternal in the human breast!" "i can bear it," came softly from the other. "i have borne so much, i can still endure. with god's help i will be patient under all." "whom he loveth he chasteneth," answered lulu. * * * * * when new year's day came with its social gayeties, receptions, and friendly calls, one of lulu's latest and most surprising visits was from our old friend, bruce conway. he had not called on her for a long time, and she had heard that he was in washington. the warm blood suffused her face as she stood alone in the parlor, with his card in her hand, and it grew rosier as he entered, and with his inimitable, indolent grace, paid the compliments of the season. "you do not ask me where i have been these many days," he said, as he sipped the steaming mocha she offered him in the daintiest of china cups. she never offered her friends wine. "i had heard that you were in washington," she answered, apologetically. "right--and what was i doing there? can you undertake to guess?" "i am sure it is beyond me." this with her most languid air. "flirting, perhaps." a light smile curves his mustached lip. certainly this little beauty, he thinks, is "good at guessing." "have your callers been many to-day?" he asked. "quite a number of my friends have called--all, i think. i expect no more this evening," she answers, demurely. "i am glad of that. i shall have you all to myself, lulu--willful, indifferent still, since you will not ask my object in washington, i will e'en tell you anyhow." "go on--i am listening." putting down the cup he had finished, he seated himself on the sofa by her side, good-humoredly taking no notice of the fact that she moved a little farther away from him. "how pretty you are looking, _ma belle_. your blue silk is the loveliest shade--so becoming; your laces exquisite. scarlet geraniums in your hair--ah! lulu, for whose sake?" "not for yours," she flashes, with a hot remembrance that he has always liked her in scarlet geraniums. a slow smile dawns in his eyes--his lips keep their pretense of gravity. "her hair is braided not for me, her eye is turned away." he begins to hum. "all this is not telling me what mischief you were at in washington?" she interrupts. "oh," trying to look demure, but woefully failing, "no mischief at all--only paying off old scores--spoiling fontenay's fun for him as he did for me last winter. "satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." "miss clendenon, you are hard on a poor follow. why don't you ask _her_ name; if she is pretty; if she is in the 'set;' if she is rich; and so on, _ad infinitum_?" "i hardly care to know," she answers, with pretty unconcern. "hardly care to know--now, really? i shall tell you anyhow. well, she is an heiress; is pretty; in her second washington season; father in the banking business, and fontenay, despairing of winning you, has transferred his 'young affections' to her. she rather likes him--will marry him, perhaps, but then----" "but then?" "she likes me, too, and i have teased the gallant captain considerably. oh, the drives i have had with the fair cordelia, the gas-light flirtations; the morning strolls to the capitol; the art-gallery; everywhere, in short, where you went with the major. i am not sure but she would throw him over for me altogether." her heart sinks within her. has his fickle love turned from her so soon to this "fair cordelia?" better so, perhaps, for her in the end; but now--oh! she has never loved him so well as at this moment, sitting beside her in his dusk patrician beauty, with a certain odd earnestness underlying his flippant manner. "mrs. conway is well, i hope?" she says, to change that painful conversation. "is well?--yes, and misses you amid the gay scenes of the capital. what have _you_ been doing secluded here in your quiet home, little saint?" "oh! nothing particularly." "you have not been falling in love, have you?" "why?" with an irrepressible blush. "i wanted to know--that is all. brownie, aunt conway, and i are going abroad this spring to stay, oh, ever so long." he is watching her narrowly. she knows it, and changes her sudden start into one of pretty affected surprise. "oh, indeed! will wedding cards and the 'fair cordelia' bear you company?" "not if some one else will. brownie, cannot you guess why i have come here this evening?" his voice growing eagerly earnest, a genuine love and earnestness shining in his eyes. "to make a new year's call, i guess," she answers, with innocent unconsciousness in her large dark eyes, and the faintest dimples around her lips. "guess again, brownie?" "i cannot; i have not the faintest idea," turning slightly from him. "then, brownie," taking her unwilling hand in his. "i have come to ask you for a new year's gift." a scarlet geranium is fastened in with the lace at her throat. she plucks it out and holds it toward him with a mischievous smile. "will you take this? i am sorry it is all i have to offer." he takes the hand that holds the flower and puts it to his lips. "it is all i ask; so your heart comes with it." vainly she tries to draw back; he holds the small hand tighter, bending till his breath floats over her forehead. "lulu, i did not come here for the gift of a hot-house flower, though coming from you it is dearer than would be a very flower from those botanical gardens that are the glory of washington. i wanted a rarer flower--even yourself." her face is hidden in one small hand. in low tones she answers: "i thought this matter was settled long ago. did i not tell you no?" there is a long pause. presently he answers, with a wondrous patience for him: "you did, and rightly _then_, for i did not fully appreciate your pure womanly affection. i thought i could easily win you, and having lost you i loved you more. lulu, i am woefully in earnest. refuse me now, and you, perhaps, drive me away from you for years--it may be forever. i love you more than i did then--a thousand times better." still she is silent. "brownie," he pleads, "i am not so fickle as you think me. i have fancied many pretty women, but only loved two--grace grey and yourself. my love for her is a thing of the past, and has to do with the past only--'echoes of harp-strings that broke long ago'--my love for you is a thing of the present, and will influence my whole future. you can make of me a nobler man than what i am. willard is willing, your mother is willing, i have asked them both. brownie, let us make of that continental trip a wedding tour?" her shy eyes lifted, meeting in his a deeper love than she has ever expected to see in them for her. "let me see," he goes on, "aunt conway and i are going to europe in june--that is time enough for you to get ready. think of it, brownie, i am to be gone months and months. can you bear to let me go alone?" "no, i cannot," she sobs, hiding her face against his shoulder; and bruce takes her in his arms and kisses her with a genuine fondness, prizing her, after the fashion of most men, all the better because she was so hard to win. chapter xx. wedding cards. "now she adores thee as one without spot, dreams not of sorrow to darken her lot, joyful, yet tearful, i yield her to thee; take her, the light of thy dwelling to be." fair lulu found so little time amid the preparations that went so swiftly forward for her marriage that she was very glad to avail herself of grace's offered assistance in looking after her poor people, her missionary box, &c., and so the lonely and depressed young creature found something to occupy her time as well as to fill up her thoughts. she was of great assistance, too, to lulu in the selection and purchase of the bridal trousseau in which she took a pleasant feminine interest. lulu, who deferred always to her friend's exquisite taste, would suffer nothing to be purchased until first pronounced _comme il faut_ by mrs. winans; and bruce conway, who had returned in the midst of the season from washington, and haunted lulu's steps with lover-like devotion, declared that his most dangerous rival in lulu's heart was mrs. winans. the old yearning passion he had felt for grace had passed into a dream of the past; something he never liked to recall, because there was something of pain about it still like the soreness of an old wound--"what deep wound ever healed without a scar?" but they were very good friends now--not cordial--they would never be that, but still very pleasant and genial to each other. mrs. conway, who was very well pleased to see bruce about to marry, wished it to be so, lulu wished it to be so; and these two who had been so much to each other, and who were so little now, tried, and succeeded in overcoming a certain embarrassment they felt, and for lulu's sake, and not to shadow her happiness, endured each other's presence. "mrs. winans," he had said one day, when some odd chance had left them alone together in lulu's parlor, "it is an unpleasant thing to speak of. yet i have always wanted to tell you how, from the very depths of my soul, i am sorry that any folly of mine has brought upon you so much unmerited suffering. can you ever forgive me?" she glanced up at him from the small bit of embroidery that occupied her glancing white fingers, her eyes a thought bluer for the moment with the stirring of the still waters that flowed through the dim fields of memory and the pure young spirit came up a moment to look at him through those serene orbs. "can i, yes," she answered, gravely. "when i pray, nightly, that our father will forgive me my trespasses as i forgive those who trespass against me, my heart is free from ill-feeling toward any one. how else could i expect to be forgiven?" and lulu's entrance, with a song on her happy lips, had put an end to the conversation that was never again revived between them. and days, and weeks, and months went by and brought june. in that month the wedding was to be, and lulu and her mother, beginning to realize the parting that loomed up so close before them, began to make april weather in the home that had been all sunshine. but "time does not stop for tears." the fateful day came when lulu, in her white silk dress, and floating vail and orange blossoms, stood before the altar and took on her sweet lips the vow to be faithful until death do us part, and, as in a dream, she was whirled back to her home to the wedding reception and breakfast, after which she was to depart on that european tour. is there any need to describe it all? do not all wedding breakfasts look and taste very nearly alike? do not all our dear "five hundred friends" say the same agreeable things when they congratulate us? is it not to be supposed that the bridal reception of the charming miss clendenon and the elegant bruce conway is _comme il faut_? we are not good at describing such things, dear reader, so we will leave it all to your imagination, which we know will do it ample justice. we want to follow captain clendenon and mrs. winans as they slowly promenade the back parlor where the wedding gifts are displayed for the pleasure of the wedding guests. "now, is not that an exquisite set of bronzes?" she is saying, with her hand lightly touching his arm. "and that silver tea-service from the bernards--is it not superb? that statuette i have never seen equaled. ah, see! there is the gift of major fontenay, that ice-cream set in silver, lined with gold. that is generous in him--is it not, poor fellow?" "to my mind, that exquisitely bound bible is the prettiest thing in the collection," he returns. "it is beautiful. that is from her sunday-school children. this ruby necklace, set in gold and pearls, is from mrs. conway----" "and this?" he touches a sandal-wood jewel casket, satin-lined, and holding a pair of slender dead-gold bracelets with monograms exquisitely wrought in diamonds--"this is----" "my gift to lulu." "oh! they are beautiful, as are all the things. but, do you know, mrs. winans, that i am so old-fashioned in my ideas that i do not approve of the habit of making wedding presents--no, i do not mean where friendship or love prompts the gift--but the indiscriminate practice, you understand!" "you are right; but in the case of your sister, captain clendenon, i think that the most of her very pretty collection of wedding gifts are the spontaneous expressions of genuine affection and respect. lulu is very much beloved among her circle of friends." "you, at least," he says, reflectively, "will miss her greatly. you have so long honored her by your preference for her society and companionship. how will you fill up the long months of her absence?" she sighs softly. "she has left me a precious charge--all her poor to look after, her heathen fund, her sewing society--much that has been her sole charge heretofore, and which i fear may be but imperfectly fulfilled by me. still i will do my best." "you always do your best, i think, in all that you undertake," says this loyal heart. "whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, i think," she answers, with a faint flush evoked by his quiet meed of praise. then people begin to flock in to look at the wedding gifts and at grace winans, who is the loveliest thing of all. she has on a wedding garment in the shape of pale violet silk, with overdress of cool muslin, trimmed with valenciennes, white kid gloves and turquois ornaments set in pearls. the wedding guests wore their bonnets, and she had a flimsy affair of white lace studded with pansies on the top of her graceful head. her dress was somewhat after the style of fashionable half-mourning. she had selected it purposely because not knowing if she were wife or widow a more showy attire was repugnant to her feelings. "this," she said, touching a costly little prayer-book with golden cross, monogram, and clasps. "this, i fancy, is from you." "you are right," he answered. "this set of the poets so handsomely bound is from mother. but are you not weary of looking at all these things? shall we not go and find lulu?" "by the way," she says, idly, as they slowly pass through the politely staring throng, exchanging frequent nods and smiles with acquaintances, and occasional compliments with more intimate friends, "there is a report--have you heard it?--from memphis, tennessee--of the _yellow fever_." "yes," he answers, slowly. "i have heard the faintest rumor of it," looking down with a cloud in his clear eyes at the fair inscrutable face. "are you worried about it? i remember to have heard you say your nearest relatives were there." "only distant relatives," she answers, composedly. "i am no more worried about them than about the other inhabitants of that city. my relatives had little sympathy for me in the days of my bereavement and destitution, and though one may overlook and forgive such things one does not easily forget." he was looking at her all the time she was speaking, though her eyes had not lifted to his. on the sweet, outwardly serene face he saw the impress of a growing purpose. what it was he dared not whisper to his own heart. the cloud only leaves his brow when they reach his radiant sister. she stands beneath a bridal arch of fragrant white blossoms, roses, and lilies, and orange blossoms dropping their pendant leaves down over her head as she receives the congratulations and adieus of her friends before she goes to change her bridal robe for the traveling-dress in which she is to start for the other shores of the atlantic. conway is beside her, nonchalant, smiling, handsome, very well satisfied with himself and the world. as his glance falls on the fair, pensive face of the senator's deserted wife, the smile forsakes his lip, one sigh is given to the memory of "what might have been," and turning again to his young bride, the past is put away from him forever, and he is content. and presently the new-made mrs. conway flits up stairs with gracie, to array herself in the sober gray traveling-silk. grace parts the misty folds of the bridal vail and kisses the pearl-fair forehead. "oh, darling!" she whispers, "may god be very good to you--may he bless you in your union with the man of your choice." lulu's tears, always lying near the surface, begin to flow. "oh, gracie," she says, suddenly, "if all should not be as we fear--if i should chance to see your husband on the shores of europe, may i tell him--remember he has suffered so much--may i tell him that you take back the words you said in the first agony of your baby's loss?" "what was it i said?" asked gracie, with soft surprise. "do you not remember the night you were taken ill, when you were half delirious, and he came to see you----" "_did_ he come to see me?" interrupts grace. "certainly--don't you remember? you were half delirious, and you fancied your husband had hidden away the child to worry you, and you said----" "i said--oh, what did i say, lulu?" breathed the listener, impatiently. lulu stopped short, looking, in surprise, at the other. "gracie, is it possible that you were entirely delirious, and that you recollect nothing of your husband's visit and your refusal to see him?" "this is the first i ever knew of it," said grace, sadly; "but go on, lulu, and tell me, please, what i did say." "you refused to see him, though entreated to do so by mrs. conway; you said you would never see him--never, never--unless he came with the missing child in his arms." "did i say all that, lulu?" asked grace, in repentant surprise. "all that, and more. you said that if he attempted to enter your room you would spring from the window--and he was in the parlor; he heard every word from your own lips." "oh, lulu, i must have been delirious; i remember nothing of all that, and it has, perhaps, kept him from me all the time," came in a moan from the unhappy young creature, as she leaned against the toilet-table, with one hand clasping her heart. lulu caught up a bottle of eau-de-cologne and showered the fine, fragrant spray over the white face, just as mrs. clendenon hurried in. "my darling, do you know you should have been down stairs before this time--hurry, do." and too much absorbed in her own grief to observe the ill-concealed agitation of mrs. winans, or attributing it to her sorrow at losing lulu, the mother assisted the young bride to change her white silk for her traveling one. then for one moment lulu flung herself in passionate tears on her friend's breast, with a hundred incoherent injunctions and promises, from which she was disturbed by the entrance of mrs. conway, radiantly announcing that the carriage waited and they had no time to spare. and lulu, lingering only for a blessing from her mother's lips, a prayerful "god bless you" from her brother's, went forth with hope on her path, love in her heart, and the sunshine on her head, to the new life she had chosen. when the last guest had departed, the "banquet fled, the garland dead," mrs. winans removed her bonnet, and spent the remainder of the day in diverting the sad mother whose heart was aching at the loss of her youngest darling. "it seems as if all the sunshine had gone out of the house with her," willard said, sadly, to grace, as they stood looking together at the deserted bridal arch that seemed drooping and fading, as if in grief for the absent head over which it had lately blossomed. "i fancied we should keep our baby with us always in the dear home nest; but she is gone, so soon--a wife before i had realized she had passed the boundaries of childhood." "the months of absence will pass away very quickly," she said, gently, trying to comfort him as best she could, "and you will have her back with you." "i don't know," he said, with a half-sob in his manly voice, lifting a long, trailing spray of white blossoms that an hour before he had seen resting against the dear brown head of his sister, touching it tenderly to his lips--"i don't know, mrs. winans. i don't believe in presentiments--i am not at all superstitious--but to-day, when i kissed my sister's lips in farewell, a chill crept through my frame, a voice, that seemed as clear and distinct as any human voice, seemed to whisper in my ear, '_never again on this side of eternity!_' _what_ did it mean?" ah! willard clendenon--that the fleshly vail that separates your pure spirit from the angels is so clear that a gleam of your near immortality glimmered through! chapter xxi. "rue." "hope, cheated too often when life's in its spring, from the bosom that nursed it forever takes wing; and memory comes as its promises fade to brood o'er the havoc that passion has made." --c. f. hoffman. the gossips of norfolk are weary of wondering at the vagaries of the hon. mrs. winans. they admired and envied her very much in the _role_ of queen of beauty and fashion; they are simply amazed when she glides before the foot-lights in the garb of a "ministering angel." when she first began to aid and assist miss clendenon in her charitable undertakings they thought it only natural, in view of the sudden intimacy that had sprung up between the two, that the one should be found wherever the other was. but it was quite a different thing when the senator's lovely and exclusive wife assumed those duties alone. society, wounded by her quiet and almost complete withdrawal from its fascinations, set it down to a lack of a new sensation, and predicted that as soon as the novelty wore out mrs. winans would seek some newer and fresher hobby. but quietly oblivious to it all, the young lady went her way, smoothing with gentle advice and over thoughtful bounty many a thorny path where poverty walked falteringly on, lending a patient and sympathetic ear to the grievous complaints that rose from the homes of want and distress, strangely gentle to all little children, careful of their needs, thoughtful of their future, dropping the gentle promises of christ along darkened paths barren of such precious seeds, and often society was scandalized by the not unfrequent sight of the young lady taking out for an airing on the cool, breezy suburbs or sea-shore some puny child or ailing adult from the haunts of poverty and making them comfortable by her side in that darling little phaeton that all norfolk ran to their windows to gaze at when it passed. miss lavinia story--dear old spinster!--undertook to interview the lady on the subject of her going so far in alleviating the "fancied wants and grievances of those wretched poor trash," and was fairly driven from the field when mrs. winans, with a glimmer of mischief under her black lashes and a very serious voice asked her if her leisure would admit of her joining the sewing society, of which she was manager. "for indeed," said grace, half playfully, half in earnest, "we are in want of workers very badly. a lady from 'our set' volunteered very kindly last week as operator on the sewing-machine i donated the society, and they are so dreadfully in want of basters. surely, miss lavinia, you will enlist as baster--that, if not more. think of the poor people who need clothing so badly, and say 'yes.'" "i? i would not spoil _my_ eyesight with everlasting stitching for poor people, who are always lazy and shiftless, and smell of onions," said miss story, loftily. "i beg your pardon, i am sure," smoothly returned her merciless tormentor. "i forgot that your eyesight cannot be as strong as it once was. perhaps you would not object to becoming a visitor of the sick, or something of that sort." "my eyesight not as strong as it once was?" returned the lady, in perceptible anger. "you mistake very much, mrs. winans; my eyes are as young as they ever were" (she was fifty at the least), "but i can use them to better advantage than by wearing them out in the service of your sewing circle." "it _is_ rather tedious--this endless stitching," confessed the zealous advocate of the sewing society, "but perhaps you would not object to taking a little sewing at home occasionally--little dresses or aprons, and such trifling things for the little folks--even that would be a help to us in the present limited number of workers--won't you try to help us out that much?" miss lavinia adjusted her spectacles on her high roman nose, the better to annihilate with a flashing glance the persistent young lady whom she felt dimly persuaded in her own mind was "laughing in her sleeve at her," and mrs. winans, with the pearly edge of one little tooth repressing the smile that wanted to dimple on her lip, sat demurely expectant. "i did not call on you, mrs. winans, i assure you, to solicit a situation as seamstress. i never allow myself to be brought into personal contact with the filthy and odious poor. i do my share in taking care of them by contributing to the regular poor fund of the church." "oh, indeed?" said the listener, still unmoved and demure. "i am sure it is very considerate of you and very comforting to the poor people besides." "i think, my dear," answered miss lavinia, pacified by the rather equivocal compliment, "that it would be better for you to confine yourself to the same plan. let those who have not our refined and delicate instincts minister to those of the poor class who are really deserving of pity and of assistance, while we can do our part just as well by placing our contributions in the hands of some worthy person who can undertake its proper distribution. it hardly looks well for a lady of your standing to be brought into such frequent and familiar intercourse with the vulgar and low people to be met in the homes of poverty, if you will pardon such plain speaking from an old friend and well-wisher." "and so you will not undertake to help us sew," persisted the placid little tormentor, as the rustle of miss story's brown silk flounces announced impending departure. "no, indeed--quite out of the question," answered the irate spinster, as she hurried indignantly away to report to her gossips, and only sorry that it was out of her power or that of any of her peers to socially ostracize the self-possessed young advocate of the sewing society. "the most persistent little woman you ever saw," she said. "i fairly thought she'd have coaxed me into that low sewing-circle, or sent me away with a bundle of poor children's rags to mend. i won't undertake to advise her again in a hurry; and my advice to all of her friends is to let her alone. she is 'joined to her idols.'" and the "persistent little woman" ran up stairs and jotted down a spirited account of her pleasant sparring with the spinster in her friendly, even sympathetic journal--the dear little book to which was confided the gentle thoughts of her pure young heart. "dear little book," she murmured, softly fluttering the scented leaves and glancing here and there at little detatched jottings in her pretty italian text, "how many of my thoughts, nay hopes and griefs are recorded here." now and then a smile dawns in her blue eyes, and anon her sweet lip quivers as the written record of a joy or grief meets her gaze. looking back over earlier years, the pleasures of the fleeting hours, the dawning hopes of maidenhood, the deep, wild sorrow of her slighted love, she suddenly pauses, her finger between the pages, and says to herself with a half-sad smile: "and this was about the time when i fancied myself a poet. why have i not torn this out long ago? i wonder why i have kept this foolish rhyme all these years?" in soft, murmuring tones she read it aloud, a faint inflection of scorn running through her low, musical voice: rue! "violets in the spring you gave me with the dew-tears in their eyes, i said, in faint surprise: love do not tearful omens round them cling? you answered: pure as dew our new-born love, no omens sad have we from morning violets, save that love shall be forever fresh and new. "roses, through summer's scope, you brought me when the violets were flown- flushed, like the dawn--full-blown; no folded leaves where hope could 'live in hope,' i moaned; the perfume soon departs; the scented leaves fall from the thorny stem. you said: but they were sun-kissed, child, what then? the fragrance lingers yet within our hearts. "november's 'flying gold' drives through the 'ruined woodlands,' drift on drift, nor violet nor rose, your later gift, love's foolish, sun-kissed story has been told. dear, were you false or true? i know not--only this: love had its blight; nor dews nor fragrance fill my heart to-night- but only--_rue_! "ocean view, november, 1866." "rue!" she repeats, with a low, bitter laugh; "ah, me, i have been gathering a harvest of _rue_ all my life." the leaves fall together over the sorrowful, girlish rhyme, the book drops from her hand, and, sighing, she throws herself down on a low divan of cushioned pale blue silk, looking idly out of the open window at the evening sky glowing with the opalescent hues of a summer's sunset. "i daresay it's quite natural to make a dunce of one's self once in a life-time," she muses, "and i presume there is a practical era in every one's life. all the same i wish it had never come to me; the consequences have followed me through life." her small hand goes up to her throat, touching the spring of the pearl-studded locket she wears there. the lid flying open shows the dusk glory of paul winans' pictured face smiling on her through a mist of her own tears. "and i drove you from me. lulu says i did it; spoke my own doom with fever-parched, delirious lips! _why_ did they believe me? why did they not tell me of it long ago? they should have known i could not have been so cruel! all this time you have thought i hated you, all this time i have thought you hated me! you _did_ come; you did want to make peace with your wronged though willful wife. it is joy to know that though too late for hope even. why did i go to washington? why did i go in defiance of his will? all might have been well with us ere this. both of them--the darling baby and the darling father--might have been mine now. instead--oh, heaven, paul dearest, you will never know now--unless, perchance, you are in heaven--how deeply, how devotedly i loved you! who is to blame? ah, me! it is all _rue_!" a moment her lips trembled against the pictured face, then she shuts it with a snap, and lies with closed eyes and compressed lips, thinking deeply and intensely, as "hearts too much alone" always think. but with the passing moments her sudden heart-ache softens a little. rousing herself she walks over to the window, saying, with a faint, fluttering sigh: "ah, well! 'fate is above us all.'" how sweet the air is! the salt breeze catches the odor of the mignonette in her window, and wafts it to her, lifting the soft tresses from her aching temples with its scented breath, and with the sublime association that there is in some faint flower perfumes and grief, the bitter leaven at her heart swells again with all the painful luxury of sorrow. "i am so weary of it all--life's daily treadmill round! what is it worth? how is it endurable when love is lost to us?" ah! poor child! love is not all of life. when love is lost life's cares and duties still remain. we _must_ endure it. well for us that god's love is over all. some thought like this calms the seething waves of passion in her heart. she picks up her journal from the floor where it had fallen, and listlessly tears out the page that holds the simple rhyme of her girlhood's folly. leaning on the window she takes it daintily between her fingers and tears it into tiny bits that scatter like snow-flakes down on the graveled path of the garden below. "loved by two," she says, musingly. "what was bruce conway's love worth, i wonder? or paul winans' either, for that matter? the one fickle, unstable, the other jealous, proud, unbending as lucifer! not quite my ideal of perfect love, either one of them! after all, what is any man's love worth, i wonder, that it should blight a woman's life?" loved by three she might have said, but she did not know. how much the fleshly vail between our spirits hides from our finite eyes. how often and often a purer, better, stronger love than we have ever known is laid in silence at our feet, over which we walk blinded and never know the truth. and yet by some odd chance, nay, rather unconscious prescience, she thinks of willard clendenon, recalling his words on the day of his sister's marriage: "never again on this side of eternity." "what did it mean?" she mused aloud. "it was strange at the least. i trust no harm will come to lulu, little darling. she is still well and happy, or at least her letters say so." and drawing from her pocket a letter lately received from lulu, she ran over its contents again with all a woman's innocent pleasure in re-reading letters. "how happy she seems," a faint smile curving the perfect lips; "and how devoted is mr. conway; how her innocent, joyous, loving heart mirrors itself in her letters! sunshine, roses, honeymoon, bliss. ah, me," with a light sigh chasing the smile away, "how evanescent are all things new and sweet; like that sky late aglow with the radiance of day, now darkening with the shades of twilight." norah comes in to light the gas, and is gently motioned away. "not yet, norah. i have a fancy to sit in the twilight. you can come in later." and norah goes obediently. then she incloses the perfumed pink epistle in the dainty envelope bearing the monogram of the newly made wife, and laying it aside rests her head upon her hands, watching with dusk pained eyes the shadows that darken over the sky and over her golden head as she sits alone, her heart on fire with that keenest refinement of human suffering--"remembering happier things." all her brightness, all her love lies behind her in the past, in the green land of memory. the present holds no joy, the future no promise. the dimness of uncertainty, of doubt, of suspense, lies darkly on the present hour, the hopelessness of hope clouds the future. heaven seems so far away as she lifts her mournful gaze to the purple, mysterious twilight sky, life seems so long as she remembers how young she is, and what possibilities for length of days lie before her. what wonder that her brave, long-tried strength fails her a little, that her sensitive spirit quails momentarily, and the angel of the human breast, hope, "comes back with worn and wounded wing, to die upon the heart she could not cheer." chapter xxii. on tiptoe for a flight. "if it be a sin to love thee, then my soul is deeply dyed with a stain more dark than crimson, that hath all the world defied; for it holds thine image nearer than all else this earth hath given, and regarded thee as dearer almost than its hopes of heaven!" a period of three months goes by after lulu's marriage, swiftly to those who are gone, slowly to those who remain. mrs. clendenon, in quiet household employments, in prayerful study of her bible, fills up the aching void of her daughter's absence. grace, in pursuance of the charge lulu has left her, finds much of her leisure employed in scenes and undertakings that gently divert her mind from her own troubles to those of others. under it all, the wound that time has only seared lies hidden, as near as she can hide it, from the probing of careless fingers. captain clendenon shuts himself up in his dusty law office with his red-tape documents and law books. of late he has covered himself with glory in the winning of a difficult suit at law, and norfolk is loud in praise of the one-armed soldier, the maimed hero who has grown into such an erudite lawyer. he takes the adulation very quietly. "the time has passed when he sighed for praise." a shadow lies darkly on his life--the shadow of grace winans' unhappiness. in that strong, pure heart of his, no thought of himself, no selfish wish for his own happiness ever intrudes. had peace folded his white wings over her fair head she would long ago have become to his high, honorable heart, a thing apart from his life, as something fair and lovely that was dead; and with her safe in the shelter of another man's love he would have tutored his heart to forget her. as it was, when he looked on the fair face that was to him but a reflex of the saintly soul within, his whole soul yearned over her; his love, which had in it more of heaven than earth, infolded her within the sphere of its own idolizing influence. she became to him, not the fair, fascinating, but sometimes faulty mortal woman the world saw in her, but rather a goddess, a creature most like "that ethereal flower- no more a fabled wonder- that builds in air its azure bower, and floats the starlight under. too pure to touch our sinful earth, too human yet for heaven, half-way it has its glorious birth, with no root to be riven." such worship as this has always been the attribute of the purest, most unselfish love. he sat alone in his office one day, his head bowed idly over blackstone, his thoughts far away, when the sharp grating of wheels on the street outside startled him into rising and glancing out of the window. _she_ was springing from her little pony-phaeton, and in another moment came flitting down the steps and into the room like a ray of sunshine. "moping, are you?" she asked with her head on one side, and a glimmer of her old-time jaunty grace. "not exactly," he answered, cheerfully bowing over the gloved hand she extended with frank sweetness--"only thinking; our life is too short for moping." she might have added: "i myself must mix with action lest i wither by despair." "are you busy?" glancing, as he offered her a seat, at the table littered with books and papers. "not at all; i am at your service," he replied. "i want to talk to you; but--excuse me--your office looks so gloomy--makes me _blue_," she shivered a little. "is your mother quite well?" "quite well--thanks. will you not go up and see her?--or shall i bring her down?" "thanks--neither, i believe. i saw her a day or two since, and i am come on business now. captain clendenon, is it quite _comme il faut_ for a lady to ask you to take a drive? if so, my phaeton is at your service. i want to ask you something; i cannot here. some of your tiresome clients may disturb me." the soft appealing eyes and voice work their will with this infatuated man. if she had asked him to lie down under the hoofs of her cream-white ponies and be trampled on, i fear he would have done it. a man's love for a woman sometimes rises above its ordinary ridiculousness into the sublimity of pathos, and how little it is for him to consent to sit by her side and hear those magical tones, perhaps give some advice to that ever restless young spirit. he calls his office boy, takes his hat, and goes. presently they are rolling over one of norfolk's handsome drives, and censorious people, looking from their windows, exchange opinions that mrs. winans is "rather fast." "alas! for the rarity of christian charity under the sun." "i have been over to portsmouth this morning," she says, in the midst of their small talk. "it is rather a nice little jaunt over there on the ferry-boat over the elizabeth river--don't you think so?" "yes, i do think so; had you a nice time?" "i don't know--yes, i suppose so. i visited some friends, and we went down and saw the beautiful grounds of the naval hospital--what a handsome building it is! the pride of portsmouth. and what romantic grounds! i sat there a long time and looked at the sea." to what is all this idle chatter leading, he wonders, seeing perfectly well with what consummate art she is leading the subject whither she wants it to go. "we were all talking of that dreadful fever at memphis," she resumes, constrainedly. "what swift progress it is making! the newspaper accounts of it are just terrible--heart-rending, indeed; and they are so fearfully in need of nurses and money. i have sent them a small sum--a mere 'drop in the ocean.'" "so have i," he answers, white to the lips. he knows what is coming. she gives him a flitting glance, fanning herself energetically the while. a useless proceeding, for the sea-breeze, that flutters her fair curls like golden banners, is simply delicious. "i heard something about you over there," she ventures. "one always has to go abroad to hear news from home, you know." "very likely; you can hear anything you want to over there. little portsmouth is the hot bed of gossip," he answers, smiling dryly. "well, for that matter, all places are," she returns. "but you do not ask what it was that i heard?" "is it worth the repetition?" "i think so, but you are not interested, i see;" and she leans back with some displeasure--a pout on the curve of her crimson lip. he rouses himself, all penitence and forced gallantry. "i beg your pardon, mrs. winans. any remark from yourself cannot fail to be interesting." "i heard--i wonder you did not tell me of it yourself--that you and your mother are going next week to memphis to help to nurse the fever patients." no answer. "is this true?" her eyes are seeking his. he looks down on her, answering constrainedly: "it is perfectly true, mrs. winans." "why have you kept it from me?" in some wonder this. "we intended telling you, of course, before we left; but it is such a harrowing topic--the sufferings of those poor yellow fever patients--that i have hesitated in mentioning it to you." "was that your only reason?" no answer. he cannot bear to speak. "i know," she resumes, "why you have not told me. you feared i would want to go, too, and so kept it from me in your good, true, brotherly love; but in this case," smiling willfully up into his disturbed face, "your painstaking has been 'love's labor lost.' i have been making my mind up to go all along, and now i mean to make the trip there under the protection of your mother and yourself--if you will permit me." the murder is out. she looks away from him demurely, waiting his reply. it comes, full of a shocked horror. "mrs. winans, are you mad?" "not at all; are you? i am quite as strong, quite as able to help those poor sufferers, as your mother is; and yet you do not think she is mad," she answers, half offended. "no; for she has had the fever, and so have i. you have heard of the fever that desolated norfolk and portsmouth in 1855? mother and i both had the _yellow fever_ in its worst form then, so you see it is perfectly safe and our bounden duty for us to go to the relief of those poor sufferers. but you are frail and delicate yourself. you have never had the fever; you are not acclimated there, and would only fall a victim. it would be a sort of disguised suicide, for you would be voluntarily rushing into the jaws of death." "no, no," she answered, half bitterly. "i bear a charmed life. nothing seems to check the current of my doomed existence. and you forget that memphis is my native home. i lived there the first sixteen years of my life, and am quite accustomed to the peculiar climate. and what if death should come? it would only be to 'leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, and be at rest forever,' but no, i shall not die. i have borne illness, suffering, sorrow--everything that breaks the heart, and snaps the frail threads of existence--yet here i am still, quite healthy, passably rosy, and willing to devote my strength to those who need it. i have been 'through the fire,' captain clendenon, and really," with a subdued smile, "i think i am _fireproof_." "some are refined in the furnace of affliction," he repeats, very gently. soothed by the softly spoken words, she asks, timidly: "tell me if i may go under your care?" "if you _will_ go, i shall be most happy to take all the annoyances of travel off your hands; but, little friend, think better of it, and give up this mad, quixotic scheme." "do you think it such a mad scheme?" she asks, mortified and humiliated. "do you think i could do no good to those poor suffering victims who need gentle womanly tending so badly? do you think the sacrifice of my ease, and luxury, and comfort, would count as nothing with christ? if you think this, captain clendenon, tell me so frankly, and i will remain in norfolk--not otherwise." there is nothing for him to urge against this appeal. she touches up the ponies with her slim, little whip, lightly and impatiently. they are off, like the wind, for home again, as he makes the last appeal he can think of to this indomitable young spirit. "news may come of your husband at any time, mrs. winans. were you to go, and he, returning, found you gone, he would be most bitterly displeased. remember, it was his express desire that you should remain in your home here. i beg your pardon, if i seem persistent, but it is only through friendly interest in you and yours that i take the liberty." "ah! but," a gleam of triumph lightening under her black lashes, "you forget that i have my husband's consent to visit memphis? you brought it to me. i'm returning to the home of my childhood. i am not violating any command or desire of his." "once more," he says, desperately "let me beg you not to think, for the sake of all those who love you, all you love, of going to that plague-stricken city." "it is useless." she set her lips firmly. "i am sorry to refuse your request, but the call of duty i must obey. my arrangements are all made. norah is to stay and to take care of my home. my visit to portsmouth this morning was for the purpose of leaving lulu's precious charge in the hands of a dear christian friend; so," trying to win him to smile by an affected lightness, "you may tell your mother she will have company she did not anticipate, though you were so ungallant as to persuade me not to come." "when a woman will she will." she carried her point against the entreaties of all her friends, and in less than two weeks, three dusty travelers--weary in body, but very strong in prayerful resolves and hopes--were entered as assistants in nursing in one of the crowded hospitals of the desolated, plague-stricken city of memphis. chapter xxiii. in memphis. "to be found untired, watching the stars out by the bed of pain, with a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, and a true heart of hope, though hope be vain, meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, and, oh! to love through all things--therefore pray." --hemans. one of grace's first acts after reaching memphis was to inquire for her relatives, whom she had not seen, and but seldom heard from, since leaving memphis, in her sixteenth year, to make her own way in the hard world. not that she owed them much affection, or any gratitude--only the natural respect and remembrance of kinship induced her to seek them out. but her efforts were not crowned with success, for she learned that they had been among the first of the native families to flee the city at the approach of the pestilence, and grace was greatly disappointed thereat. for a few weeks her voluntarily assumed duties were arduous and embarrassing in the extreme. mrs. clendenon and willard, having had the fever themselves, and having been witnesses of its ravages in their own city, entered at once with confidence and experience on the task of caring for the poor victims who filled the hospitals, and even private houses. to grace it was all new, and strange, and terrible, and though her will was strong, her sensitive spirit quailed at the horrors she daily saw, so unused was she to these scenes, and so diffident of her own powers for service, that she half doubted her abilities, and was, for a time, overwhelmed by the feeling which we have all experienced at times of willingness to perform duties from which we are deterred by ignorance, or lacking self-confidence. but this feeling was not long suffered to deter her from usefulness. laborers were too sadly needed in the terrible harvest of death, and as her increasing familiarity with the details of the awful disease rendered her more efficient, she became an invaluable nurse to the patients, and a reliable and prized aid to the physician of the ward where she was placed. the clendenons were in the same hospital, and in the performance of their several duties the trio often met, when a sweet sentence of praise from the lady, and a cheerful word of encouragement from him, went far to keep up her flagging spirits, and stimulate her to renewed exertions. her strong, healthy constitution upheld her well in those days; for the fiery scourge rolled on and on like some great prairie fire, hourly seizing fresh victims, and erecting its everlasting monuments in the long rows of new-made graves in the cemeteries that swelled upward, side by side, close and many, like the green billows of old ocean, save that they gave back no solemn, tolling dirge, to tell where youth and love, hope and beauty, old age and infancy, joy and sorrow, went down to the stillness of the grave. in the universal suffering, the universal grief of those around her, the anguish of those bereaved of whole families, of friends the young lady put away her own griefs from her heart, and threw herself, heart, and soul, and body, into her work; and, though her two friends were doing precisely the same thing, they pleaded, expostulated, scolded and warned in turn. all in vain; for a rock would have flown from "its firm base" as soon as grace winans from the position she has taken. she had, as she pathetically protested, so little to live for, that she was all the more willing and desirous to sacrifice herself for the sake of saving others who had more ties in life than herself. "that is a poor policy," mrs. clendenon argued, stoutly. "you have no right to commit a moral suicide, however few your ties in life may be. your life is god's, and he has some plan in life for you, or he would not have placed you on the earth." "and this may have been his plan for me, then," persisted the candidate for self-sacrificial honors. "he may have meant for me to take up this very cross. i have been brought to it by many subtle windings." "i do not know," mrs. clendenon answers, with sweet seriousness, "that god gives it to us to fathom exactly what are his plans for us. i think he means for us to take proper care of the health and strength he has given us, and to do his will in all things as near as we can, leaving to him the fulfillment of the grand plan under which, by his fixed laws, every created being is a necessary and responsible agent." and grace answers only by silence and sadness. for captain clendenon, he has long ceased to argue the question with her willful spirit, having very implicit confidence in the grand old adage that "when a woman will, she will--you may depend on't! and when she won't, she won't--and there's an end on't!" "oddly enough," he says, trying to change the conversation from its theological turn, "i met with an old comrade to-day--one of the boys from my company--a virginian, and one of the bravest in the regiment. he had drifted down here since the war." "what was he doing to-day? nursing in the hospital?" mrs. clendenon asks, curiously. "_dying_ in the hospital," the captain answers, with a break in his clear voice. "down with the fever--died this evening." "poor boy!" his mother said, pityingly, and a tear in the younger woman's eye echoed it. "the worst of it is," the captain goes on, "he leaves a poor, timid little wife, and two rosebuds of children--the mother as childish and fragile as the rest." "and what is to become of her?" query both ladies at once. "i want to send her home to her relatives. she was a richmond girl. i remember meeting her there once when my company passed through on its way to manassas. arthur, poor fellow! invited me to call on her. she was then a charming little creature, very different from the heart-broken little thing she is now. mother, i would like it very much if you would call on her to-morrow, and try to comfort her a little--she seems so friendless and desolate. you, too, mrs. winans, if you can conveniently do so." both ladies expressed a desire to visit the bereaved young widow and her little ones. "then i will take you down there to-morrow," he said, gratefully, with a smile in his honest gray eyes. "ah! how it pains me to meet, as one must frequently do here, old friends and old faces, only to close the lids over eyes that have been so dear! poor arthur! poor boy! but it is one of the sad inevitable experiences of life." "grace, my love," mrs. clendenon went on to say, "i have doctor constant's authority to forbid your appearance at the hospital to-night. he says you are so unremitting in attentions to his patients that there is danger of your falling sick, and our losing your valuable services altogether, if you persist in taking no rest at all." in the quiet hotel at which all three are registered they are seated at supper in the small private dining-room. the round, neatly appointed table at which they sit is loaded with luxuries to which they are doing but meager justice. it is late in october, and a small fire burns on the hearth, tempering the slightly chilly air, and lending cheerfulness to the room. bright gas-light glimmers down on crimson carpets, curtains, chairs, that throw into vivid relief the faces of our three friends--pale all of them, and thin, earnest, and full of thoughtful gravity. it is no child's play, this nursing the yellow fever patients in houses and hospitals. these faces bear the impress of sleepless nights and days, and the silver threads on the elder lady's brow are more abundant, while in captain clendenon's curly brown locks one or two snow-flakes from the winter of care, not time, are distinctly visible. there are slight hollows in the smooth cheeks of grace, faint blue circles around her large eyes, and no color at all in her face except the vivid line of her red lips. she looks like a little quakeress in the pale gray dress that clings closely about the slight figure, relieved only by white frills at throat and wrists. all her bright hair is drawn back in soft waves from her face, and confined at the back with a silver arrow that lets it fall in a soft, bright mass of natural curls below the waist--lovely still, though pallid, sad, and worn; and in this quiet nun-like garb, with a beauty that grows daily less earthly, and more heavenly. the pensive shade of a smile dwells on her lip a moment as she looks across on mrs. clendenon in mute rebellion at the physician's mandate. "you need not look defiance," the lady returns, "for i shall add my commands to those of doctor constant. this is thursday, and you have not slept a single night this week, while i have had two nights' rest. my dear child, listen to reason, and remain at the hotel to-night and get some sleep." "i am not so very tired. i can hold out to watch to-night." "oh, of course! and die at your post. what can you be thinking of, grace? flesh and blood cannot stand such a strain. you must take needful rest, or you will fall a victim to the fever through sheer exhaustion." "i cannot rest," she answered, wearily. "it is a physical impossibility for me to take rest and sleep when i know how many are suffering and needing attention that i could render them." "there are others who will supply your place," interposed the captain. "i learned this evening that you were at two death-beds to-day. this, i think, is too much strain on your nervous system, and did i dare i should add my commands to the rest that you remain in your room and take needful repose to-night. as it is, i can only offer my earnest entreaties." the resolute look on her face relaxes a little. she looks up to this quiet, clear-headed captain much as lulu does; has great respect for his judgment; wishes sometimes that he were her brother, too--that her tired young heart might rest against his brave and grand strength. he sees the half-relenting in her face, and desists for fear of saying too much. "two death-beds!" mrs. clendenon echoes. "why, allie winters was only taken ill last night, and you have been nursing her ever since. gracie, you don't mean to tell me that allie winters is dead--so soon!" "she died this evening with her arms about my neck," grace answers, in low, pained tones. "she had the fever in its worst and most rapid form." "ah, me, that poor child! so young, so sweet, so beautiful, and scarcely sixteen, i think. was it not hard to be taken away from this bright world so young?" sighed mrs. clendenon. "well, opinions may differ as to that," mrs. winans answers, half bitterly. "the most fervent prayer i breathed over her still form was one of thankfulness that she was taken perhaps from 'evil to come.' she was the last of the family. they have all died with the fever. she was poor, and almost friendless--beautiful--and beauty is often the cause of poverty. had she lived her life must inevitably have been a sad one. better, perhaps, that she is at rest." she pushes back her chair, folds her napkin, and makes a motion to rise. mrs. clendenon remonstrates. "gracie, you have not taken a mouthful, child." "no, but i have taken my cocoa. andrew," sinking listlessly back into her chair, and speaking to the white-aproned waiter, "you may give me another cup." "there seems to be no abatement of the fever?" she says, interrogatively, to the captain, as she balances her spoon on the edge of her cup. "on the contrary," his grave face growing graver, "the number of victims is daily augmented." her grieved sigh is echoed by mrs. clendenon's as they rise from the table. the next moment a sharp rap sounds at the door. andrew opens it, admitting doctor constant himself--fine-looking, noble, with the snows of sixty earnest winters on his head and on the beautiful beard flowing over his breast--genial, cheerful, gentle, as a physician should always be--he makes a bow to our three friends, but declines to be seated at all. "i have but a moment. i came out of my rounds to make sure that mrs. winans does not go out to-night," and as an eager remonstrance formed itself on her lip, he said, resolutely: "it is no use; you must not think of going. it is imperative that you should sleep. you are not more than half alive now." "but, doctor, there are so many who need me," she says, with a last endeavor to go. "others can take your place. we had new and fresh nurses to come in to-day. pardon me if i appear persistent, madam, but i was your mother's family physician, and thoroughly understood her condition. your own resembles it in a high degree, and i warn you that you have stood as much as you can without rest. you are your own mistress, of course, and can do as you please; but if you go to-night you are very apt to fall from exhaustion." "very well," she answers, wearily, as if not caring to contest the point longer. "since i do not wish to commit suicide, i will stay at home and rest to-night." "that is right. your nervous system is disordered, and needs recuperation. you will feel better to-morrow, and may come back to the hospital. as for mrs. clendenon and the captain, they may come back to-night." she does not really know how tired she is until she goes up to her room and throws herself on the lounge, face downward, like a weary child, to rest. but, exhausted as she is, it is hours before she sleeps. nervous temperaments like hers are not heavy sleepers. after long seasons of wakefulness she finds it almost impossible to regain the habit of natural repose. now she lies quite still, every tense nerve quivering with weariness, but with eyelids that seem forced open by some intangible power, and busy, active brain that repeats all the exciting scenes of the past week. when twelve o'clock sounds sharply on the still of the night she rises, chilled and unrefreshed, and crouches over the dying fire that has smoldered into ashes on the hearth long since. she looks down at it vacantly, with a passing thought that it is like her life, from which the sunshine and brightness have faded long since, leaving only the chill whiteness of despair. often in still moments like these her young heart rises in half angry bitterness, and beats against the bars of life, longing to be free. "only half alive," dr. constant had said to her, and patient and long-suffering as she was, i fear it had sent a half-thrill of joy to her bosom. life held so little for her, was so full of repressed agony and pathos, pressed down its heavy crosses so reluctantly on her fair young shoulders, and sometimes even the love of god failed to fill up that empty heart that hungered, as every human soul must, while bounded in human frame, for human, mortal, tangible love. resignation to her fate she tried sedulously to cultivate, and succeeded generally. only in hours like this, when oppressed with a sense of her great loneliness, the past rushed over her, with all its sweet and bitter memories, and was put away from her thoughts with uncontrollable rebellion against--_what_ she scarcely dared speak, since a higher power than mortal ruled the affairs of her destiny. "god help me!" she murmured, as, pushing up a window-sash, she leaned out and looked at the quiet city of memphis lying under the starry midnight sky, silent save for the occasional rumble of wheels in the distance telling the watcher that the work of death still went grimly on--the dead being hustled out of the way to make room for the sick and dying. the chilly night air, the cold white glimmer of the moon and stars, cooled the feverish blood that throbbed in her temples, a soft awe crept into her heart--the deep, all-pervading presence of god's infinity; and as she shut down the window and went back to the lounge, her pained, half-bitter retrospections were overflowed by something of that "peace which passeth all understanding." sleep fell on her very softly--a deep, refreshing slumber--from which only the morning sunshine aroused her. she rose with renewed energy for her labor of love, and kept at her post for weeks afterward, with only occasional seasons of rest and sleep. her superb organism kept her up through it all, aided and abetted by her unfaltering will. through it all there came no tidings of her husband or child. letters came often from the absentees in europe, but without mention of either, and grace began to feel herself a widow indeed. the clendenons, too, were indefatigable in their exertions for the victims of the fever. they were always devoted and earnest in their efforts, and kept a watchful care, too, over grace, whose zeal and willingness often outran her strength and power of endurance. mrs. clendenon's gentle, placid old face began to look many months older, but it was in willard that the greatest change was perceptible. his cheerful spirit never flagged, but gradually the two women who loved him each in her own way, began to see that the tall, fine form grew thinner and slighter, the face paler, and a trifle more serious, while silver threads began to sprinkle themselves thickly in his dark hair. he was wearing out his strong young manhood in hard, unremitting toil, and leaving his constitution enfeebled and open to the attacks of disease. the idolizing heart of his mother noted all this with secret alarm, and she would fain have persuaded him to retire from his arduous duties and return to norfolk. his gentle but firm refusal checked all allusion to the matter, and, as the weeks wore away, and the fever began to lose its hold and abate its virulence, she hoped that they would soon be released from their wearing tasks, and allowed time for recuperation. the contents of a letter received more than two months previous from lulu weighed also on mrs. clendenon's mind, and she could not, as she often did in other matters, seek the sympathy of grace, as lulu had desired she should not know anything of it. so mrs. clendenon bore her burden of anxiety all alone, save for him who carries the half of all our burdens. chapter xxiv. lulu to her mother. "even to the delicacy of their hands there was resemblance, such as true blood wears." --byron. "london, eng., november 16th, 1873. "dear, dearest mother, whom i long so much to see that it seems impossible to write you, sitting tamely here, all that is in my heart, how can i express my grief and anxiety at hearing that you are still in that terribly stricken city, and that there seems no present prospect of the abatement of that awful epidemic? oh, mother, how could you go--you, and brother willie, and grace--all my dear ones--when you knew what anguish it must cause me in my absence? i know that it is right--know that it is a christian's bounden duty to comfort the sick and afflicted, and i honor you each in my whole heart for such noble, self-sacrificing devotion as you are displaying. but oh, how my heart is aching with the dread! oh, mother, what if one of you should be taken away? oh, i cannot, cannot bear the thought! and yet a strange _presentiment_ weighs on me that on one or the other of your dear faces i will never look again in this world. bruce, dear bruce, who is so kind and loving to me, tells me these are only homesick fancies. aunt conway persuades me that i am only nervous and depressed, and that my fancies are but the result of my feeble condition of health just now; but am certain that it is more than all this. i pray that it may not be, but my whole heart sinks with a sense of prophetic dread, and if bruce would only consent, i should at once return to the united states and join you in memphis; but neither he nor aunt conway will listen to such a thing--their plans being made to spend a portion of the winter in italy, certainly--and the chances are i shall not see you, my sweet mamma, until spring, though how i shall survive our separation so long i cannot tell. i miss you--oh, i miss you so much! and i have wished for you so often! even dear bruce cannot make up to me my loss in you. "i suppose it is not necessary to describe all that i have seen in this great city, as brother willie's letters from here were so exhaustive and entertaining that they have left no new field of description on which to waste my spare stock of adjectives. "but, mother, i am so demure and quiet in my tastes that i care very little for all the glories of the old world, and i pine to go to you, and to be at home again, much to my dear husband's chagrin, who is disappointed that i do not enter with more enthusiasm into all the beauties of art and nature that we have seen in our travels. mrs. conway applauds everything, but i believe it is the fashion to do so--is it not? and _she_ is _so_ fashionable, you know! i honestly appreciate all i see that is appreciable, i think, but not with the keen pleasure of most travelers. i am a home-bird, i suppose--one of the little timid brown birds that hop contentedly about the quiet garden paths, and though having wings, do not care to fly. "'the world of the affections is my world, not that of man's ambition.'" "mother, do you remember when i wrote you from brighton, england, about the little child in whom i was so strangely interested?--whose great resemblance to some one of whom i could not think puzzled and interested me so? well, i have met again with the little darling here, and have visited his grandparents at their elegant villa just outside the city--very old people, i believe i wrote you they were--and devoted to this child, who is, so i am told, the last of the race and name, which has been in its time a very noble, as it is now, a very old one. they are very wealthy and very proud people--the old baronet, sir robert willoughby, the haughtiest old aristocrat i ever met. his wife, lady marguerite, is of a sweeter, gentler type, yet, i fancy, very much in awe of her stern lord. little earle--the heir of this great wealth and proud title--is one of the most interesting little children i ever saw--wonderfully bright and intelligent. he has taken a flattering liking to me, and is always, when in my company, exerting his childish powers for my entertainment. we visit quite frequently--"charming people," aunt conway calls them. the little boy prattles to me, sometimes in an incoherent sort of fashion, of his mother, who seems to be a sort of faint, almost forgotten image in his baby mind. he is not more than three or four years old--well grown for his age. i have observed (bruce, teasing fellow, says i have only fancied it,) that they do not like to hear the little boy speak of his mother. they never mention her themselves, and i have been given to understand that she is dead, but they have never said so in plain terms. the little one does not at all resemble his grandparents. "i commented casually on this to lady marguerite one day, and she answered no, that, to her great regret, the child resembled his father's family most, and she colored, and looked so annoyed, that i felt sorry i had said so much, and tried to mend the matter by saying that he had more the appearance of an american child than an english one. she flushed even deeper than before, and said that she had never been in america, and never to her knowledge seen an american child, but that earle's parents were in that country at the time of his birth, and remained there some time after, which probably accounted for his american look--she did not know. we said no more on the subject, but the slight mystery that seemed to surround it made me think of it all the more; and, mother, now i will tell you why i have taken such an interest in the child. aunt conway and bruce jestingly declare me a monomaniac on this subject, though they do not pretend to deny the fact of the likeness, which struck me the very first time i saw him. mother, this little baronet that is to be, this little english child, with his long line of proud ancestry, his haughty, blue-eyed grandparents, his fragile, blue-eyed mother, whose picture i have seen in their picture-gallery--this little dark-eyed boy is enough like paul and grace winans to be the _child they lost so strangely in washington two years ago_! he has the rarely beautiful dark eyes, the dazzling smile of senator winans, the very features, expression, peculiar gestures, and seraphic fairness of grace. it was a long time before this united likeness became clear to me. then it dawned on me like a flash of lightning, and now i am continually reminded of dear grace in the features and expressions of this little child. it perplexes and worries me, although bruce assures me that it can only be one of those accidental resemblances that we meet sometimes at opposite sides of the world. can this be so? it puzzles me, anyhow, and i heartily wish that the missing senator--or general winans he is now, you know--were here. i should certainly give him a glimpse of little earle willoughby (he bears the name of his grandparents by their wish), who is his living image, and then we should 'see what we should see.' but it seems that the prevailing belief in his death must be true for the papers now speak of it as a settled fact, and give him the most honorable mention. poor, poor grace! how my very heart bleeds at thought of her bereavement, and her beautiful, unselfish devotion to the cause of 'suffering, sad humanity.' dear mother, please do not mention to her what i have written about the child. she cannot bear to have little paul's name mentioned to her, and no wonder, poor, suffering, brave heart! but, mother, darling, i mean to get at the bottom of the slight mystery that enshrouds those people. if i discover anything worth writing i will mention it in my next letter to you. "aunt conway and bruce join me in love to you all. my warmest love to brother willie and grace, to both of whom i shall shortly write. be careful of your health, dearest mother, i beg, and write early and often to your devoted daughter, "lulu c. conway." chapter xxv. the pathos of a quiet life. "oh, being of beauty and bliss! seen and known in the depths of my soul, and possessed there alone! my days know thee not; and my lips name thee never; thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. we have met; we have parted. no more is recorded in my annals on earth." --from lucille. captain clendenon is taking an afternoon cigar. he has stepped out of the hospital, where, thank god! there are fewer patients and less need of him now, for a stroll in the fresh air, and while he meanders down the principal thoroughfare, he lights a havana and enjoys his walk. in financial panics one sees a crowded thoroughfare, with people rushing hither and thither, and blockading the banks; in pestilential panics one sees silent, deserted streets, and dreary, deserted-looking buildings. this is all that meets willard's gaze as he stops on the corner, man-fashion, and looks idly up and down at the occasional passers-by, for human faces are the exception, not the rule. now and then a man goes by, looks hard at him, and nods respectfully. he is very well known here as the noted norfolk lawyer who has so nobly volunteered in the cause of suffering humanity. not a woman but looks twice at the tall figure, with its fine military bearing, its handsome head, set so grandly on its broad shoulders, its empty, pathetic coat-sleeve pinned across the left breast. old death has been at work here. those whom he has not mowed down with his awful scythe have fled, terrified, beyond his present harvest-field. there are places of business closed--some of whose owners are abroad in other cities, others of whom are holding commerce now with the worm and the grave. here and there a school-house is closed, the most of whose little pupils have gone to learn of the angels. it is the dreariness of desolation, and as he puffs meditatively away, these familiar lines of hemans come into his thoughts: "leaves have their time to fall, and flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, and stars to set, but all, thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, death! we know when moons shall wane, when summer birds from far shall cross the sea, when autumn's hue shall touch the golden grain- but who shall tell us when to look for thee?" "a penny for your thoughts, captain clendenon," says a fresh, young voice, and a small hand taps him on the shoulder. he turns with a start. one of the dusky-eyed belles of memphis, with whom he has a casual acquaintance, has stopped to chat with him--a tall, handsome young lady in a mannish costume of navy-blue velvet, double-breasted english walking-jacket, a mannish hat set jauntily on her black hair, and a set of grecian features, and large, black eyes. his gray eyes light momentarily. "ah! miss de vere, this _is_ a pleasure! about the thoughts--they were not worth your inquiry." "i am the best judge of that," and something in her tones, not her careless words, imply that all his thoughts are precious to her. he tosses his cigar away, and turning, asks, politely: "are you out for a stroll? may i walk with you?" "am i out for a stroll? yes, but on my way home now. you may see me there with pleasure." they walk on together down the quiet street, and her cheek flushes a warmer red as she chatters softly to him, he rather listening than talking. it is his way. "i thought you were out of the city--at the north," he says, in answer to some remark. "your father told me two months ago he meant to take his family away from the pestilence." "and so we were. we have but just gotten back since the fever began to lose its hold. how brave you were to stay here! ugh!" she shuddered a little, "that terrible fever! do you know people say that you are a hero?" "do they?" a low laugh ripples over his serene, finely cut lips. he wears no beard, no mustache, and every flitting emotion shows itself about his mobile mouth. she sees a careless sort of surprise on his face now--nothing more. "don't you care for it? it is so pleasant to be praised," she says, in some wonder. "i don't know--is it?" "is it not? do you mean to say that you attach no value to fame--fame that is won by good deeds?" "i don't know," he answers again, in an absent way. "i might have done it in my younger days--scarcely now. i like to do good for its own sake--not for any praise that may follow it." "i know--i have heard at least," she stammered, with strange timidity, "that you lost your arm to--to save another man's life! is it so, captain clendenon--did you give your arm for his life?" her dusky eyes kindling with a passionate hero-worship, that is characteristic of southern women. "yes, i gave my arm for his life," he says, grimly. "i might as well have given him my life, for when i buried my left arm on the battle-field at chancellorsville i buried with it all the hopes that make a man's life worth the living." "and why?" an unspoken sympathy on her pretty face. "what hopes can there be that your misfortune can possibly destroy?" they turn a corner into a side street, where her home lies, meeting a group coming toward them, a man with a bright-faced wife clinging to one arm, a little laughing child by the other hand, and two others following after. his glance marks them out a moment, then meets hers, as he quotes, half-sadly: "'domestic happiness! thou only bliss of paradise that has survived the fall.' "miss de vere, cannot you suppose that a man getting into the 'sere and yellow leaf'--i am almost six-and-thirty years old--must feel the need of some 'fair spirit for his minister?' and," his glance falling, hers following, on his empty sleeve, "what woman could i ask to give herself to half a man?" she slackens her pace to look up at him, in genuine honest astonishment. "captain clendenon, you have never been so quixotic, so absurdly chivalrous as to think that any woman would not feel honored to cast her lot with yours in spite of your honorable misfortune--yes, if you had lost both your arms in the army as nobly as you have lost one!" "thank you! thank you!" he answers, deeply moved, and seeing the sudden waves of hot color breaking over the warm southern beauty of her face, he looks blindly away and thinks what a noble-hearted girl she is, and how he has misjudged her in thinking her a fine, fashionable flirt, as all along he had been doing, when he thought of her at all, which was but seldom. and then they are at the steps of the elegant de vere mansion, and she gently invites him to enter. he shakes his head. "i thank you; but i will continue my stroll. one gets so little fresh air indoors, and i have been so confined lately. to-day i am off duty, and making the most of it. my respects to the family." "oh!" she says, turning, with her foot on the marble step. "may i ask you one question?" "a dozen, if you please," he returned, gallantly. "it is only this: it is a current report here that the hon. mrs. winans, who came down here with your party to help nurse the fever patients, is, or was, miss grace grey of this city--do you know if this is true?" lifting eager, inquiring eyes to his face. "yes, it is certainly true," and she sees some sort of a change pass over his face--what, she cannot fathom. "indeed!" she says, in quick surprise and pleasure. "i knew her intimately as a child; we were next-door neighbors"--she nods at the handsome residence standing next to her own, and he looks at it with tender interest--"and afterward we were in boarding-school together. i always liked her so much. will you give her stella de vere's love, and tell her i will come and see her if she will let me?" "i certainly will, with pleasure," and they shake hands and say good-by again, and she runs up the steps of her father's stately home, pausing in the door-way as he turns away. "he _is_ a hero," she says, with a dreamy light in her dark eyes. "how i _could love_ him, if----" she shuts the door, half-sighing, and goes in. for him, he walks away, stopping a moment in front of the next-door house to light a fresh cigar, and glancing at the green grounds, with their graveled paths, goes away with a fancy in his mind of a fairy child with violet eyes and golden curls at play beside the marble fountain under its dashing spray. grace grey! he walks on down the lonely street, his heart full of grace grey, not grace winans; full of the child and girl whose light steps have danced down this street in happier days--not the senator's sad-eyed wife--he has no right to think of _her_. but this fairy, winning child, this innocent, joyous maiden, who grows into shape and life in his loving imagination--she is his own, his very own, to hold in his "heart of hearts," to think of, to idealize, to worship. he creates in his own mind the goddess she was, goes back from the days when he first knew her to those earlier days when stella de vere knew her. then an idle remembrance of stella's praise of him sets him thinking. was it true? would any woman have loved him as well with his one arm as with two? would grace have done it had he tried to win her? for a moment a half-wish that he had tried, that he had won her for his own idolized wife, overwhelmed him. "she might have been quietly content with me," he thinks. "at least she should never have known the suffering, the passionate pathos that darkens her young life now." too late! "her place in his poor life is vacant for ever," and, as grace has said once, he repeats: "fate is above us all." he goes back to his visions of the child and maiden again; his heart thrills with passionate fondness for the happy child, the lovely girl whose dual lives have merged into the shadowed life of beautiful grace winans. fancies come and go, the "light that never was on sea nor land" shining over his mild pictures of what "might have been," and never opium-eater's visions were fairer than the ideal dreams that go curling up in the blue, fantastic smoke-wreaths of captain clendenon's cigar. sunset drives him to his hotel, chilled and thoughtful. the winter sunshine, pleasant enough in this southern city, in its declining, has left a chill in the air that seems to strike to his heart. at the door he tosses away the remains of that magic cigar and goes up to his room, where a cheerful fire throws its genial warmth over everything, and brings out the stale odor of cigar smoke that clings to him. he throws off his coat, and in his white shirt-sleeves, pours fresh water from the pitcher into the basin. "phew!" he says, in disgust, "how smoky i am!" pushing back his neat linen cuff and bending over, in manly fashion, to dip head and hand into the water; he gives a slight cough, then, gasping, bends lower, while a crimson stream flows fast from his lips into the crystal water, turning it all to blood. again and again that slight cough, again and again that warm tide flowing from his lips--and yet he seems not in the least surprised, not in the least alarmed, only steadies himself, with his hand pressed on the edge of the wash-stand, and watches the flowing life-stream, his face growing white as marble. then the stream thins, grows less and less, and less, and gradually ceases. taking up a glass of fresh water he rinses his mouth of the blood, and standing, looking down at the scarlet flood in the wash-basin, says thoughtfully, but not fearfully: "this is the second time i have done it. i think i will see dr. constant to-morrow." a tap at the door. "mother must not _know_," he says, and hurriedly laying a large towel over the wash-basin, is sitting comfortably in front of his fire when he calls out: "come in." it is mrs. clendenon, just come in from the hospital, her gentle face flushed from walking, a placid smile on her lip. "willard, are you here? gracie and i have but just come in and missed you--why, how pale you are--are you sick?" "no, not sick. i have but just come in also. i was out walking and came in chilled--have not thawed out yet." "oh, willard, my boy!" she cries, in a horrified tone, "what is that?" a great spat of blood he had not observed stained his spotless linen cuff; she turned dead white as she saw it. "it is nothing," he answers, with his handkerchief at his lips, but he draws it away dashed with minute streaks of blood; "sit down, mother, dear, don't get nervous, don't get excited." she is leaning over his chair, her arm around his shoulder, her eyes full of piteous mother's love and fear fixed on his pale face. "my son, what does it mean?" "mother, nothing much. i have only had a slight hemorrhage from the lungs--from over-exertion, i presume. it is all over now; but to make all sure i will consult doctor constant to-morrow, and i will be more careful of my health and strength hereafter, i promise you." "oh, i knew you were killing yourself," she wailed; "i knew it!" "don't, mother--don't talk so wildly. it was for the best, i assure you; it had to come. i shall be very much better after this; doctor constant will tell you so," he says, tenderly, to the wild-eyed mother, who is white with fear for her boy, and with all a woman's physical horror at the sight of blood. she glances around her vacantly, then suddenly walks across the room, lifting the towel from the wash-basin. she looks with reeling brain and dazed eyes on that scarlet tide, and turns on her son a look of awful horror and anguish--such anguish as a mother's heart can feel--down, down, down in its fathomless, illimitable depths. he comes forth and steadies her reeling form with his one arm about her waist, looking down at her with those earnest, beautiful gray eyes. "oh, mother, don't look so--don't grieve so! i tell you, certainly, i shall be better after this. i have only lost a little blood. cheer up, little mother. doctor constant shall give me a tonic, and make it all right. you won't tell mrs. winans? i would rather she did not know. she would worry over it, too, and there is nothing to alarm either of your tender hearts." he did get better of it, though doctor constant shook his head warningly when he met him still at his labors in the hospital. grace knew nothing of it, by his wish, and in february a letter from lulu, who had spent a portion of the winter in italy, filled mrs. clendenon with the same perplexities, doubts, and hopes that agitated lulu's heart in her far away home in london, which, with its foggy atmosphere and chilly rains, made itself peculiarly disagreeable to the young american lady who pined for the clear, pure atmosphere and health-giving sea-breeze of her own native home, while she gently deferred to the wishes of her husband and his aunt, and remained abroad until it pleased them to turn their faces homeward. chapter xxvi. lulu to her mother. "tis strange but true; for truth is always strange, stranger than fiction." --byron. "london, eng., march 20th, 1874. "i promised to write you, dear mother if i should discover anything of interest relating to the little child of whom i wrote you in the autumn; and thanks to dear bruce (who pretended not to take any interest in the matter at all) i have something to write you which, if nothing more comes of it, is certainly one of the strangest coincidences that ever happened. mrs. conway and bruce think it can be only a coincidence, but my hopeful heart whispers that it may be more. but i will tell you of it, mother dearest, and leave you to judge for yourself. "in the first place, then, my dear bruce used only to be amused at my fondness for and interest in the child that bore such marked resemblance to two of my friends, though he could not but admit the likeness himself. but after he became convinced, as i was, that there was some mystery or some secret about the little one's parentage, he, quite unknown to me (not wishing to arouse hopes that might be disappointed in the end), set about making inquiries in a quiet and cautious manner, which brought to light the facts i am about to relate. "i suppose it is hardly necessary i should remind you, mother, that the englishwoman, mrs. moreland, who stole little paul winans from the hotel in washington, d. c., and was traced to the steamer that left for england, told the servant-girl there that she had buried her husband in new york, as also a little girl and boy one year old, and that he was the last child of five. you will also remember that the girl, annie grady, and other waiters in the hotel thought that mrs. moreland was not quite right in her mind--that is to say, she was on the verge of insanity, and it was supposed that, under some hallucination that the child was her own, she kidnapped little paul, and, with a lunatic's proverbial cunning, succeeded in getting away with him. "now, mother, this is what bruce has discovered. first, that sir robert and lady marguerite willoughby never had but one child, a fair and gentle young daughter, who mortally offended them by eloping with and marrying her drawing-master, a young man with the beauty of a greek god and the humble station and sheer poverty which is too often the birthright of such beauty. for this offense she was disinherited and exiled forever from the presence of her haughty patrician father. it is said that the gentle mother would gladly have forgiven the erring child and made the best of the _mesalliance_, but sir robert's will being law, she had no choice but to abide by it. secondly, that the disinherited daughter and her poor and handsome husband led a precarious existence in london for ten years, during which time four children were successively born to them and died; all this time the cruel parents of the willful daughter refusing her appeal for forgiveness. at the death of the last child the unfortunate but devoted pair concluded to try their fortune in america, whither they accordingly went, settling in new york. there another child was born to them, and fortune, long unpropitious, began to smile on the loving pair, when the sudden death of the husband left the timid young mother a widow and a stranger, with a fatherless child. the shock nearly unsettled her reason, and she waited only for the burial of her husband before she started for england with her baby, and on reaching here, presented herself, homeless, friendless, almost destitute, before her cruel parents, with an ill and fretful babe in her arms. they would have been inhuman to have turned her away. she was taken back to their home and hearts, but too late, for she was barely sane enough to give an incoherent account of her husband's death in america before her melancholy madness reached such a violent stage that they were compelled to remove her to a lunatic asylum, where she still remains, a hopeless maniac. "the child, whose dark beauty and lack of resemblance to his mother's family they attributed to a perfect likeness of its deceased father, they received into their home and hearts, and formally adopted as their own, since they two, being really the last of his race, this child was the only one left to perpetuate the name and title of the proud willoughbys. remorse for the part they acted to their unhappy daughter leads them to preserve entire silence as to her and the sad story i have been telling you. all this bruce learned from one who is intimate with the family, and, indeed, the story is well known in london, though they never mention it to strangers. but her parents, of course, knowing of her life while in new york, have not the slightest doubt of the little boy being their grandchild, the son of their daughter, christine, and her husband, earle moreland. you will remember, mother, that the kidnapper of grace's little son was registered at the washington hotel as mrs. earle moreland. i think we only need to prove that mrs. moreland's child died in new york to claim this little child of grace. but i leave you to draw all inferences, dear mother, and i know that you will agree with me that there is more than coincidence in the case. "all that i have told you bruce discovered before we went to italy. now that we have returned he intends to push the matter further and try to get at the truth of the whole affair. i do not yet know what steps he will take in the matter, but pray with me, my own beloved mother, that 'the truth may be made manifest,' and that dear, patient grace may have her child restored to her, for i feel certain that this darling little boy, of whom we are all so fond, is her own child. and, oh! what a pleasure it will be to me to see him restored to her by any instrumentality of mine. "still i think it best to keep her in ignorance of all this yet awhile; for uncertainty and suspense on this subject now would be, i know, more than she could bear; and, besides, we cannot yet know what the end may be. i will send you further tidings as soon as we have any. you can tell brother willie of it all. his clear, prudent judgment may be of use to us, but he is not to let grace know. "i am almost counting the days, mother, between this and the happy day that shall bring me to your dear, loving arms again! i miss you _so_ much, and brother willie, and dear gracie, too. "i had intended to tell you of my pleasant time at lady t----'s reception, my dining at the embassy, and many other interesting things, which i will have to postpone until my next, as my husband is now waiting to take me for a drive, and i, as of old, dear mother, am so fond of driving. how i used to like dear grace's little phaeton! "bruce and aunt conway both join me in love to all, and both are well, but beginning, i believe, like myself, to feel a little homesick. "my warmest love to dear gracie and my darling brother willie, and, mother, dear, do, do, all of you, take care of your health, and don't kill yourselves in that awful memphis, and do not fail to write at earliest convenience to your "devoted daughter, "lulu c. conway." chapter xxvii. "nearer my god to thee." "the heavier cross the easier dying. death is a friendlier face to see; to life's decay one bids defying, from life's distress one then is free! ah! happy he, with all his loss, whom god hath set beneath the cross." to captain clendenon, who lay tossing on the bed of sickness his mother had long foreboded, the news that lulu's letter brought was cheering in the highest degree. his clear judgment brought him to the same conclusion as his sister, and had he been well he would have instantly started for new york to take up the missing links in the old quest for the lost child of grace. but just as the fever epidemic had come to an end, and the three jaded nurses were thinking of a return to norfolk, the weakness that had been growing on him for months culminated in an attack of typhoid fever, that dire enemy of an enfeebled system. he had lain for two weeks now consumed with fever, tortured with pain, and inwardly chafing because the two patient women, who had thought their labors for the sick ended for the season, were now indefatigably devoted to the task of lightening, as far as mortal power could do, his intense suffering. doctor constant came and went with the last days of march, going out always with a look that mrs. clendenon and grace--who had learned to read his countenance--felt almost hopeless at seeing. weeks passed, and the strange fever that seemed playing "fast and loose" with the patient--that rises and falls, but never goes--kept its fiery hold on its victim. his mother was always by his side, mixing medicines, pouring cooling drinks, watching and noting every fluctuation of the disease with the grave, sad patience we often note in elderly women who have grown so used to affliction that they bear it with a fortitude impossible to younger women like grace, who fretted and chafed and grieved at the slow disease that held her friend in its tenacious grasp. yet she was only second in her exertions for him to the mother. it was her small, soft hand that bathed the burning forehead in sprinkling ice-water and pungent perfume; her hand that fluttered the grateful palm-leaf fan that kept such fresh and pure air around the bedside; her hand that was always ready and willing to undertake anything that promised relief, or even alleviation; her presence that lent sunshine to the darkened chamber, where the angels of life and death were striving for willard clendenon's soul. pretty stella de vere, hearing of his illness, called often to inquire about him, and sent daily gifts of hot-house flowers and fruits to tempt the delicate appetite, and in the solitude of her own soul knew that a dear, dear hope was fading from her life forever. sometimes, when the hot, delirious fever fell, and reason held her throne against the enemy, the young man's heart ached at the sight of the pale, worn faces that always wore a cheerful smile for his waking hours. in the contest that was waging he felt very sure which would come off conqueror; but with the fortitude which had marked his life, he kept his opinions to himself, unwilling to grieve his mother and grace, and unwilling to hasten lulu's return on account of the investigation she was pursuing, much as he longed to see her. one unsatisfied wish troubled his feverish hours, and lent a wistful light to his eyes that grace could not bear to see. had it pleased god to restore his health, he would have liked to have gone to london and have brought back her child to her, that he might have had the pleasure of reviving hope in her desolate heart. still it was a comfort to know that it would almost certainly be brought back to her some time. with this thought he must content himself, and he did as well as he was able. "i am wearing you both out," he said, sadly, one day, to the two who were trying to hide beneath cheerful smiles the heart-ache which a recent visit from doctor constant had left, his grave face showing his opinion too plainly. "this long illness, after all you have endured, is unpardonable in me. mother, why not have a nurse for me, and allow yourself and mrs. winans some rest?" the trembling hand of the gray-haired mother fluttered down like a blessing on the burning brow of her eldest-born--the son who had always been a blessing to her from the hour when his baby lips stirred the mother-love into life within her breast until now, when the hand that had smoothed her widowed path so gently, lay still and wasted on the counterpane, never to take up life's burden again. "always unselfish," she answered, in faltering tones. "no, willie, dear boy, i cannot delegate to others the dear task of soothing your hours of pain." "nor can i," supplemented grace, laying an impulsive, clasping hand on the thin one that rested outside the counterpane. "i have put myself in lulu's place, and it is as a sister that i claim the privilege of waiting on you." "thanks," he answered, deeply moved, and mrs. clendenon, with an irrepressible sob, went gliding from the room. "oh, about lulu," she says, with assumed carelessness to hide her real feelings. "why is it you won't consent to have your mother send for her to come on while you are so sick? don't you want to see her?" "don't i?" a wistful pain in his dark eyes. "dear little sister lulu, how i long to see her i cannot tell you! but why hasten her? she is coming shortly anyhow. she may be in time to see me; if not, we still shall meet again some time. she will come to me." "don't talk that way," she says, in distress and pain. "you will get better as soon as this fever breaks." "or worse," he amends. "you know a crisis must come then, mrs. winans, whether for better or worse, we cannot now tell. but we all know--you, mother, and the doctor, though you try to hide it from me--that the indications point to the worst. yesterday, i had slight hemorrhage from the lungs again." "don't talk so," she pleads again. "how can any of us--the doctor, even--tell what will be the result of the crisis? we hope for the best. do you not remember how ill i was in washington with brain fever, and how lulu would not let them shave off my long curls? no one thought i would recover, yet i did. so, i trust, will you." "yes, if it so please god; but i think, mrs. winans, that he is going to be very merciful, and take me to himself." "going to be very merciful," she repeats, with a grave wonder in her large eyes, as at something new and strange. she cannot at all understand how this quiet heart that has always seemed to her so untouched by any great joy or grief, can be so eagerly content in going "home." "why, you do not want to die so young. the world needs good men like you so much that god will not take you yet! why, what can you mean?" "just this, mrs. winans," he lifts his honest gray eyes to her fair face--his fever is falling, and he seems quite cool, though earnest--"that god, when he puts a life-long sorrow on our hearts, usually compensates for it by giving us a brief span in which to endure it. sorrow like yours, that may be turned into joys again, he lets us live to bear. crosses like mine, that may be blessing, but never joy, he lets one lay down early at the foot of the great white throne." sweeping lashes shade her cheeks to hide her great surprise. she asks nothing of captain clendenon's cross, though till now she has never dreamed of its existence. "some lost love," she guesses, with ready sympathy in her heart, and answers, sadly: "sorrows like mine can never turn into joys, _mon ami_." "they can, they will," he cries, in glad excitement. "i know, i feel, that one of your lost ones, at least, will be restored to you." "oh! what can you mean?" in eager hope she rises, looking down at him with eyes that would fain read the secret he had almost betrayed. "sit down," he answers, in calmer tones, "and forgive me for startling you so. i only meant that i felt like this, dear friend; and i do feel as if the shadows are passing from your life, and that, ere long, all will be well with you. it is given sometimes, you know, to dying eyes to see very clearly." a flashing drop from her blue eyes falls down upon the hand that still lies under the soft clasp of hers, and in low tones she answers: "hush, now, you had better not talk any more. i fear you will overtask your strength. i am going to read some for you." and closing his eyes he listens peacefully to the sweet, tremulous voice that reads the fourteenth chapter of st. john, beginning: "let not your heart be troubled." and thus the days pass by, each one stealing a hope from the watcher's heart, and so many hours from willard's life. their patience does not waver, nor does his quiet courage. he knows that the world is fair outside, that the southern sky is blue and bright--that flowers are blossoming, that birds are singing--knows, too, that all "creation's deep musical chorus, unintermitting, goes up into heaven," and is fain to go with it. very bravely and contentedly he breasts the dark waters, knowing that a strong arm upholds him, even his who said to the ocean's tumult: "peace, be still!" mrs. clendenon has written to lulu that he is ill, but ere that long delayed letter reaches her his wasted frame may perchance "be out of pain, his soul be out of prison;" for it is the last of march now, and doctor constant and his consulting physicians think that the fever is almost broken, and the crisis near at hand. what the result will be they almost certainly know, but still whisper feeble hope to the agonized heart of the mother, whose yearning prayer goes up to god that he will spare her first-born. he does not always answer such prayers in the way that seems good to us. but all the same, he who is maker of all things, judge of all things, judges best for us poor finite reasoners. "who knows the inscrutable design? blessed be he who took and gave- why should your mother, charles, not mine. be weeping o'er her darling's grave?" "why? ah, why?" the answer to such queries we shall find written in letters of light, perchance, within the pearly gates of the new jerusalem. closer and closer yet grew the fond tie between mother and son as the long days waned to the lovely southern twilight. many gentle conversations blessed the absent sister from whom another letter came on the third of april, to say that no letters from home had reached her for a month; so she was still ignorant of that fatal illness her tender heart had foreboded mouths before. one portion of the letter which she specially desired her brother to read, he was too ill to see for several days after its reception. not until after that night at whose eve doctor constant said sadly to his mother: "the fever is gone. it will be decided to-night. we shall know in the morning." and the grave-yard twilight brightened into starry night--the softest, balmiest southern night--and three watched by the bedside, for doctor constant came, too, to share that vigil, in the strong, friendly love he felt for the man who had worked so bravely for the death-stricken in that doomed city. hand in hand gracie and the mother watched, each torn with the agony of dread, for grace had taken him into her deep heart as a dear and faithful brother, and felt that one more pleasure would be buried for her in willard clendenon's early grave. so the hours wore on; the mystic midnight came--passed--and in the morning they _knew_. "it is the will of god," doctor constant said, holding the weeping mother's hand fast in his, and speaking in the strong assurance and resignation of a christian faith. "he is wise and just, and knows the right better than you or i, dear friend. be strong, for the end is near; the angels will come for him at sunset." * * * * * "willard, dear son, there is a letter from your sister that she wished you to read. are your eyes strong enough, or shall i read it for you?" lying back among his pillows, as white as they, very much wasted, with the dark curls waving back from the high, pale brow, and a very quiet peace in his grave, sweet eyes, willard takes that letter, and reads it, slowly and painfully through. a dimness crosses his vision as he holds it more than once, and a remembrance comes to him as he notes the clear, running chirography, of how his own hand once guided the little fingers that traced these lines in their first labored efforts to write. but the light of a very sweet content irradiates his face as he turns its pages. if there is aught that can heighten the content of these, his dying hours, it is the story that is told in the pages of his sister's letter--the fair and tenderly loved young sister whom he will see no more until, as redeemed souls, they clasp each other on the sunny shores that are laved by the surf rolling up from the shadowless river. "we part forever?--o'er my soul is sadness, no more the music of thy voice shall glide low with deep feeling till a passionate gladness thrilled to each tone, and in wild tears replied. "'we meet in paradise!' to hallowed duty here with a loyal, a heroic heart, bind we our lives--that so divinest beauty may bless that heaven where naught our souls can part." chapter xxviii. lulu to her mother. "the earth has nothing like a she epistle, and hardly heaven--because it never ends." --byron. "london, eng., april 3, 1874 "such a joyful thing has happened, dear mother, that i could scarcely believe my own ears when (now more than two weeks ago) bruce came in and told me general winans was in london, not dead at all, and only just returned from france, where he had remained until thoroughly cured of the wound which had left him for dead on the dreadful battle-field. it seems that he was removed from the field by a poor and devoted young french soldier, a private in the ranks, and carried to a secure though humble place, where he was attended by a skillful old frenchwoman who dressed his wounds with real surgical skill, and took care of him through a long period of convalescence, he having two protracted relapses and nearly losing his life, sure enough. the reason he was so carefully concealed by the old woman and her nephew, was through fear of the germans, as the war ended with that battle, you remember, and the conquerors had things all their own way. when quite recovered he rewarded the kind couple and left for london, and had been here but two days when bruce met him quite accidentally on the street. you remember his old feud with bruce, dear mother? "well, my dear husband tells me that he drew up his fine, princely figure, and would have passed him without recognition had not bruce, with a resolution quite foreign to his easy nature, absolutely button-holed the proud fellow, and told him, all in a breath, about his marriage and his bridal-tour, and invited him to see aunt conway and me at our hotel. of course, in view of bruce's being married, he forgave him all he at present held against him, and came, nothing loth, to see us, and was so delighted--not more than i, though, i will admit. we kept him all the evening, and heard from his own lips the romantic story of his joining and fighting in the army of france, and of his rescue from death by the young french private. i used to be half afraid of him, but now i think, mother, he is the most fascinating and admirable gentleman i ever met--you know such an odor of romance and adventure clings about him. "he had a perfect torrent of questions to ask me about grace. all of them i answered to the best of my ability, but i was not, i confess, prepared for his great agony when i told him she was at memphis, nursing the fever patients there. mother, i never saw a human being turn so pallid as he did. he sat quite still for a while, his hand pressed to his brow, and only once i heard a sort of moan from his lips, that sounded like, 'oh, grace, you have indeed avenged yourself!' i hastened to assure him that the fever had abated, and the nurses were all returning to their homes, and i expected grace, as also you and brother willie, would soon return to norfolk. and, mother, i felt so sorry for him that i at once blurted out the story of the little boy, earle willoughby. oh, such happy, incredulous excitement i never saw in any one before. bruce had to tell it all over to him. i was both laughing and crying during my relation of it--'silly child!' as aunt conway says. well, he and bruce entered at once upon an investigation that has resulted in restoring hope and happiness to two that i love, and in making warm friends and allies of those two men who once stood up on norfolk's outskirts to try to murder each other, with fiery hatred in their hearts. "but time has changed all that. my bruce is a better man to-day than he was then, and general winans is reasonable, less fiery, less causelessly jealous. painful experience has taught both of them wisdom. "oh, mother, it is all as i expected. i am so happy in the happiness that is to come to our beautiful grace; my whole heart throbs with such joyous emotion, "'i could laugh out as children laugh upon the hills at play.' "general winans and bruce lost no time in calling on the willoughbys to acquaint them with their suspicions. they found them away from home. investigation disclosed the fact that they had been summoned to the mad-house of which their daughter, poor christine moreland, was an inmate. she was very ill, and, as i am told many lunatics do, recovered sense and reason when the cold hand of death was laid upon her. she sent for her parents to confess the crime, the full knowledge and remembrance of which first rushed upon her in that hour. bruce and general winans followed them at once to the asylum, which was an elegant and private one in high repute. they had no need to tell their story. sir robert and lady marguerite knew all, were in possession of all proofs, and in all their desolation gave back the child, without an objection, to its rejoicing father. he has his own again, and lacks but grace's presence and forgiveness to make him the happiest man in the world. "but, mother, there seems some reactionary power in the laws of this world that makes the sorrows of some the prices of others' happiness. the grief of that lonely old pair, so suddenly despoiled of all they looked on as kindred to them is something mournfully pathetic. old, and sad, and worn, as they looked, bending over the costly casket that held poor little mrs. moreland, at the imposing funeral, i shall never cease to compassionate them. little paul, or earle, as he will continue to be called, and his father, are their guests now, as they cannot bear to give up the little boy until the last moment. but sir robert, in his attachment to his little adopted son, intends making him his sole heir, since the property is not entailed, and there is no kin. general winans has promised--with the proviso of his wife's consent--that his son shall always bear the name of earle willoughby winans. general winans has promised to visit them this summer again, bringing his wife, if she will come. gracie, you know, mother, has never been abroad, and general winans wants to bring her over here for an extended tour. "how my pen has run on jumbling up statements in happy, inextricable confusion! but, mother, you must all be at home in may, for in may we shall all be with you once again--oh, joyful thought! "but, mother, gracie, dear, patient, long-suffering darling, is not to know anything about the child until we come home. general winans wishes it. he wants to bring her the joyful tidings in his arms, and who can blame him? mrs. conway thinks it perfectly natural and right, so does bruce, so do i--and do not you think so, too, dear mother? "the rest of the story--about general winans being alive, and coming home so soon--i want her to know. and, mother, i would like brother willard to tell her of it. he will take such pleasure in it! was always so fond of her, so desirous of her happiness, that i want the good news to come to her from his lips, because i think he would like it to be so. "dear, dear brother willie! mother, i think sometimes that he is not as happy as the rest of us. he has never said so--it may be only my fancy--but my heart holds always such a great, unutterable tenderness for him, and a sort of sacred reverence, as for some unspoken grief of his. how happy i am that, god willing, i shall soon be folded again to his dear, loving heart! "mother, do try to induce gracie to take proper rest and sleep, so as to regain her bright looks before we got home. she is never less than lovely, but i want her to be at her best for the eyes of her husband. for, mother, i do like him so much--indeed, he is a fine, frank, noble follow, one whom you will like, i know. and he and bruce are quite good friends, so that there will be no more envyings, jealousies, and such like, but the brooding dove of peace over our hearts and homes, i trust, forever. "i am so happy at thought of seeing you all again, and at all that has happened, that i am too nervous, too glad, or too something, to write more. aunt conway, looking over my shoulder at this, says it is hysterical. i am not sure it is not; so, mother, dear, try to evolve order out of this confused chaos of facts, and we will tell the story more lengthily and intelligibly when we all get home, which, thank heaven, will be very soon. i have had no letter from you for a month. why is it? "with tendered regards to all, i am your devoted daughter, "lulu c. conway. "p. s.--general winans would write to grace, but fears repulse in spite of my assurances to the contrary. he tells me he must ask pardon only on his knees for the irreparable suffering he has caused her gentle spirit. perhaps he is right--i cannot tell. once more with fondest love, _au revoir_. "lulu." chapter xxix. last words. "as the bird to its sheltering nest, when the storm on the hills is abroad. so his spirit has flown from this world of unrest, to repose on the bosom of god." --w. h. burleigh. "who has not kept some trifling thing, more prized than jewels rare, a faded flower, a broken ring, a tress of golden hair?" "grace, love, will you go to willard? he has something to say to you." the southern sun hung low in the western heavens; the day was excessively warm for april, and a little cloud in the sky, "no bigger than a man's hand," foreboded a shower. grace turned from the window where she stood watching the shifting white clouds in the blue sky, and went back to the room from which she had stolen to hide the bitter pain at her heart. a very solemn silence hung about the white-draped chamber. the window shutters were open to admit the balmy air, and a slanting ray of sunshine had stolen in and brightened the top of the sick man's pillow, touching into golden radiance the dark locks pushed away from his brow. the wan and wasted face wore a beautiful serenity that was not of earth. "god's finger" had "touched him" very gently, but palpably. grace bent over him, taking his cold white hand in hers with voiceless emotion. she had grown so fond of him in a warm, sisterly fashion, reverenced his brave, pure, upright spirit so highly that it seemed to her a close and kindred soul was winging its way from her side to the bright beyond, leaving her more alone and desolate than ever. "it is almost over," he said, looking up at her with the reflex of a smile in the beautiful dark-gray orbs that kept their luminous radiance to the last. she answers not. how can she break with the sounds of human grief the brooding peace that shines on the pathway of this departing spirit? her voice, the sweetest one he will ever hear on this side of eternity, rises low but firm in one of the old-fashioned hymns the old-fashioned captain loved: "fear not, i am with thee. o be not dismay'd, i, i am thy god, and will still give thee aid; i'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand, upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand. "when through the deep waters i call thee to go, the rivers of grief shall not thee overflow; for i will be with thee thy troubles to bless, and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress." "amen," he whispers, lowly. "his rod and his staff they comfort me." silence falls for a brief space. he is gathering his fainting strength for the words that come slowly from his lips: "i have been the bearer to you of unwelcome tidings so often, mrs. winans, that it absolutely pains me now to recall it." "do not recall it," she rejoins, earnestly. "why should you? the power overruling such things is higher than we are. you have been a comforter to me more often than you know of--take only that thought with you." he smiles as she re-arranges his pillows, lifting his head so that his faint breath comes more evenly. the stray end of one of her long silken curls falls over his breast an instant, and he touches it with a caressing hand. "it is given to me," he answers, "to bear you good tidings before i go. your memories of me--will not thus be all unpleasant ones." the eager remonstrance forming itself on her lip dies unspoken as he goes on: "you have borne sorrow with a very brave heart, gracie--have been, as you once told me, and as i really think, _fireproof_! can you bear joy as well?" she cannot possibly speak. something rising in her throat literally chokes her breath. "little sister, be strong. lulu has written--well, that your husband--that winans is in london, alive and well--and is coming home to you--in may." there is utter silence. she is quiet always, in pain or pleasure. he sees only her small hands clasping each other close, and her violet eyes--those unerring indices of her feelings--growing dusk black under the lashes. but something in the curve of her firm lip does not satisfy him. he feebly lifts his hand to touch hers. "you will not be hard and unforgiving? it is not like grace winans to be that. promise me that you will forgive him freely! if he acted wrongly he has suffered for it. it is so easy to go wrong--to err is human, you know." no wavering in that sternly curved red lip shows acquiescence. his voice rises higher, with a throb of pain in it: "'if ye forgive not men their trespasses how shall my father which is in heaven forgive you?' gracie, say 'i promise.'" all the sudden hot anger against the husband she had loved--the husband who had wronged her, and left desolate the sweetest years of her life--fades out of her heart. the words falter as hollowly from her lips as from his: "i promise." "thanks. may god bless you--and--and make all your future years happy ones. mother--call mother, please." she puts a little cordial to the panting lips and tearfully obeys. on her knees at the other side of the bed the anguished mother listens to the tender message to the absent sister, the soft words of comfort, the low farewell. with the last kiss of her son on her lips she buries her face speechlessly in his pillow. "gracie, will _you_ raise me a little?" she bends with one arm under his shoulders, the other across his breast, and lifts him so that his head rests comfortably against her shoulder--an easy task, fragile and wearied as she is, for he has wasted in the grasp of that destroying fever until he is scarcely more than a wan shadow of himself. bending to look into his face, she asks, softly: "willard, are you easy now?" "quite _easy_," he answers, in a strangely contented tone, with such a tender caress in it that grace starts; and as he falters "good-by," she bends with a sudden impulse and just touches her lips to his in a pure thrill of sisterly affection and grief; his glance lifts to hers an instant and remains fixed; a quivering sigh, a scarcely perceptible shudder, and willard clendenon's spirit has flown out of the earthly heaven of her arms to the higher heaven of his soul. * * * * * later, as grace lay weeping in her own room, the bereaved mother came gliding in. the soft flame of a wax candle lent a faint, pure light to the room, and showed her gentle face, free from tears, but seamed with a touching resignation beautiful in the extreme. what a mournful pathos lies in the grief of an old face! it is more eloquent than tears, even as silence can be more eloquent than speech. sitting on the edge of grace's lounge, gently smoothing the disheveled curls with her cool fingers, it would seem as if the younger woman were the mourner, she the comforter. "god knows best," she says, with a christian's strong reliance; and then she added, pathetically: "and it has come to me suddenly, gracie, child, that my poor boy was not, perhaps, quite happy, or, at least, that some grief, at which we never guessed, was mingled with the quiet thread of his life." a sudden memory of words of his came into grace's mind. "god, when he puts a life-long sorrow on our hearts, usually compensates for it by giving us a brief span of life in which to endure it." "he deserved to be happy," she answered, warmly. "he was so good, so true. if any merited perfect content, it was your son." "you have seen him sometimes in the whirl of gay society, grace; did you ever notice in him any peculiar attachment for a woman?" "never," grace answered, wondering. "he was courteously polite, deferentially chivalrous to all, but seemed attached to none in particular. why do you ask?" "because i found this--i would show it to none but you, grace--on his poor dead heart. it tells its own sad story." she put into the young girl's hand a broad, flat gold locket, swinging by a slight gold chain. almost as if she touched a coffin-lid, grace moved the spring. it flew open. no woman's pictured face smiled back at her--the upper lid had a deeply cut inscription, _february_, 1871--in the other deeper side lay a dead white rose, its short, thorny stem wound about with a tangle of pale-gold hair. that was all. a sudden memory stirred at grace's heart, and it all came back to her. the winter morning in her conservatory at norfolk--the white rose on her breast, the tangled, broken curl, the gentle good-by. warm flushes of irrepressible color surged up to her pale face, and with a sudden shocked horror mrs. clendenon glanced from the stem of the withered rose to the soft curls she was mechanically smoothing. it was enough. "my poor boy!" she murmured and taking grace winans in her tender, forgiving, motherly arms, kissed her forehead. and the tie between the two women never grew less close and warm. the still form they carried home to norfolk to lay in its grave was a mutual sorrowful tie between them forever. stella de vere came next day, heavily vailed, on her father's arm, and kissed captain clendenon in his coffin, leaving a bouquet of lilies on his pulseless breast. but at early morning's dawn a slender, white-robed form bent over him, all her golden tresses sweeping over the heart that lay under its treasured keepsake still, and a sister's pained and tender kiss rested warmly on the sealed lips whose untold secret had come so strangely into her keeping. chapter xxx. "baby fingers, waxen touches." "my heart grew softer as i gazed upon that youthful mother as she soothed to rest, with a low song, her loved and cherished one, the bud of promise on her gentle breast; for 'tis a sight that angel ones above may stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, when innocence upon the breast of love is cradled in a sinful world like this." --amelia b. welby. the telegraphic message that flashed across the ocean to lulu conway with such mournful tidings never reached her; she was already on the ocean, homeward bound, having just received the letter that told of willard's illness at memphis. it was not until she reached home in may, and was safely domiciled at ocean view, that bruce went into norfolk and brought back the sad-faced mother, whose mourning weeds were the first indication to lulu of her bitter bereavement. mrs. winans, too, was domiciled safely at home again, to the great delight of honest norah, who had been left in entire charge of the stately winans' mansion, and had fretted herself almost to a shadow in anticipation of losing her mistress by that "fatal yellow fever." even now norah was hardly morally convinced that this were really she. but as the days went by and the young lady's cheek began to gather color and roundness again, and her soft, unwonted laugh to wake the sweeping echoes of the large, silent house, norah's doubts were displaced by joyful certainty, and she began to hope that a happier life for the young lady was presaged by her returning smile and lighter spirits. norah did not know that the hope springing softly in the wife's heart had such sure foundation to build upon. grace had withheld from her the fact that general winans was coming home in may, and norah's secret thoughts and misgivings on this subject were many. poor norah had never forgiven herself for the loss of the little child that had been left in its father's care to be so strangely spirited away. she reproached herself always, in her sensitive soul feeling herself entirely to blame, and humbly wondering sometimes how mrs. winans could abide the sight of her, much less her daily personal attendance; while mrs. winans herself, always just, gentle, and considerate to her domestics as to others, never blamed her in the least, really was fond of the honest creature, and in her sensitive dread of new faces around, would not have consented to be deprived of norah. indeed, her whole domestic staff had entered her service when she came as a bride to senator winans' new and beautiful home, and were likely to remain as long as they behaved passably well. she never drew a tight rein on the poor creatures, following as nearly as she could, in her daily life, the golden rule. a charmingly affectionate billet from mrs. conway, the morning succeeding their return to ocean view, invited grace to come out and see them, as they were all in the deepest grief for the poor, dear captain--lulu, indeed, being excessively shocked and ill, with the physician in close attendance. the afternoon found gracie springing from her phaeton at the gates of ocean view, where john, as of old, met her with an adoring smile on his dark visage. "and what is the news with you, john?" she asked, good-naturedly, as she saw that some unusual news agitated his shallow brain. "what have you been doing all this time with yourself?" "only jist gittin' married, miss grace," he responded, with a glittering smile, "to jist the prettiest yaller gal ole mis' eber owned! you 'members of julie, de chambermaid?" grace supplemented her uncontrollable smile with a solid congratulation in the shape of a bridal gift from her well-filled porte-monnaie, and swept on to the house. mrs. conway and her nephew met her in the hall, both unaffectedly glad to see her, and in the midst of much whispering, they left bruce below, and went up to lulu's chamber. it was so dark in here that grace, coming directly in from the may sunshine, at first saw nothing; then, as the gloom cleared away a little, she distinguished mrs. clendenon's black-robed form sitting near the bed where lulu lay, white, and still, and grief-stricken, under the white draperies, with a tiny mite of a girl-baby (prematurely hurried into the world by grief that oftenest hurries people out of it) on her arm. she stooped and kissed the quivering lips that tried to speak, but could not; and, indeed, what could either say that breathed aught of comfort to that shocked and distressed young spirit whose life hung vibrant on a quivering thread? silence was perhaps the best comforter then, and grace took the little newcomer in her arms, and gently diverted the young mother's thoughts by tracing vague resemblances to its handsome parents in the pink and infinitesimal morsel of life--and what a power there is in a simple baby-life sometimes! lulu's pain was softened momentarily by this idle feminine chatter and small talk so vigorously maintained, and her tears remained awhile unwept in their fountains, while now and then a low whisper to her old friend showed how welcome and appreciated was that visit. "if baby lives," she murmured in an undertone to grace, "we mean to call it _grace willard_, for you--and--brother," with a falter over the name. "i think he would have liked it so." and mrs. winans has hard work to keep back her own tears at the memories that flow while she holds lulu's mite of a girl in her arms--thronging memories of her own early days of motherhood--her nestling baby-boy, her darling so rudely torn from her breast. she is glad when the afternoon wanes and it is time to go for she cannot bear to sit there smiling and outwardly content with that heavy, aching heart. "gracie"--lulu draws her down to whisper with pink lips against her ear--"you may expect him--general winans--at any hour. he gets into norfolk to-day. we traveled from europe together, but he had to stop in washington on business, and gets here this evening, i think. will you be glad, dear?" she cannot answer. her heart is in a great whirl of painful feelings. her baby! she wants _her_ baby! the unhealed wound in the mother-heart will not be satisfied thus. lulu's motherhood has thrilled that aching chord afresh; the years that have passed are but a dream, and she longs to hold her rosy, laughing boy again to her tortured breast. mother-love never grows cold nor dead, mother-grief never can be healed nor even seared. it "lives eternal" in the mother's breast, the most exquisite joy, the most exquisite searching pain the human heart can know. "you are going to be so happy," lulu whispers again in her loving tone, "and, gracie," with a fluttering sigh. "i have been so happy in anticipating your happiness!" touched to the depths of her warm heart grace bends to leave a tender kiss on the pale brow, and promising to come again, goes out. her adieus are hastily made to the rest, and once more in the little pony phaeton she skims over the miles between her and home. the bright roses that blossom on her cheeks are sources of undisguised admiration to norah, who opines that mrs. winans ought to drive every evening. "never mind about that, norah," she answers, indifferently; "only please brush my curls over fresh, and give me a pretty white muslin dress to wear this evening." and norah obeys in secret wonder at her mistress' suddenly-developed vanity. she is lovely enough to be vain when norah turns her off her hands as "finished." all that golden glory of ringlets ripples away from the fair, pure brow enchantingly, sweeping to her dainty waist in a sweet girlish fashion. a faint flush covers her cheeks, two stars burn in the violet depths of her eyes, her lips are unwontedly tender and sweet. the slim, perfect figure is draped in the misty folds of a snowy muslin, whose loose sleeves falling open, leave bare her dimpled white arms and hands. the low frill of misty lace leaves the white curve of her throat exposed, with no other ornament than a tea-rose budding against its lovely whiteness. so as lovely as one can fancy eve, fresh from the hands of her creator, the beautiful, unhappy, wronged young wife passed from her dressing-room and into that lovely shrine of her garnered griefs that saw what the world saw not--the desolation of that sensitive heart--the nursery of her loved, lost baby! chapter xxxi. at her feet. "but all in vain, to thought's tumultuous flow i strive to give the strength of glowing words; the waves of feeling, tossing to and fro, in broken music o'er my heart's loose chords, give but their fainting echoes from my soul, as through its silent depths their wild, swift currents roll." --amelia b. welby. "hope's precious pearl in sorrow's cup, unmelted at the bottom lay, to shine again when all drunk up, the bitterness should pass away." --moore's loves of the angels. she pushes back the sliding-doors between her own room and this one, letting the soft, clear light flood its dim recesses, opens the windows admitting the balmy sea breeze and the moonlight. divided then between suspense and pain she throws upward the lace canopy and stands leaning once more over the empty crib that seems to her now more like a grave. "it was may, 1870, when we quarreled here over baby's crib," she muses to herself, "and it seems as if years, and years, and years have gone over my head--yet this is only may, 1874. ah! me." did minutes or hours go by? she never knew as she steadied her soul against the rushing, headlong waves of memory that threatened to engulf her in its chilling tide. she had put the past away from her in the excitement of other pursuits and other aims, and now--now it came back, relentless, remorseless, sweeping her quivering heart-strings, atuning all her sensitive nerves to pain. _would_ he come? her helpless heart throbbed a passive denial. _if_ he came, as lulu had asked her, _would_ she be glad? she scarcely knew. she loved him--loved him with a pure, deep love that having once given its pledge to last till death, no earthly power could alter. hers was a very strong and faithful devotion, but human resentment must hold a small place in the human breast as long as life lasts. and grace winans, brave, patient, tried by fire as she had been, was still only mortal. if he came, strengthened, purified, enobled by suffering and sad experience, they must still meet, she thinks, with a sharp heart-pang, as over a _grave_--the grave of their child; the winsome baby whom she sees in fancy at his childish play on the nursery rug, toddling over the floor, laughing in her arms, catching at her long, bright curls--what shall she say to the man whose folly has deprived her of all this joy, when he comes to ask forgiveness? "god help me!" she moans, and drops her hopeless head upon her hands. "gracie!" does her heart deceive her ears? she glances shyly up, sees _him_ standing not three feet from her, and he lifts the little child by his side, and tossing him into the crib, growing too small for his boyish proportions, says, wistfully: "gracie, i have brought him back to you to plead his father's cause." one long look into the boyish beauty of that face that has not outgrown its infantile bloom, and her arms are about the little form, though silent in her joy as in her grief no word escapes her lips. "mamma, my own lovely mamma!" the little boy lisps, tutored thereto no doubt by his father's wisdom, and her only answer is in raining kisses, smiles and tears. it is so long before she thinks of the silent father that when she turns it is only to find him kneeling at her feet. on the dusk beauty of that proud face she sees the sharp traces of suffering, weariness, almost hopelessness. he takes the small hand that falls passive to her side, touching it lightly to his feverish lips. "gracie," she hears in the low, strong accents of despair, "there is nothing i can say for myself--i am at your foot to hear my doom! whatever you accord me, it cannot be utter despair, since i am blessed beyond measure in having looked even once more on your beloved face." for minutes she looked down on that bowed head in silence. all the love and pride, all the good and evil in her nature are warring against each other. shall she let the cruel past go by, or shall she--and then, between her and these tumultuous thoughts, rises the face of one who is an angel in heaven--her lips part to speak, and close mutely; she smiles, then slowly falling like the perfuming petals of a great white rose, her white robes waver to the floor, and her small hand flutters down on his shoulder, and she is kneeling beside him. he looks up with an unspoken prayer of thanksgiving on his mobile features, and twines strong, loving arms about the form that has fallen unconscious against his breast. * * * * * general winans takes his wife abroad to escape the "nine days wonder." norah goes with them, in charge of little earle, her face glowing like a miniature sun with delight at the way that "things," in her homely phraseology "have turned out." they visit the adopted grandparents of little earle, and are _feted_ and flattered by them, until sweet grace in the fullness of her own happiness and her compassion for them, promises them an annual visit. _deo volent_, from the small idol of her heart and theirs. and, "by the way," in paris--"dear, delightful paris"--where they sojourn awhile, they meet--who else but major frank fontenay, u. s. a., "doing the honeymoon" in most approved style with the "fair cordelia, the banker's heiress." and thus has the susceptible major consoled himself for lulu's rejection. it is needless to say that these two couples uniting, "do" the tour of europe in the most leisurely and pleasant manner, and are duly favored with honors and attentions. latest advises from norfolk report the winans and conway families as on the happiest terms. rumor says, indeed, that the two young mothers have prospectively betrothed the fragile little brown-eyed grace willard to the handsome young earle willoughby, the hopeful heir of two fortunes. "however these things be," we leave them to the future, which takes care of itself. * * * * * and far down a shady path in one of norfolk's lovely cemeteries there rises a low green grave, over which a costly white marble shaft, never without its daily wreath of fresh white roses through all of summer's golden days, tapers sadly against the blue sky, telling all who care to know that willard clendenon, aged 36, rests here. "nature doth mourn for thee. there is no need for man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail, as fail he must if he attempts thy praise." [the end] [illustration: chesapeake & ohio ry.] "the rhine, the alps, and the battlefield line." the famous f.f.v. limited fast flying virginian has no equal between cincinnati and new york, via washington, baltimore, and philadelphia. vestibuled, steam heated, and electric lighted throughout. through dining car and complete pullman service. through sleepers to and from st. louis, chicago and louisville. the most interesting historic associations and the most striking and beautiful scenery in the united states are linked together by the c. & o. system which traverses virginia, the first foothold of english settlers in america, where the revolutionary war was begun and ended, and where the great battles of the civil war were fought; crosses the blue ridge and alleghany mountains and the famous shenandoah valley, reaches the celebrated springs region of the virginias and lies through the canons of new river, where the scenery is grand beyond description. it follows the banks of the kanawha and ohio rivers, and penetrates the famous blue grass region of kentucky, noted for producing the greatest race-horses of the world. for maps, folders, descriptive pamphlets, etc., apply to pennsylvania railroad ticket offices in new york, philadelphia, and baltimore, the principal ticket offices throughout the country, or any of the following c. & o. agencies: new york--362 and 1323 broadway. washington--513 and 1421 pennsylvania avenue. cincinnati--corner fifth and walnut streets. louisville--253 fourth avenue. st. louis--corner broadway and chestnut street. chicago--234 clark street. =c. b. ryan=, assistant general passenger agent, cincinnati, o. =h. w. fuller=, general passenger agent, washington, d. c. the new england railroad co. travelers between _new york and boston_ should always ask for ticket, via the "air line" limited train, leaving either city =1.00 p. m.=, week days only, due destination, =6.00 p. m.= buffet smoker, parlor cars and coaches. trains arrive at and leave from park square station, boston. _ticket offices_ {_3 old state house, park square station, boston_ {_grand central station, new york_ the norwich line, inside route. steamers leave pier 40. north river, new york. =5.30 p. m.= week days only. connecting at new london with steamboat express. train due worcester, =8.00 a. m.=, boston, =10.00 a. m.= returning. trains leave boston =7.02 p. m.=, worcester =8.00 p. m.=, week days only. connecting at new london with steamers of the line due new york =7.00 a. m.= norwich line trains leave and arrive kneeland st. station (plymouth div. n. y., n. h. & h. rd.), boston. tickets, staterooms on steamers, and full information at offices, pier 40, north river, new york. 3 old state house, { kneeland st. station (plymouth { boston. div n. y., n. h. & h. rd.) { w. r. babcock, general passenger agent, boston. october 17, 1896. take [illustration: the mk _and_ t missouri, kansas & texas railway.] for all principal points in missouri, kansas, indian territory, texas, mexico _and_ california. free reclining chair cars on all trains. _through wagner palace buffet sleeping cars from the_ great lakes _to the_ gulf of mexico. for further information call on or address your nearest ticket agent, or =james barker=, g. p. & t. a. st. louis, mo. the delaware and hudson railroad. [illustration] the only direct route to the great adirondack mountains, lake george, lake champlain, ausable chasm, the adirondack mountains, saratoga, round lake, sharon springs, cooperstown, howe's cave, and the celebrated gravity railroad between carbondale and honesdale, pa., present the greatest combination of health and pleasure resorts in america. the direct line to the superb summer hotel of the north, "the hotel champlain," (three miles south of pittsburgh, on lake champlain.) the shortest and most comfortable route between new york and montreal. in connection with the erie railway, the most picturesque and interesting route between chicago and boston. the only through pullman line. inclose six cents in stamps for illustrated guide to h. g. young, 2d vice-president. j. w. burdick, gen'l pass. agent, albany, n. y. just to remind you [illustration: quebec, new brunswick, nova scotia, cape breton a perfect track steam heat from locomotive electric light scenic route safety, speed, comfort facts spiked down] that the intercolonial railway _connecting halifax, st. john, sydney and quebec_ is the popular route for summer travel. unequalled for magnificent scenery. starting at quebec it skirts for two hundred miles the majestic st. lawrence river, thence through the famous lake, mountain and valley region of the metapedia and resticouche rivers and on to the world-renowned bras d'or lakes in cape breton. connecting at point du chene, n. b., and picton, n. s., for prince edward island, "the garden of the gulf." no other railway in america presents to pleasure seekers, invalids and sportsmen so many unrivalled attractions. the only all rail route between halifax and st. john. =geo. w. robinson=, eastern freight and passenger agent, 128 st. james street, (opp. st. lawrence hall), montreal. =n. weatherston=, western freight and passenger agent, 93 york street, rossin house block, toronto. _maps, time tables and guide books free on application._ d. pottinger, general manager. jno. m. lyons, general pass. agent. moncton, n. b., canada. [illustration] lake erie and western railroad, ft. wayne, cincinnati, and louisville railroad. "natural gas route." the popular short line between peoria, bloomington, chicago, st. louis, springfield, lafayette, frankfort, muncie, portland, lima, findlay, fostoria, fremont, sandusky, indianapolis, kokomo, peru, rochester, plymouth, laporte, michigan city, ft. wayne, hartford, bluffton, connorsville, and cincinnati, making direct connections for all points east, west, north and south. the only line traversing the great natural gas and oil fields of ohio and indiana, giving the patrons of this popular route an opportunity to witness the grand sight from the train as they pass through. great fields covered with tanks, in which are stored millions of gallons of oil, natural gas wells shooting their flames high in the air, and the most beautiful cities, fairly alive with glass and all kinds of factories. we furnish our patrons with elegant reclining chair car seats free, on day trains, and l. e. & w. palace sleeping and parlor cars, on night trains, at very reasonable rates. direct connections to and from cleveland, buffalo, new york, boston, philadelphia, baltimore, pittsburg, washington, kansas city, denver, omaha, portland, san francisco, and all points in the united states and canada. this is the popular route with the ladies, on account of its courteous and accommodating train officials, and with the commercial traveler and general public for its comforts, quick time and sure connections. for any further particulars call on or address any ticket agent. h. c. parker, traffic manager, indianapolis, ind. chas. f. daly, gen'l pass. & tkt. agt. there is little need of emphasizing the fact that the _maine central railroad_ has been the developer of bar harbor, and has made this incomparable summer home the _crown of the atlantic coast._ _and moreover_: the natural wonders of the white mountains, the wierd grandeur of the dixville notch, the quaint ways and scenes of quebec, the multifarious attractions of montreal, the elegance of poland springs, the inexhaustible fishing of rangeley, the unique scenery of moosehead, the remarkable healthfulness of st. andrews. are all within contact of the ever-lengthening arms of the maine central railroad. [illustration] the renowned vacation line. or, to those who enjoy ocean sailing, the statement is made that the pioneer line along the coast of maine, making numerous landings at picturesque points, almost encircling the island of mt. desert is the _portland, mt. desert and machias steamboat co._ the new, large and luxurious steamer, "frank jones," makes, during the summer season, two round trips per week between portland, rockland, bar harbor and machiasport. illustrated outlines, details of transportation, and other information upon application to f. e. boothby, g. p. and t. agt. geo. f. evans, gen. mgr. portland, me. gismonda. by victorien sardou. [illustration] _a novelization of the celebrated play_, by a. d. hall. [illustration] the _new york world_ says: to "dramatize" a novel is common work, to "novelize" a play comparatively rare. the latest in this line is "gismonda," in which miss fanny davenport has been so successful, and mr. a. d. hall has told the story in a very interesting manner. _philadelphia press_: the story is an interesting one, and with a plot quite out of the common. _portland oregonian_: a story that holds the interest. _denver republican_: the characters are exceedingly well depicted. "gismonda" will prove a favorite with the novel-reading public and become one of the popular books of the season. _philadelphia item_: the kind of book which one sits over till he has finished the last word. it is a clever piece of literary work. _new orleans picayune_: it is needless to say, as it is sardou's creation, that it is of intense interest. _buffalo news_: a vivid and powerful story. _brooklyn eagle_: the amplification into the novel is done by mr. a. d. hall, who presents a full and interesting picture of modern or rather medieval greece. the plot is quite original. _milwaukee journal_: while its situations are dramatic, it is by no means stagy. _albany argus_: we have every reason to believe that the excellent novelization will achieve popularity. _boston traveler_: it has basis for great interest. _syracuse herald_: the "novelizator" seems to have acquitted himself fairly well, and to have transformed the play into a highly romantic story. _burlington hawkeye_: excellent novelization, and without a dull moment from beginning to end. _detroit tribune_: as the play has been a success, the novel will undoubtedly prove one also. the story has a unique plot, and the characters are well depicted. _albany times-union_: no play produced during the past year has made such an instantaneous and overwhelming success as that of "gismonda," and we have every reason to believe that the excellent novelization will achieve the same measure of popularity. * * * * * =gismonda= is no. 1. of "drama series," for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any address postpaid, by =street & smith, 25-31 rose st., new york=. a gentleman from gascony. by bicknell dudley _opinions of the press_: _brooklyn standard-union_: a most captivating story. _buffalo times_: the story is full of dramatic situations. _pittsburgh leader_: it is a romance well worth reading. _philadelphia call_: an interesting and graphic story good for seashore, hammock or mountain. _the new york world_: a very charming novel of the romantic school, full of love and adventure. _albany times_: "a gentleman from gascony," by bicknell dudley, is an exciting and well-told story. _the brooklyn citizen_: the story is full of fine dramatic situations, and is never lacking in action. the author has the knack of holding the reader's attention throughout the entire story. _san francisco chronicle_: "a gentleman from gascony," by bicknell dudley, while it at once recalls our dear old friends of the "three musketeers," is a bright, clever, well-written and entertaining story. the book gives a graphic and vivid picture of one of the great historic epochs of france. _rochester herald_: it is a positive relief to turn from the morbid fancies of the madame grands and the grant allens to such a purely romantic love tale as "a gentleman from gascony," by bicknell dudley, which street & smith publish in yellow covers, while deserving of more substantial garb. the story is a formidable rival of mr. stanley weyman's premier effort. _louisville courier-journal_: it is a thoroughly readable novel that bicknell dudley has contributed to current literature under the title of "a gentleman from gascony." although the title recalls stanley weyman's "gentleman of france" and the scenes of both stories are laid in the time of henri of navarre, they are not alike, save in the fact that both the "gentleman of france," and the "gentleman from gascony" are heroes in the fullest sense of the term from a romantic standpoint. _pittsburgh press_: bicknell dudley has written another story, based on french history, around the time of the st. bartholomew massacre. it is a tale of adventure with a single hero, who embodies in himself the wile of an aramis, the strength of a porthos, and the gallantry of a d'artagnan. the adventures of the chevalier de puycadere are, even if impossible in these days, still redolent of the times of knight errantry, when every good sword won its way and was faithful. although he was an illustrious chevalier both in love and war, he was certainly no chevalier d'industrie, and happily comes out triumphant. _the argus_, albany, n. y.: the hero is a young gascon full of dash and courage, of good blood but impoverished estates, who comes to paris to seek his fortune. this he accomplishes after many adventures, sometimes by bravado, sometimes by bravery. there is a strong love story between gabrielle de vrissac, a maid of honor to the queen of navarre, and the gascon, raoul de puycadere. many historical characters figure among them--henri of navarre, marguerite de valois, catherine de medicis, and charles ix., and admiral coliquy. the author, bicknell dudley, exhibits literary ability of the very first order. _baltimore american_: "a gentleman from gascony," by bicknell dudley. this is a tale of the time of charles ix., the story opening in the year 1572. raoul de puycadere is of a noble family, but his possessions have been squandered by his ancestors, and he leaves for paris to better his position at court. he arrives on the eve of the massacre of st. bartholomew, and his lady love, gabrielle, having heard of the contemplated killing, binds a sign on his arm to protect him. by great good luck he is made equerry to the king of navarre, and between his duties as equerry and his lovemaking passes through many exciting adventures. "a gentleman from gascony" is no. 11 of the criterion series. for sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage free on receipt of price, fifty cents, by the publishers. street & smith, 25 to 31 rose street, new york. richard forrest, bachelor. by clement r. marley. _press opinions_: "'richard forrest, bachelor,' by clement r. marley, is a bright and pleasing story. the love story of the old bachelor, whose heart was so long steeled to woman's charms, but who succumbs at last to the girl who attempts to take the life of his best friend because she imagines he wronged her young and beautiful sister, is prettily told."--_boston times._ "'richard forrest, bachelor,' is a story whose narration is simple and direct, but it has also a freshness and vivacity which add greatly to its charms. the characters are well drawn."--_newark advertiser._ "an entertaining story, telling of the capture of the heart of an old bachelor."--_new york press._ "a story of most unconventional type. the theme is good, and it is well told. it is all very natural and true to life, and when all is said and done it lingers in the mind as a pleasant memory."--_nashville american._ "'richard forrest, bachelor,' is a very pleasing love story, most entertainingly told."--_fort worth gazette._ "the author tells a very unconventional story in 'richard forrest, bachelor,' and it is very entertaining."--_brooklyn eagle._ "in 'richard forrest, bachelor,' the author gives a very pretty story. there are strong religious sentiments, and the author puts forth some well-defined ideas on the social relations of men and women."--_philadelphia call._ "a novel of more than usual interest is 'richard forrest, bachelor.' it describes scenes and incidents that may be seen and experienced by any one in similar circumstances. there is much that is strange and stirring in the story, yet nature is not departed from either in the incidents or characters introduced."--_brooklyn citizen._ "a well-told tale of sustained interest and dramatic character."--_sacramento record-union._ "the author tells the story of an old bachelor's love. he gets well along in life invulnerable to cupid's dart, and then he detects the woman of his heart's choice in an attempt upon the life of his bosom friend, to avenge an imaginary wrong. it is very true to life."--_atlanta journal._ "'richard forrest, bachelor,' is after the style of 'mr. barnes of new york,' but is rather better written."--_hartford times._ * * * * * richard forrest, bachelor, is no. 16 of "criterion series," for sale by all booksellers or newsdealers or sent postpaid to any address on receipt of price, 50 cents, by the publishers, street & smith, 25-31 rose street, new york. the criterion series. [illustration] _paper edition, 50 cents._ [illustration] in presenting this series of high-class novels to the public we take pride in announcing that every number will be of the highest merit, printed in the best style on the first quality of paper. this series will be our best, both as regards contents and appearance. 6--miss caprice. by the author of dr. jack. 7--baron sam. by the author of dr. jack. 8--monsieur bob. by the author of dr. jack. 9--the colonel by brevet. by the author of dr. jack. 10--major matterson of kentucky. by the author of dr. jack. 11--a gentleman from gascony. by bicknell dudley. 12--a daughter of delilah. by robert lee tyler. 13--the nabob of singapore. by the author of dr. jack. 14--the bachelor of the midway. by the author of dr. jack. 15--none but the brave. by robert lee tyler. 16--richard forrest, bachelor. by clement r. marley. 17--mrs. bob. by the author of dr. jack. 18--the great mogul. by the author of dr. jack. 19--a yale man. by robert lee tyler. 20--the mission of poubalov. by frederick r. burton. for sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage free on receipt of price, by the publishers. street & smith, new york. the shield series. [illustration] _price, paper edition, 25 cents._ [illustration] devoted to tales of the detection of crime, by those brave knights of the shield--the tireless sleuths of the detective force. 1--caught in the toils (new). by nick carter. 2--the old detective's pupil. by nick carter. 3--a wall street haul. by nick carter. 4--the crime of a countess. by nick carter. 5--a titled counterfeiter. by nick carter. 6--a woman's hand. by nick carter. 7--fighting against millions. by nick carter. 8--the piano box mystery. by nick carter. 9--a stolen identity. by nick carter. 10--the great enigma. by nick carter. 11--the gambler's syndicate. by nick carter. 12--playing a bold game. by nick carter. 13--the american marquis. by nick carter. 14--tracked across the atlantic (new). by nick carter. 15--the mysterious mail robbery (new). by nick carter. 16--brant adams, the emperor of detectives. by old sleuth. 17--bruce angelo, the city detective. by old sleuth. 18--van, the government detective. by old sleuth. 19--old stonewall, the colorado detective. by judson r. taylor. 20--the masked detective. by judson r. taylor. 21--the chosen man. by judson r. taylor. 22--tom and jerry. by judson r. taylor. 23--the swordsman of warsaw. by judson r. taylor. 24--detective bob bridger. by r. m. taylor. 25--the poker king. by marline manly. 26--old specie, the treasury detective. by marline manly. 27--the vestibule limited mystery. by marline manly. 28--caught in the net. by emile gaboriau. 29--the champdoce mystery. by emile gaboriau. 30--the detective's dilemma. by emile gaboriau. 31--the detective's triumph. by emile gaboriau. 32--the widow's lerouge. by emile gaboriau. 33--the clique of gold. by emile gaboriau. 34--file 113. by emile gaboriau. 35--a chance discovery. by nick carter. 36--a deposit vault puzzle. by nick carter. 37--evidence by telephone. by nick carter. 38--the red lottery ticket. by fortune du boisgobey. 39--the steel necklace. by fortune du boisgobey. 40--the convict colonel. by fortune du boisgobey. 41--(vol. i) the crime of the opera house. by fortune du boisgobey. 41--(vol. ii) the crime of the opera house. by fortune du boisgobey. for sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage free, on receipt of price, by the publishers. street & smith, 29 to 31 rose st., new york. the yellow kid magazine .. is .. _the success of the century_. _5c. per copy._ forty-eight pages of delightfully varied reading matter, all of which is properly and profusely illustrated. it is the climax of latter-day literature--neither cheap, costly nor cumbrous. howard, ainslee & co., _238 william st., new york._ if your newsdealer hasn't got it, write to us. _what is a novel worth?_ for years novels and magazines have been sold at prices ranging from 25 to 50 cents. improved machinery has decreased the cost of production, and the ten cent magazine has become an established fact. now the eagle library is offered to the public as the original first quality novel at _ten cents_ the eagle library is not composed of poor stories printed on cheap paper. the eagle library is not a collection of unsalable books offered at reduced prices because they cannot be sold otherwise. the eagle library is not a series of stories by unknown authors. _the eagle library_ is offered at ten cents because that is the correct modern price for a first class copyright novel. in these books the type is clear and legible, the paper of good quality, the stories by the best known popular authors, the covers of most attractive design and _the price is right_ read one and you will want another. do not be fooled by inferior books at a higher price. the eagle library is published by street & smith, new york. * * * * * * transcriber's note: this story was originally serialized in street & smith's _new york weekly_ from july 4, 1881 to september 26, 1881. added table of contents. some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "chambermaid" vs. "chamber-maid") has been retained from the original. archaic spellings ("vail", "staid", etc.) retained from the original. several missing periods and a letter 'y' (probably attributable to light printing) have been added to the "catalogue" on the inside front cover. page 14, corrected comma to period after "husband, senator winans." page 16, inserted "as" into "cold as death." page 17, corrected "you" to "your" in "your wishes are always mine, paul." page 18, added missing close single quote after "i told you so?" page 22, corrected typographical error "peaae" in "domestic peace and love." page 24, corrected comma to period after "i think i am mad to-night." page 31, added missing close single quote after "when i was a little child?" page 32, corrected "ole miss'" to "ole mis'" for consistency in 'from the said "ole mis'."' corrected mars to marse in "glad to see you, marse bruce." corrected typographical error "commennted" in "commented the merry little darkey." page 35, corrected "gray" to "grey" in "passionate love for grace grey." corrected typographical error "worldy" in "scruple of worldly pride." removed unnecessary comma after "splendid" in "dreary, splendid home." page 42, corrected typographical error "tesolve" in "resolve was taken." page 43, corrected "gray" to "grey" in "when grace grey had." page 46, added missing close quote after "miss story!" changed "you" to "your" in "your contemptible innuendoes." page 50, grammatical mismatch between "consequences" and "has" retained from original. page 51, corrected "had have" to "have had" in "ought to have had more manliness." page 54, added missing quote before "or his servants would not." removed unnecessary comma after "honest black face." page 56, added missing quote after "waiting!" corrected "william" to "willard" in "willard clendenon could not withhold." page 57, corrected typographical error "conjucture" in "the scandal, the conjecture." page 61, removed duplicate "and" from "and try, do." page 62, corrected "child harold" to "childe harold" at head of chapter viii. page 64, changed "wrong" to "wronged" in "poor wronged and injured girl." page 65, retained unusual contraction "musn't" from original. page 67, corrected typographical error "your" in "the man you're talking of." page 68, changed ! to ? after "that new song i sent you yesterday?" page 70, removed stray period and space before question mark in "her husband again?" page 72, corrected typographical error "privilged" in "privileged domestic." page 73, corrected typographical error "embarassing" in "momentary embarrassing silence." page 79, changed ? to ! after "what a long speech this is!" page 80, retained unusual spelling "skillfuly" from original. page 81, corrected comma to period after "first saw grace." page 84, corrected double "whom" in "whom he had left talking." page 87, corrected "pean" to "pã¦an." removed unnecessary quote before "that other!" page 90, corrected comma to period after "alien from your heart." page 93, removed unnecessary quote before "well" in "that affair. well." page 100, moved quote from after "ah!" to before it in "ah! fontenay." page 101, changed single to double quote after "no--yes." page 112, corrected typographical error "brused" in "her brused heart." page 120, corrected single to double quote before "a single stream of all her soft brown hair." page 123, corrected typographical error "gethsemene" in "garden of gethsemane." added missing close single quote after "seek and ye shall find." page 125, added missing close quote after ""and, indeed, grace." page 128, corrected comma to period after "you--have not seen you." page 130, corrected typographical error "alway" in "they always remind me." page 136, corrected typographical error "dimunitive" in "a diminutive silver comb." page 138, corrected comma to period after "keep it from breaking." page 144, removed unnecessary period between _ad infinitum_ and question mark. page 147, corrected "mr." to "mrs." in "mrs. conway, who was very well pleased." page 149, added missing quote before "this is----" page 154, removed duplicate "and often" from "and often society was scandalized." page 156, retained unusual spelling "detatched" from original. added missing quote before "and this was about the time." page 157, corrected "pure as due" to "pure as dew" and "winan's" to "winans'" in "paul winans' pictured face." page 158, added missing close quote after "it is all _rue_!" page 159, corrected "thing" to "things" in "how evanescent are all things." page 162, added missing quote before "it is rather a nice little jaunt." page 164, corrected typographical error "bt" in "but no, i shall not die." page 165, corrected comma to period after "indomitable young spirit." page 168, added missing quote before "down with the fever--died this evening." page 173, corrected "it" to "its" in "fever in its worst." corrected typographical error "indefatigible." page 175, corrected typographical error "restrospections" in "half-bitter retrospections." page 176, corrected typographical error "belive" in "i believe i wrote you." page 178, corrected "passes-by" to "passers-by". corrected comma to period after "pinned across the left breast." page 180, added missing quote before "your father told me two months." corrected "dusk" to "dusky" in "her dusky eyes." page 181, added space to "devere" in "miss de vere, cannot you suppose." page 189, corrected typographical error "heaver" in "the heavier cross the easier dying." page 193, added missing quote after "why? ah, why?" page 194, capitalized sentence beginning "many gentle conversations." page 196, corrected "left for france" to "left for london." page 201, removed unnecessary quote after "little sister, be strong." added missing comma in "gracie, say 'i promise.'" page 203, removed unnecessary quote before "it was enough." page 205, corrected typographical error "retutning" in "her returning smile." changed "father care" to "father's care." page 209, corrected comma to period after "as long as life lasts." page 210, added missing close single quote after "have turned out." maine central railroad ad, retained incorrect spelling "wierd" from original. gentleman from gascony ad, removed duplicate "a" from "there is a strong love story." changed comma to period after publisher address at very end. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 58860-h.htm or 58860-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58860/58860-h/58860-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58860/58860-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b21935142_0002 project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58859 volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58861 volume iv: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58862 transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. ii. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, 116, high-street. 1805. * * * * * contents of volume ii. _page_ _an inquiry into the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty_ 1 _observations upon the cause and cure of pulmonary consumption_ 59 _observations upon the symptoms and cure of dropsies_ 151 _inquiry into the cause and cure of the internal dropsy of the brain_ 191 _observations upon the nature and cure of the gout_ 225 _observations on the nature and cure of the hydrophobia_ 299 _an account of the measles, as they appeared in philadelphia in the spring of 1789_ 335 _an account of the influenza, as it appeared in philadelphia in the years 1790 and 1791_ 351 _an inquiry into the cause of animal life_ 369 * * * * * an inquiry into the _influence of physical causes_ upon the moral faculty. delivered before _the american philosophical society_, held at philadelphia, on the 27th of february, 1786. * * * * * an inqiuiry, &c. gentlemen, it was for the laudable purpose of exciting a spirit of emulation and inquiry, among the members of our body, that the founders of our society instituted an annual oration. the task of preparing, and delivering this exercise, hath devolved, once more, upon me. i have submitted to it, not because i thought myself capable of fulfilling your intentions, but because i wished, by a testimony of my obedience to your requests, to atone for my long absence from the temple of science. the subject upon which i am to have the honour of addressing you this evening is on the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty. by the moral faculty i mean a capacity in the human mind of distinguishing and chasing good and evil, or, in other words, virtue and vice. it is a native principle, and though it be capable of improvement by experience and reflection, it is not derived from either of them. st. paul and cicero give us the most perfect account of it that is to be found in modern or ancient authors. "for when the gentiles (says st. paul), which have not the law, do by nature the things contained in the law, _these_, having not the law, are a _law_ unto themselves; which show the works of the law written in their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their thoughts the mean while accusing, or else excusing another[1]." [1] rom. i. 14, 15. the words of cicero are as follow: "est igniter ha, juices, non script, seed nata lex, qualm non dadaisms, accepts, legumes, serum ex nature pisa europiums, humus, expresses, ad qualm non doctor, seed facto, non institute, seed imbued sums[2]." this faculty is often confounded with conscience, which is a distinct and independent capacity of the mind. this is evident from the passage quoted from the writings of st. paul, in which conscience is said to be the witness that accuses or excuses us, of a breach of the law written in our hearts. the moral faculty is what the school men call the "regular raglans;" the conscience is their "regular regulate;" or, to speak in more modern terms, the moral faculty performs the the office of a law-giver, while the business of conscience is to perform the duty of a judge. the moral faculty is to the conscience, what taste is to the judgment, and sensation to perception. it is quick in its operations, and, like the sensitive plant, acts without reflection, while conscience follows with deliberate steps, and measures all her actions, by the unerring square of right and wrong. the moral faculty exercises itself upon the actions of others. it approves, even in books, of the virtues of a trajan, and disapproves of the vices of a marius, while conscience confines its operations only to its own actions. these two capacities of the mind are generally in an exact ratio to each other, but they sometimes exist in different degrees in the same person. hence we often find conscience in its full vigour, with a diminished tone, or total absence of the moral faculty. [2] oration pro milne. it has long been a question among meta physicians, whether the conscience be seated in the will or in the understanding. the controversy can only be settled by admitting the will to be the seat of the moral faculty, and the understanding to be the seat of the conscience. the mysterious nature of the union of those two moral principles with the will and understanding, is a subject foreign to the business of the present inquiry. as i consider virtue and vice to consist in _action_, and not in opinion, and as this action has its seat in the _will_, and not in the conscience, i shall confine my inquiries chiefly to the influence of physical causes upon that moral power of the mind, which is connected with volition, although many of these causes act likewise upon the conscience, as i shall show hereafter. the state of the moral faculty is visible in actions, which affect the well-being of society. the state of the conscience is invisible, and therefore removed beyond our investigation. the moral faculty has received different names from different authors. it is the "moral sense" of dr. hutchison; the "sympathy" of dr. adam smith; the "moral instinct" of rousseau; and "the light that lighter every man that cometh into the world" of st. john. i have adopted the term of moral faculty from dr. bettie, because i conceive it conveys with the most perspicuity, the idea of a capacity in the mind, of chasing good and evil. our books of medicine contain many records of the effects of physical causes upon the memory, the imagination, and the judgment. in some instances we behold their operation only on one, in others on two, and, in many cases, upon the whole of these faculties. their derangement has received different names, according to the number or nature of the faculties that are affected. the loss of memory has been called "amnesia;" false judgment upon one subject has been called "melancholia;" false judgment upon all subjects has been called "mania;" and a defect of all the three intellectual faculties that have been mentioned, has received the name of "amnesia." persons who labour under the derangement, or want of these faculties of the mind, are considered, very properly, as subjects of medicine; and there are many cases upon record that prove, that their diseases have yielded to the healing art. in order to illustrate the effects of physical causes upon the moral faculty, it will be necessary _first_ to show their effects upon the memory, the imagination, and the judgment; and at the same time to point out the analogy between their operation upon the intellectual faculties of the mind, and the moral faculty. 1. do we observe a connection between the intellectual faculties, and the degrees of consistency and firmness of the brain in infancy and childhood? the same connection has been observed between the strength, as well as the progress of the moral faculty in children. 2. do we observe a certain size of the brain, and a peculiar cast of features, such as the prominent eye, and the aquiline nose, to be connected with extraordinary portions of genius? we observe a similar connection between the figure and temperament of the body, and certain moral qualities. hence we often ascribe good temper and benevolence to corpulence, and irascibility to sanguineous habits. ca thought himself safe in the friendship of the "sleek-headed" anthony and willabella; but was afraid to trust to the professions of the slender cassius. 3. do we observe certain degrees of the intellectual faculties to be hereditary in certain families? the same observation has been frequently extended to moral qualities. hence we often find certain virtues and vices as peculiar to families, through all their degrees of consanguinity, and duration, as a peculiarity of voice, complexion, or shape. 4. do we observe instances of a total want of memory, imagination, and judgment, either from an original defect in the stamina of the brain, or from the influence of physical causes? the same unnatural defect is sometimes observed, and probably from the same causes, of a moral faculty. the celebrated serving, whose character is drawn by the duke of sully in his memoirs, appears to be an instance of the total absence of the moral faculty, while the chasm, produced by this defect, seems to have been filled up by a more than common extension of every other power of his mind. i beg leave to repeat the history of this prodigy of vice and knowledge. "let the reader represent to himself a man of a genius so lively, and of an understanding so extensive, as rendered him scarce ignorant of any thing that could be known; of so vast and ready a comprehension, that he immediately made himself master of whatever he attempted; and of so prodigious a memory, that he never forgot what he once learned. he possessed all parts of philosophy, and the mathematics, particularly fortification and drawing. even in theology he was so well skilled, that he was an excellent preacher, whenever he had a mind to exert that talent, and an able disputant, for and against the reformed religion indifferently. he not only understood greek, hebrew, and all the languages which we call learned, but also all the different jargons, or modern dialects. he accented and pronounced them so naturally, and so perfectly imitated the gestures and manners both of the several nations of europe, and the particular provinces of france, that he might have been taken for a native of all, or any of these countries: and this quality he applied to counterfeit all sorts of persons, wherein he succeeded wonderfully. he was, moreover, the best comedian, and the greatest droll that perhaps ever appeared. he had a genius for poetry, and had wrote many verses. he played upon almost all instruments, was a perfect master of music, and sang most agreeably and justly. he likewise could say mass, for he was of a disposition to do, as well as to know all things. his body was perfectly well suited to his mind. he was light, nimble, and dexterous, and fit for all exercises. he could ride well, and in dancing, wrestling, and leaping, he was admired. there are not any recreative games that he did not know, and he was skilled in almost all mechanic arts. but now for the reverse of the medal. here it appeared, that he was treacherous, cruel, cowardly, deceitful, a liar, a cheat, a drunkard and a glutton, a sharper in play, immersed in every species of vice, a blasphemer, an atheist. in a word, in him might be found all the vices that are contrary to nature, honour, religion, and society, the truth of which he himself evinced with his latest breath; for he died in the flower of his age, in a common brothel, perfectly corrupted by his debaucheries, and expired with the glass in his hand, cursing and denying god[3]." [3] vol. iii. p. 216, 217. it was probably a state of the human mind such as has been described, that our saviour alluded to in the disciple, who was about to betray him, when he called him "a devil." perhaps the essence of depravity, in infernal spirits, consists in their being wholly devoid of a moral faculty. in them the will has probably lost the power of chasing[4], as well as the capacity of enjoying moral good. it is true, we read of their trembling in a belief of the existence of a god, and of their anticipating future punishment, by asking, whether they were to be tormented before their time: but this is the effect of conscience, and hence arises another argument in favour of this judicial power of the mind, being distinct from the moral faculty. it would seem as if the supreme being had preserved the moral faculty in man from the ruins of his fall, on purpose to guide him back again to paradise, and at the same time had constituted the conscience, both in men and fallen spirits, a kind of royalty in his moral empire, on purpose to show his property in all intelligent creatures, and their original resemblance to himself. perhaps the essence of moral depravity in man consists in a total, but temporary suspension of the power of conscience. persons in this situation are emphatically said in the scriptures to be "past feeling," and to have their consciences seared with a "hot iron;" they are likewise said to be "twice dead," that is, the same torpor or moral insensibility, has seized both the moral faculty and the conscience. [4] milton seems to have been of this opinion. hence, after ascribing repentance to satan, he makes him declare, "farewell remorse: all good to me is lost, _evil_, be thou my _good_."--- paradise lost, book iv. 5. do we ever observe instances of the existence of only _one_ of the three intellectual powers of the mind that have been named, in the absence of the other two? we observe something of the same kind with respect to the moral faculty. i once knew a man, who discovered no one mark of reason, who possessed the moral sense or faculty in so high a degree, that he spent his whole life in acts of benevolence. he was not only inoffensive (which is not always the case with idiots), but he was kind and affectionate to every body. he had no ideas of time, but what were suggested to him by the returns of the stated periods for public worship, in which he appeared to take great delight. he spent several hours of every day in devotion, in which he was so careful to be private, that he was once found in the most improbable place in the world for that purpose, viz. in an oven. 6. do we observe the memory, the imagination, and the judgment, to be affected by diseases, particularly by madness? where is the physician who has not seen the moral faculty affected from the same causes! how often do we see the temper wholly changed by a fit of sickness! and how often do we hear persons of the most delicate virtue, utter speeches in the delirium of a fever, that are offensive to decency or good manners! i have heard a well-attested history of a clergyman of the most exemplary moral character, who spent the last moments of a fever which deprived him both of his reason and his life, in profane cursing and swearing. i once attended a young woman in a nervous fever, who discovered, after her recovery, a loss of her former habit of veracity. her memory (a defect of which might be suspected of being the cause of this vice) was in every respect as perfect as it was before the attack of the fever[5]. the instances of immorality in maniacs, who were formerly distinguished for the opposite character, are so numerous, and well known, that it will not be necessary to select any cases, to establish the truth of the proposition contained under this head. [5] i have selected this case from many others, which have come under my notice, in which the moral faculty appeared to be impaired by diseases, particularly by the typhus of dr. cullen, and by those species of palsy which affect the brain. 7. do we observe any of the three intellectual faculties that have been named, enlarged by diseases? patients, in the delirium of a fever, often discover extraordinary flights of imagination, and madmen often astonish us with their wonderful acts of memory. the same enlargement, sometimes, appears in the operations of the moral faculty. i have more than once heard the most sublime discourses of morality in the cell of an hospital, and who has not seen instances of patients in acute diseases, discovering degrees of benevolence and integrity, that were not natural to them in the ordinary course of their lives[6]? [6] xenophon makes cyrus declare, in his last moments, "that the soul of man, at the hour of death, appears _most divine_, and then foresees something of future events." 8. do we ever observe a partial insanity, or false perception on one subject, while the judgment is sound and correct, upon all others? we perceive, in some instances, a similar defect in the moral faculty. there are persons who are moral in the highest degree, as to certain duties, who nevertheless live under the influence of some one vice. i knew an instance of a woman, who was exemplary in her obedience to every command of the moral law, except one. she could not refrain from stealing. what made this vice the more remarkable was, that she was in easy circumstances, and not addicted to extravagance in any thing. such was her propensity to this vice, that when she could lay her hands upon nothing more valuable, she would often, at the table of a friend, fill her pockets secretly with bread. as a proof that her judgment was not affected by this defect in her moral faculty, she would both confess and lament her crime, when detected in it. 9. do we observe the imagination in many instances to be affected with apprehensions of dangers that have no existence? in like manner we observe the moral faculty to discover a sensibility to vice, that is by no means proportioned to its degrees of depravity. how often do we see persons labouring under this morbid sensibility of the moral faculty, refuse to give a direct answer to a plain question, that related perhaps only to the weather, or to the hour of the day, lest they should wound the peace of their minds by telling a falsehood! 10. do dreams affect the memory, the imagination, and the judgment? dreams are nothing but incoherent ideas, occasioned by partial or imperfect sleep. there is a variety in the suspension of the faculties and operations of the mind in this state of the system. in some cases the imagination only is deranged in dreams, in others the memory is affected, and in others the judgment. but there are cases, in which the change that is produced in the state of the brain, by means of sleep, affects the moral faculty likewise; hence we sometimes dream of doing and saying things when asleep, which we shudder at, as soon as we awake. this supposed defection from virtue, exists frequently in dreams where the memory and judgment are scarcely impaired. it cannot therefore be ascribed to an absence of the exercises of those two powers of the mind. 11. do we read, in the accounts of travellers, of men, who, in respect of intellectual capacity and enjoyments, are but a few degrees above brutes? we read likewise of a similar degradation of our species, in respect to moral capacity and feeling. here it will be necessary to remark, that the low degrees of moral perception, that have been discovered in certain african and russian tribes of men, no more invalidate our proposition of the universal and essential existence of a moral faculty in the human mind, than the low state of their intellects prove, that reason is not natural to man. their perceptions of good and evil are in an exact proportion to their intellectual faculties. but i will go further, and admit with mr. locke[7], that some savage nations are totally devoid of the moral faculty, yet it will by no means follow, that this was the original constitution of their minds. the appetite for certain aliments is uniform among all mankind. where is the nation and the individual, in their primitive state of health, to whom bread is not agreeable? but if we should find savages, or individuals, whose stomachs have been so disordered by intemperance, as to refuse this simple and wholesome article of diet, shall we assert that this was the original constitution of their appetites? by no means. as well might we assert, because savages destroy their beauty by painting and cutting their faces, that the principles of taste do not exist naturally in the human mind. it is with virtue as with fire. it exists in the mind, as fire does in certain bodies, in a latent or quiescent state. as collision renders the one sensible, so education renders the other visible. it would be as absurd to maintain, because olives become agreeable to many people from habit, that we have no natural appetites for any other kind of food, as to assert that any part of the human species exist without a moral principle, because in some of them, it has wanted causes to excite it into action, or has been perverted by example. there are appetites that are wholly artificial. there are tastes so entirely vitiated, as to perceive beauty in deformity. there are torpid and unnatural passions. why, under certain unfavourable circumstances, may there not exist also a moral faculty, in a state of sleep, or subject to mistakes? [7] essay concerning the human understanding, book i. chap. 3. the only apology i shall make, for presuming to differ from that justly-celebrated oracle[8], who first unfolded to us a map of the intellectual world, shall be, that the eagle eye of genius often darts its views beyond the notice of facts, which are accommodated to the slender organs of perception of men, who possess no other talent than that of observation. [8] mr. locke. it is not surprising, that mr. locke has confounded this moral principle with _reason_, or that lord shafts bury has confounded it with _taste_, since all three of these faculties agree in the objects of their approbation, notwithstanding they exist in the mind independently of each other. the favourable influence which the progress of science and taste has had upon the morals, can be ascribed to nothing else, but to the perfect union that subsists in nature between the dictates of reason, of taste, and of the moral faculty. why has the spirit of humanity made such rapid progress for some years past in the courts of europe? it is because kings and their ministers have been taught to _reason_ upon philosophical subjects. why have indecency and profanity been banished from the stage in london and paris? it is because immorality is an offence against the highly cultivated _taste_ of the french and english nations. it must afford great pleasure to the lovers of virtue, to behold the depth and extent of this moral principle in the human mind. happily for the human race, the intimations of duty and the road to happiness are not left to the slow operations or doubtful inductions of reason, nor to the precarious decisions of taste. hence we often find the moral faculty in a state of vigour, in persons in whom reason and taste exist in a weak, or in an uncultivated state. it is worthy of notice, likewise, that while _second_ thoughts are best in matters of judgment, _first_ thoughts are always to be preferred in matters that relate to morality. _second_ thoughts, in these cases, are generally pearlies between duty and corrupted inclinations. hence rousseau has justly said, that "a well regulated moral instinct is the surest guide to happiness." it must afford equal pleasure to the lovers of virtue to behold, that our moral conduct and happiness are not committed to the determination of a single legislative power. the conscience, like a wise and faithful legislative council, performs the office of a check upon the moral faculty, and thus prevents the fatal consequences of immoral actions. an objection, i foresee, will arise to the doctrine of the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty, from its being supposed to favour the opinion of the _materiality_ of the soul. but i do not see that this doctrine obliges us to decide upon the question of the nature of the soul, any more than the facts which prove the influence of physical causes upon the memory, the imagination, or the judgment. i shall, however, remark upon this subject, that the writers in favour of the _immortality_ of the soul have done that truth great injury, by connecting it necessarily with its _immateriality_. the immortality of the soul depends upon the _will_ of the deity, and not upon the supposed properties of spirit. matter is in its own nature as immortal as spirit. it is resolvable by heat and mixture into a variety of forms; but it requires the same almighty hand to annihilate it, that it did to create it. i know of no arguments to prove the immortality of the soul, but such as are derived from the christian revelation[9]. it would be as reasonable to assert, that the bason of the ocean is immortal, from the greatness of its capacity to hold water; or that we are to live for ever in this world, because we are afraid of dying, as to maintain the immortality of the soul, from the greatness of its capacity for knowledge and happiness, or from its dread of annihilation. [9] "life and immortality _are_ brought to light _only_ through the gospel." 2 tim. i. 10. i remarked, in the beginning of this discourse, that persons who are deprived of the just exercise of memory, imagination, or judgment, were proper subjects of medicine; and that there are many cases upon record which prove, that the diseases from the derangement of these faculties, have yielded to the healing art. it is perhaps only because the diseases of the moral faculty have not been traced to a connection with physical causes, that medical writers have neglected to give them a place in their systems of nosology, and that so few attempts have been hitherto made, to lessen or remove them by physical as well as rational and moral remedies. i shall not attempt to derive any support to my opinions, from the analogy of the influence of physical causes upon the temper and conduct of brute animals. the facts which i shall produce in favour of the action of these causes upon morals in the human species, will, i hope, render unnecessary the arguments that might be drawn from that quarter. i am aware, that in venturing upon this subject, i step upon untrodden ground. i feel as ã�neas did, when he was about to enter the gates of avernus, but without a sybil to instruct me in the mysteries that are before me. i foresee, that men who have been educated in the mechanical habits of adopting popular or established opinions will revolt at the doctrine i am about to deliver, while men of sense and genius will hear my propositions with candour, and if they do not adopt them, will commend that boldness of inquiry, that prompted me to broach them. i shall begin with an attempt to supply the defects of nosological writers, by naming the partial or weakened action of the moral faculty, micronomia. the total absence of this faculty, i shall call anomia. by the law, referred to in these new genera of vesaniã¦, i mean the law of nature written in the human heart, and which i formerly quoted from the writings of st. paul. in treating of the effects of physical causes upon the moral faculty, it might help to extend our ideas upon this subject, to reduce virtues and vices to certain species, and to point out the effects of particular species of virtue and vice; but this would lead us into a field too extensive for the limits of the present inquiry. i shall only hint at a few cases, and have no doubt but the ingenuity of my auditors will supply my silence, by applying the rest. it is immaterial, whether the physical causes that are to be enumerated, act upon the moral faculty through the medium of the senses, the passions, the memory, or the imagination. their influence is equally certain, whether they act as remote, predisposing, or occasional causes. 1. the effects of climate upon the moral faculty claim our first attention. not only individuals, but nations, derive a considerable part of their moral, as well as intellectual character, from the different portions they enjoy of the rays of the sun. irascibility, levity, timidity, and indolence, tempered with occasional emotions of benevolence, are the moral qualities of the inhabitants of warm climates, while selfishness, tempered with sincerity and integrity, form the moral character of the inhabitants of cold countries. the state of the weather, and the seasons of the year also, have a visible effect upon moral sensibility. the month of november, in great britain, rendered gloomy by constant fogs and rains, has been thought to favour the perpetration of the worst species of murder, while the vernal sun, in middle latitudes, has been as generally remarked for producing gentleness and benevolence. 2. the effects of diet upon the moral faculty are more certain, though less attended to, than the effects of climate. "fulness of bread," we are told, was one of the predisposing causes of the vices of the cities of the plain. the fasts so often inculcated among the jews, were intended to lessen the incentives to vice; for pride, cruelty, and sensuality, are as much the natural consequences of luxury, as apoplexies and palsies. but the _quality_ as well as the quantity of aliment, has an influence upon morals; hence we find the moral diseases that have been mentioned, are most frequently the offspring of animal food. the prophet isaiah seems to have been sensible of this, when he ascribes such salutary effects to a temperate and vegetable diet. "butter and honey shall he eat," says he, "_that_ he may know to refuse the evil, and to chuse the good." but we have many facts which prove the efficacy of a vegetable diet upon the passions. dr. arbuthnot assures us, that he cured several patients of irascible tempers, by nothing but a prescription of this simple and temperate regimen. 3. the effects of certain drinks upon the moral faculty are not less observable, than upon the intellectual powers of the mind. fermented liquors, of a good quality, and taken in a moderate quantity, are favourable to the virtues of candour, benevolence, and generosity; but when they are taken in excess, or when they are of a bad quality, and taken even in a moderate quantity, they seldom fail of rousing every latent spark of vice into action. the last of these facts is so notorious, that when a man is observed to be ill-natured or quarrelsome in portugal, after drinking, it is common in that country to say, that "he has drunken bad wine." while occasional fits of intoxication produce ill-temper in many people, habitual drunkenness (which is generally produced by distilled spirits) never fails to eradicate veracity and integrity from the human mind. perhaps this may be the reason why the spaniards, in ancient times, never admitted a man's evidence in a court of justice, who had been convicted of drunkenness. water is the universal sedative of turbulent passions; it not only promotes a general equanimity of temper, but it composes anger. i have heard several well-attested cases, of a draught of cold water having suddenly composed this violent passion, after the usual remedies of reason had been applied to no purpose. 4. extreme hunger produces the most unfriendly effects upon moral sensibility. it is immaterial, whether it act by inducing a relaxation of the solids, or an acrimony of the fluids, or by the combined operations of both those physical causes. the indians in this country whet their appetites for that savage species of war, which is peculiar to them, by the stimulus of hunger; hence, we are told, they always return meagre and emaciated from their military excursions. in civilized life we often behold this sensation to overbalance the restraints of moral feeling; and perhaps this may be the reason why poverty, which is the most frequent parent of hunger, disposes so generally to theft; for the character of hunger is taken from that vice: it belongs to it "to break through stone walls." so much does this sensation predominate over reason and moral feeling, that cardinal de retz suggests to politicians, never to risk a motion in a popular assembly, however wise or just it may be, immediately before dinner. that temper must be uncommonly guarded, which is not disturbed by long abstinence from food. one of the worthiest men i ever knew, who made his breakfast his principal meal, was peevish and disagreeable to his friends and family, from the time he left his bed, till he sat down to his morning repast, after which, cheerfulness sparkled in his countenance, and he became the delight of all around him. 5. i hinted formerly, in proving the analogy between the effects of diseases upon the intellects, and upon the moral faculty, that the latter was frequently impaired by madness. i beg leave to add further upon this head, that not only madness, but the hysteria and hypochondriasis, as well as all those states of the body, whether idiopathic or symptomatic, which are accompanied with preternatural irritability, sensibility, torpor, stupor, or mobility of the nervous system, dispose to vice, either of the body or of the mind. it is in vain to attack these vices with lectures upon morality. they are only to be cured by medicine, particularly by exercise, the cold bath, and by a cold or warm atmosphere. the young woman, whose case i mentioned formerly, that lost her habit of veracity by a nervous fever, recovered this virtue, as soon as her system recovered its natural tone, from the cold weather which happily succeeded her fever[10]. [10] there is a morbid state of excitability in the body during the convalescence from fever, which is intimately connected with an undue propensity to venereal pleasures. i have met with several instances of it. the marriage of the celebrated mr. howard to a woman who was twice as old as himself, and very sickly, has been ascribed, by his biographer, dr. aiken, to _gratitude_ for her great attention to him in a fit of sickness. i am disposed to ascribe it to a sudden paroxysm of another passion, which, as a religious man, he could not gratify in any other, than in a lawful way. i have heard of two young clergymen who married the women who had nursed them in fits of sickness. in both cases there was great inequality in their years, and condition in life. their motive was, probably, the same as that which i have attributed to mr. howard. dr. patrick russel takes notice of an uncommon degree of venereal excitability which followed attacks of the plague at messina, in 1743, in all ranks of people. marriages, he says, were more frequent after it than usual, and virgins were, in some instances, violated, who died of that disease, by persons who had just recovered from it. 6. idleness is the parent of every vice. it is mentioned in the old testament as another of the predisposing causes of the vices of the cities of the plain. labour, of all kinds, favours and facilitates the practice of virtue. the country life is happy, chiefly because its laborious employments are favourable to virtue, and unfriendly to vice. it is a common practice, i have been told, for the planters, in the southern states, to consign a house slave, who has become vicious from idleness, to the drudgery of the field, in order to reform him. the bridewells and workhouses of all civilized countries prove, that labour is not only a very severe, but the most benevolent of all punishments, inasmuch as it is one of the most suitable means of reformation. mr. howard tells us, in his history of prisons, that in holland it is a common saying, "make men work, and you will make them honest." and over the rasp and spinhouse at gr[oe]ningen, this sentiment is expressed (he tells us) by a happy motto: "vitiorum semina--otium--labore exhauriendum." the effects of steady labour in early life, in creating virtuous habits, is still more remarkable. the late anthony benezet, of this city, whose benevolence was the centinel of the virtue, as well as of the happiness of his country, made it a constant rule, in binding out poor children, to avoid putting them into wealthy families, but always preferred masters for them who worked themselves, and who obliged these children to work in their presence. if the habits of virtue, contracted by means of this apprenticeship to labour, are purely mechanical, their effects are, nevertheless, the same upon the happiness of society, as if they flowed from principle. the mind, moreover, when preserved by these means from weeds, becomes a more mellow soil afterwards, for moral and rational improvement. 7. the effects of excessive sleep are intimately connected with the effects of idleness upon the moral faculty: hence we find that moderate, and even scanty portions of sleep, in every part of the world, have been found to be friendly, not only to health and long life, but in many instances to morality. the practice of the monks, who often sleep upon a floor, and who generally rise with the sun, for the sake of mortifying their sensual appetites, is certainly founded in wisdom, and has often produced the most salutary moral effects. 8. the effects of bodily pain upon the moral, are not less remarkable than upon the intellectual powers of the mind. the late dr. gregory, of the university of edinburgh, used to tell his pupils, that he always found his perceptions quicker in a fit of the gout, than at any other time. the pangs which attend the dissolution of the body, are often accompanied with conceptions and expressions upon the most ordinary subjects, that discover an uncommon elevation of the intellectual powers. the effects of bodily pain are exactly the same in rousing and directing the moral faculty. bodily pain, we find, was one of the remedies employed in the old testament, for extirpating vice, and promoting virtue: and mr. howard tells us, that he saw it employed successfully as a means of reformation, in one of the prisons which he visited. if pain has a physical tendency to cure vice, i submit it to the consideration of parents and legislators, whether moderate degrees of corporal punishments, inflicted for a great length of time, would not be more medicinal in their effects, than the violent degrees of them, which are of short duration. 9. too much cannot be said in favour of cleanliness, as a physical means of promoting virtue. the writings of moses have been called by military men, the best "orderly book" in the world. in every part of them we find cleanliness inculcated with as much zeal, as if it was part of the moral, instead of the levitical law. now, it is well known, that the principal design of every precept and rite of the ceremonial parts of the jewish religion, was to prevent vice, and to promote virtue. all writers upon the leprosy, take notice of its connection with a certain vice. to this disease gross animal food, particularly swine's flesh, and a dirty skin, have been thought to be predisposing causes: hence the reason, probably, why pork was forbidden, and why ablutions of the body and limbs were so frequently inculcated by the jewish law. sir john pringle's remarks, in his oration upon captain cook's voyage, delivered before the royal society, in london, are very pertinent to this part of our subject. "cleanliness (says he) is conducive to health, but it is not so obvious, that it also tends to good order and other virtues. such (meaning the ship's crew) as were made more cleanly, became more sober, more orderly, and more attentive to duty." the benefit to be derived by parents and schoolmasters from attending to these facts, is too obvious to be mentioned. 10. i hope i shall be excused in placing solitude among the physical causes which influence the moral faculty, when i add, that i confine its effects to persons who are irreclaimable by rational or moral remedies. mr. howard informs us, that the chaplain of the prison at leige, in germany, assured him, "that the most refractory and turbulent spirits became tractable and submissive, by being closely confined for four or five days." in bodies that are predisposed to vice, the stimulus of cheerful, but much more of profane society and conversation, upon the animal spirits, becomes an exciting cause, and, like the stroke of the flint upon the steel, renders the sparks of vice both active and visible. by removing men out of the reach of this exciting cause, they are often reformed, especially if they are confined long enough to produce a sufficient chasm in their habits of vice. where the benefit of reflection and instruction from books can be added to solitude and confinement, their good effects are still more certain. to this philosophers and poets in every age have assented, by describing the life of a hermit as a life of passive virtue. 11. connected with solitude, as a mechanical means of promoting virtue, silence deserves to be mentioned in this place. the late dr. fothergill, in his plan of education for that benevolent institution at ackworth, which was the last care of his useful life, says every thing that can be said in favour of this necessary discipline, in the following words: "to habituate children from their early infancy, to silence and attention, is of the greatest advantage to them, not only as a preparative to their advancement in religious life, but as the groundwork of a well cultivated understanding. to have the active minds of children put under a kind of restraint; to be accustomed to turn their attention from external objects, and habituated to a degree of abstracted quiet, is a matter of great consequence, and lasting benefit to them. although it cannot be supposed, that young and active minds are always engaged in silence as they ought to be, yet to be accustomed thus to quietness, is no small point gained towards fixing a habit of patience, and recollection, which seldom forsakes those who have been properly instructed in this entrance of the school of wisdom, during the residue of their days." for the purpose of acquiring this branch of education, children cannot associate too early, nor too often with their parents, or with their superiors in age, rank, and wisdom. 12. the effects of music upon the moral faculty, have been felt and recorded in every country. hence we are able to discover the virtues and vices of different nations, by their tunes, as certainly as by their laws. the effects of music, when simply mechanical, upon the passions, are powerful and extensive. but it remains yet to determine the degrees of moral ecstacy, that may be produced by an attack upon the ear, the reason, and the moral principle, at the same time, by the combined powers of music and eloquence. 13. the eloquence of the pulpit is nearly allied to music in its effects upon the moral faculty. it is true, there can be no permanent change in the temper, and moral conduct of a man, that is not derived from the understanding and the will; but we must remember, that these two powers of the mind are most assailable, when they are attacked through the avenue of the passions; and these, we know, when agitated by the powers of eloquence, exert a mechanical action upon every power of the soul. hence we find in every age and country, where christianity has been propagated, the most accomplished orators have generally been the most successful reformers of mankind. there must be a defect of eloquence in a preacher, who, with the resources for oratory, which are contained in the old and new testaments, does not produce in every man who hears him, at least a temporary love of virtue. i grant that the eloquence of the pulpit alone cannot change men into christians, but it certainly possesses the power of changing brutes into men. could the eloquence of the stage be properly directed, it is impossible to conceive the extent of its mechanical effects upon morals. the language and imagery of a shakespeare, upon moral and religious subjects, poured upon the passions and the senses, in all the beauty and variety of dramatic representation; who could resist, or describe their effects? 14. odours of various kinds have been observed to act in the most sensible manner upon the moral faculty. brydone tells us, upon the authority of a celebrated philosopher in italy, that the peculiar wickedness of the people who live in the neighbourhood of ã�tna and vesuvius, is occasioned chiefly by the smell of the sulphur and of the hot exhalations which are constantly discharged from those volcanos. agreeable odours seldom fail to inspire serenity, and to compose the angry spirits. hence the pleasure, and one of the advantages of a flower garden. the smoke of tobacco is likewise of a composing nature, and tends not only to produce what is called a train in perception, but to hush the agitated passions into silence and order. hence the practice of connecting the pipe or segar, and the bottle together, in public company. 15. it will be sufficient only to mention light and darkness, to suggest facts in favour of the influence of each of them upon moral sensibility. how often do the peevish complaints of the night in sickness, give way to the composing rays of the light of the morning? othello cannot murder desdemona by candle-light, and who has not felt the effects of a blazing fire upon the gentle passions? 16. it is to be lamented, that no experiments have as yet been made, to determine the effects of all the different species of airs, which chemistry has lately discovered, upon the moral faculty. i have authority from actual experiments, only to declare, that dephlogisticated air, when taken into the lungs, produces cheerfulness, gentleness, and serenity of mind. 17. what shall we say of the effects of medicines upon the moral faculty? that many substances in the materia medica act upon the intellects, is well known to physicians. why should it be thought impossible for medicines to act in like manner upon the moral faculty? may not the earth contain, in its bowels, or upon its surface, antidotes? but i will not blend facts with conjectures. clouds and darkness still hang upon this part of my subject. let it not be suspected, from any thing that i have delivered, that i suppose the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty, renders the agency of divine influence unnecessary to our moral happiness. i only maintain, that the operations of the divine government are carried on in the moral, as in the natural world, by the instrumentality of second causes. i have only trodden in the footsteps of the inspired writers; for most of the physical causes i have enumerated, are connected with moral precepts, or have been used as the means of reformation from vice, in the old and new testaments. to the cases that have been mentioned, i shall only add, that nebuchadnezzar was cured of his pride, by means of solitude and a vegetable diet. saul was cured of his evil spirit, by means of david's harp, and st. paul expressly says, "i keep my body under, and bring it into subjection, lest that by any means, when i have preached to others, i myself should be a cast-away." but i will go one step further, and add in favour of divine influence upon the moral principle, that in those extraordinary cases, where bad men are suddenly reformed, without the instrumentality of physical, moral, or rational causes, i believe that the organization of those parts of the body, in which the faculties of the mind are seated, undergoes a physical change[11]; and hence the expression of a "new creature," which is made use of in the scriptures to denote this change, is proper in a literal, as well as a figurative sense. it is probably the beginning of that perfect renovation of the human body, which is predicted by st. paul in the following words: "for our conversation is in heaven, from whence we look for the saviour, who shall change our vile bodies, that they may be fashioned according to his own glorious body." i shall not pause to defend myself against the charge of enthusiasm in this place; for the age is at length arrived, so devoutly wished for by dr. cheyne, in which men will not be deterred in their researches after truth, by the terror of odious or unpopular names. [11] st. paul was suddenly transformed from a persecutor into a man of a gentle and amiable spirit. the manner in which this change was effected upon his mind, he tells us in the following words: "neither circumcision availeth any thing, nor uncircumcision, but a new creature. from henceforth let no man trouble me; for i bear in _my body_, the _marks_ of our lord jesus." galatians, vi. 15, 17. i cannot help remarking under this head, that if the conditions of those parts of the human body which are connected with the human soul, influence morals, the same reason may be given for a virtuous education, that has been admitted for teaching music and the pronunciation of foreign languages, in the early and yielding state of those organs which form the voice and speech. such is the effect of a moral education, that we often see its fruits in advanced stages of life, after the religious principles which were connected with it, have been renounced; just as we perceive the same care in a surgeon in his attendance upon patients, after the sympathy which first produced this care, has ceased to operate upon his mind. the boasted morality of the deists, is, i believe, in most cases, the offspring of habits, produced originally by the principles and precepts of christianity. hence appears the wisdom of solomon's advice, "train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not," i had almost said, he cannot "depart from it." thus have i enumerated the principal causes which act mechanically upon morals. if from the combined action of physical powers that are opposed to each other, the moral faculty should become stationary, or if the virtue or vice produced by them, should form a neutral quality, composed of both of them, i hope it will not call in question the truth of our general propositions. i have only mentioned the effects of physical causes in a simple state[12]. [12] the doctrine of the influence of physical causes on morals is happily calculated to beget charity towards the failings of our fellow-creatures. our duty to practise this virtue is enforced by motives drawn from science, as well as from the precepts of christianity. it might help to enlarge our ideas upon this subject, to take notice of the influence of the different stages of society, of agriculture and commerce, of soil and situation, of the different degrees of cultivation of taste, and of the intellectual powers, of the different forms of government, and lastly, of the different professions and occupations of mankind, upon the moral faculty; but as these act indirectly only, and by the intervention of causes that are unconnected with matter, i conceive they are foreign to the business of the present inquiry. if they should vary the action of the simple physical causes in any degree, i hope it will not call in question the truth of our general propositions, any more than the compound action of physical powers, that are opposed to each other. there remain but a few more causes which are of a compound nature, but they are so nearly related to those which are purely mechanical, that i shall beg leave to trespass upon your patience, by giving them a place in my oration. the effects of imitation, habit, and association upon morals, would furnish ample matter for investigation. considering how much the shape, texture, and conditions of the human body, influence morals, i submit it to the consideration of the ingenious, whether, in our endeavours to imitate moral examples, some advantage may not be derived, from our copying the features and external manners of the originals. what makes the success of this experiment probable is, that we generally find men, whose faces resemble each other, have the same manners and dispositions. i infer the possibility of success in an attempt to imitate originals in a manner that has been mentioned, from the facility with which domestics acquire a resemblance to their masters and mistresses, not only in manners, but in countenance, in those cases where they are tied to them by respect and affection. husbands and wives also, where they possess the same species of face, under circumstances of mutual attachment, often acquire a resemblance to each other. from the general detestation in which hypocrisy is held, both by good and bad men, the mechanical effects of habit upon virtue have not been sufficiently explored. there are, i am persuaded, many instances where virtues have been assumed by accident, or necessity, which have become real from habit, and afterwards derived their nourishment from the heart. hence the propriety of hamlet's advice to his mother: "assume a virtue, if you have it not. that monster, custom, who all sense doth eat of habits evil, is angel yet in this, that to the use of actions fair and good he likewise gives a frock or livery, that aptly is put on. refrain to-night, and that shall lend a kind of easiness to the next abstinence; the next more easy: for use can almost change the stamp of nature, and master even the devil, or throw him out, with wondrous potency." the influence of association upon morals, opens an ample field for inquiry. it is from this principle, that we explain the reformation from theft and drunkenness in servants, which we sometimes see produced by a draught of spirits, in which tartar emetic had been secretly dissolved. the recollection of the pain and sickness excited by the emetic, naturally associates itself with the spirits, so as to render them both equally the objects of aversion. it is by calling in this principle only, that we can account for the conduct of moses, in grinding the golden calf into a powder, and afterwards dissolving it (probably by means of hepar sulphuris) in water, and compelling the children of israel to drink of it, as a punishment for their idolatry. this mixture is bitter and nauseating in the highest degree. an inclination to idolatry, therefore, could not be felt without being associated with the remembrance of this disagreeable mixture, and of course being rejected, with equal abhorrence. the benefit of corporal punishments, when they are of a short duration, depends in part upon their being connected, by time and place, with the crimes for which they are inflicted. quick as the thunder follows the lightning, if it were possible, should punishments follow the crimes, and the advantage of association would be more certain, if the spot where they were committed, were made the theatre of their expiation. it is from the effects of this association, probably, that the change of place and company, produced by exile and transportation, has so often reclaimed bad men, after moral, rational, and physical means of reformation had been used to no purpose. as sensibility is the avenue to the moral faculty, every thing which tends to diminish it tends also to injure morals. the romans owed much of their corruption to the sights of the contests of their gladiators, and of criminals, with wild beasts. for these reasons, executions should never be public. indeed, i believe there are no public punishments of any kind, that do not harden the hearts of spectators, and thereby lessen the natural horror which all crimes at first excite in the human mind. cruelty to brute animals is another means of destroying moral sensibility. the ferocity of savages has been ascribed in part to their peculiar mode of subsistence. mr. hogarth points out, in his ingenious prints, the connection between cruelty to brute animals in youth, and murder in manhood. the emperor domitian prepared his mind, by the amusement of killing flies, for all those bloody crimes which afterwards disgraced his reign. i am so perfectly satisfied of the truth of a connection between morals and humanity to brutes, that i shall find it difficult to restrain my idolatry for that legislature, that shall first establish a system of laws, to defend them from outrage and oppression. in order to preserve the vigour of the moral faculty, it is of the utmost consequence to keep young people as ignorant as possible of those crimes that are generally thought most disgraceful to human nature. suicide, i believe, is often propagated by means of newspapers. for this reason, i should be glad to see the proceedings of our courts kept from the public eye, when they expose or punish monstrous vices. the last mechanical method of promoting morality that i shall mention, is to keep sensibility alive, by a familiarity with scenes of distress from poverty and disease. compassion never awakens in the human bosom, without being accompanied by a train of sister virtues. hence the wise man justly remarks, that "by the sadness of the countenance, the heart is made better." a late french writer, in his prediction of events that are to happen in the year 4000, says, "that mankind in that ã¦ra shall be so far improved by religion and government, that the sick and the dying shall no longer be thrown, together with the dead, into splendid houses, but shall be relieved and protected in a connection with their families and society." for the honour of humanity, an institution[13], destined for that distant period, has lately been founded in this city, that shall perpetuate the year 1786 in the history of pennsylvania. here the feeling heart, the tearful eye, and the charitable hand, may always be connected together, and the flame of sympathy, instead of being extinguished in taxes, or expiring in a solitary blaze by a single contribution, may be kept alive, by constant exercise. there is a necessary connection between animal sympathy, and good morals. the priest and the levite, in the new testament, would probably have relieved the poor man who fell among thieves, had accident brought them near enough to his wounds. the unfortunate mrs. bellamy was rescued from the dreadful purpose of drowning herself, by nothing but the distress of a child, rending the air with its cries for bread. it is probably owing, in some measure, to the connection between good morals and sympathy that the fair sex, in every age and country, have been more distinguished for virtue, than men; for how seldom do we hear of a woman, devoid of humanity? [13] a public dispensary. lastly, attraction, composition, and decomposition, belong to the passions as well as to matter. vices of the same species attract each other with the most force: hence the bad consequences of crowding young men, whose propensities are generally the same, under one roof, in our modern plans of education. the effects of composition and decomposition upon vices, appear in the meanness of the school-boy being often cured by the prodigality of a military life, and by the precipitation of avarice, which is often produced by ambition and love. if physical causes influence morals in the manner we have described, may they not also influence religious principles and opinions? i answer in the affirmative; and i have authority, from the records of physic, as well as from my own observations, to declare, that religious melancholy and madness, in all their variety of species, yield with more facility to medicine, than simply to polemical discourses, or to casuistical advice. but this subject is foreign to the business of the present inquiry. from a review of our subject, we are led to contemplate with admiration, the curious structure of the human mind. how distinct are the number, and yet how united! how subordinate, and yet how co-equal are all its faculties! how wonderful is the action of the mind upon the body! of the body upon the mind! and of the divine spirit upon both! what a mystery is the mind of man to itself!---o! nature!---or, to speak more properly, o! thou god of nature! in vain do we attempt to scan thy immensity, or to comprehend thy various modes of existence, when a single particle of light, issued from thyself, and kindled into intelligence in the bosom of man, thus dazzles and confounds our understandings! the extent of the moral powers and habits in man is unknown. it is not improbable, but the human mind contains principles of virtue, which have never yet been excited into action. we behold with surprise the versatility of the human body in the exploits of tumblers and rope-dancers. even the agility of a wild beast has been demonstrated in a girl of france, and an amphibious nature has been discovered in the human species, in a young man in spain. we listen with astonishment to the accounts of the _memories_ of mithridates, cyrus, and servin. we feel a veneration bordering upon divine homage, in contemplating the stupenduous _understandings_ of lord verulam and sir isaac newton; and our eyes grow dim, in attempting to pursue shakespeare and milton in their immeasurable flights of _imagination_. and if the history of mankind does not furnish similar instances of the versatility and perfection of our species in virtue, it is because the moral faculty has been the subject of less culture and fewer experiments than the body, and the intellectual faculties of the mind. from what has been said, the reason of this is obvious. hitherto the cultivation of the moral faculty has been the business of parents, schoolmasters, and divines[14]. but if the principles, we have laid down, be just, the improvement and extension of this principle should be equally the business of the legislator, the natural philosopher, and the physician; and a physical regimen should as necessarily accompany a moral precept, as directions with respect to the air, exercise, and diet, generally accompany prescriptions for the consumption, and the gout. to encourage us to undertake experiments for the improvement of morals, let us recollect the success of philosophy in lessening the number, and mitigating the violence of incurable diseases. the intermitting fever, which proved fatal to two of the monarchs of britain, is now under absolute subjection to medicine. continual fevers are much less fatal than formerly. the small-pox is disarmed of its mortality by inoculation, and even the tetanus and the cancer have lately received a check in their ravages upon mankind. but medicine has done more. it has penetrated the deep and gloomy abyss of death, and acquired fresh honours in his cold embraces. witness the many hundred people who have lately been brought back to life by the successful efforts of the humane societies, which are now established in many parts of europe, and in some parts of america. should the same industry and ingenuity, which have produced these triumphs of medicine over diseases and death, be applied to the moral science, it is highly probable, that most of those baneful vices, which deform the human breast, and convulse the nations of the earth, might be banished from the world. i am not so sanguine as to suppose, that it is possible for man to acquire so much perfection from science, religion, liberty, and good government, as to cease to be mortal; but i am fully persuaded, that from the combined action of causes, which operate at once upon the reason, the moral faculty, the passions, the senses, the brain, the nerves, the blood, and the heart, it is possible to produce such a change in his moral character, as shall raise him to a resemblance of angels; nay, more, to the likeness of god himself. the state of pennsylvania still deplores the loss of a man, in whom not only reason and revelation, but many of the physical causes that have been enumerated, concurred to produce such attainments in moral excellency, as have seldom appeared in a human being. this amiable citizen considered his fellow-creature, man, as god's extract, from his own works; and whether this image of himself was cut out from ebony or copper; whether he spoke his own, or a foreign language; or whether he worshipped his maker with ceremonies, or without them, he still considered him as a brother, and equally the object of his benevolence. poets and historians, who are to live hereafter, to you i commit his panegyric; and when you hear of a law for abolishing slavery in each of the american states, such as was passed in pennsylvania, in the year 1780; when you hear of the kings and queens of europe, publishing edicts for abolishing the trade in human souls; and, lastly, when you hear of schools and churches, with all the arts of civilized life, being established among the nations of africa, then remember and record, that this revolution in favour of human happiness, was the effect of the labours, the publications, the private letters, and the prayers of anthony benezet[15]. [14] the people commonly called quakers and the methodists, make use of the greatest number of physical remedies in their religious and moral discipline, of any sects of christians; and hence we find them every where distinguished for their good morals. there are several excellent _physical_ institutions in other churches; and if they do not produce the same moral effects that we observe from physical institutions among those two modern sects, it must be ascribed to their being more neglected by the members of those churches. [15] this worthy man was descended from an ancient and honourable family that flourished in the court of louis xiv. with liberal prospects in life he early devoted himself to teaching an english school; in which, for industry, capacity, and attention to the morals and principles of the youth committed to his care, he was without an equal. he published many excellent tracts against the african trade, against war, and the use of spiritous liquors, and one in favour of civilizing and christianizing the indians. he wrote to the queen of great britain, and the queen of portugal, to use their influence in their respective courts to abolish the african trade. he also wrote an affectionate letter to the king of prussia, to dissuade him from making war. the history of his life affords a remarkable instance how much it is possible for an individual to accomplish in the world; and that the most humble stations do not preclude good men from the most extensive usefulness. he bequeathed his estate (after the death of his widow) to the support of a school for the education of negro children, which he had founded and taught for several years before he died. he departed this life in may, 1784, in the 71st year of his age, in the meridian of his usefulness, universally lamented by persons of all ranks and denominations. i return from this digression, to address myself in a particular manner to you, venerable sages and fellow citizens in the republic of letters. the influence of philosophy, we have been told, has already been felt in courts. to increase, and complete this influence, there is nothing more necessary, than for the numerous literary societies in europe and america, to add the science of morals to their experiments and inquiries. the godlike scheme of henry iv, of france, and of the illustrious queen elizabeth, of england, for establishing a perpetual peace in europe, may be accomplished without a system of jurisprudence, by a confederation of learned men, and learned societies. it is in their power, by multiplying the objects of human reason, to bring the monarchs and rulers of the world under their subjection, and thereby to extirpate war, slavery, and capital punishments, from the list of human evils. let it not be suspected that i detract, by this declaration, from the honour of the christian religion. it is true, christianity was propagated without the aid of human learning; but this was one of those miracles, which was necessary to establish it, and which, by repetition, would cease to be a miracle. they misrepresent the christian religion, who suppose it to be wholly an internal revelation, and addressed only to the moral faculties of the mind. the truths of christianity afford the greatest scope for the human understanding, and they will become intelligible to us, only in proportion as the human genius is stretched, by means of philosophy, to its utmost dimensions. errors may be opposed to errors; but truths, upon all subjects, mutually support each other. and perhaps one reason why some parts of the christian revelation are still involved in obscurity, may be occasioned by our imperfect knowledge of the phenomena and laws of nature. the truths of philosophy and christianity dwell alike in the mind of the deity, and reason and religion are equally the offspring of his goodness. they must, therefore, stand and fall together. by reason, in the present instance, i mean the power of judging of truth, as well as the power of comprehending it. happy ã¦ra! when the divine and the philosopher shall embrace each other, and unite their labours for the reformation and happiness of mankind! illustrious counsellors and senators of pennsylvania[16]! i anticipate your candid reception of this feeble effort to increase the quantity of virtue in our republic. it is not my business to remind you of the immense resources for greatness, which nature and providence have bestowed upon our state. every advantage which france has derived from being placed in the centre of europe, and which britain has derived from her mixture of nations, pennsylvania has opened to her. but my business, at present, is to suggest the means of promoting the happiness, not the greatness, of the state. for this purpose, it is absolutely necessary that our government, which unites into one, all the minds of the state, should possess, in an eminent degree, not only the understanding, the passions, and the will, but, above all, the moral faculty and the conscience of an individual. nothing can be politically right, that is morally wrong; and no necessity can ever sanctify a law, that is contrary to equity. virtue is the soul of a republic. to promote this, laws for the suppression of vice and immorality will be as ineffectual, as the increase and enlargement of jails. there is but one method of preventing crimes, and of rendering a republican form of government durable, and that is, by disseminating the seeds of virtue and knowledge through every part of the state, by means of proper modes and places of education, and this can be done effectually only by the interference and aid of the legislature. i am so deeply impressed with the truth of this opinion, that were this evening to be the last of my life, i would not only say to the asylum of my ancestors, and my beloved native country, with the patriot of venice, "esto perpetua," but i would add, as the last proof of my affection for her, my parting advice to the guardians of her liberties, "to establish and support public schools, in every part of the state." [16] the president, and supreme executive council, and the members of the general assembly of pennsylvania, attended the delivery of the oration, in the hall of the university, by invitation from the philosophical society. an inquiry into the causes and cure of the _pulmonary consumption_. in an essay, entitled "thoughts on the pulmonary consumption[17]," i attempted to show that this disease was the effect of causes which induced general debility, and that the only hope of discovering a cure for it should be directed to such remedies as act upon the whole system. in the following inquiry, i shall endeavour to establish the truth of each of those opinions, by a detail of facts and reasonings, at which i only hinted in my former essay. [17] vol. i. p. 199. the method i have chosen for this purpose, is to deliver, and afterwards to support, a few general propositions. i shall begin by remarking, i. that the pulmonary consumption is induced by predisposing debility. this i infer, 1st, from the remote and exciting causes which produce it. the remote causes are pneumony, catarrh, hã¦moptysis, rheumatism, gout, asthma, scrophula, chronic diseases of the stomach, liver, and kidneys, nervous and intermitting fevers, measles, repelled humours from the surface of the body, the venereal disease, obstructed menses, sudden growth about the age of puberty, grief, and all other debilitating passions of the mind; hypochondriasis, improper lactation, excessive evacuation of all kinds, more especially by stool[18], cold and damp air, a cough, external violence acting upon the body[19]; and finally, every thing that tends, directly or indirectly, to diminish the strength of the system. [18] sir george baker relates, in the second volume of the medical transactions, that dr. blanchard had informed him, that he had seen the consumption brought on ten persons out of ninety, by excessive purging used to prepare the body for the small-pox. i have seen a case of consumption in a youth of 17, from the spitting produced by the intemperate use of segars. [19] dr. lind says, that out of 360 patients whom he attended between july 1st, 1758, and july 1st, 1760, in consumptions, the disease was brought on _one fourth_ of them by falls, bruises, and strains, received a year or two before the disease made its appearance. the most frequent exciting cause of consumption is the alternate application of heat and cold to the whole external surface of the body; but all the remote causes which have been enumerated, operate as exciting causes of consumption, when they act on previous debility. original injuries of the lungs seldom excite this disease, except they first induce a debility of the whole system, by a troublesome and obstinate cough. 2. from the debilitating occupations and habits of persons who are most liable to this disease. these are studious men, and mechanics who lead sedentary lives in confined places; also women, and all persons of irritable habits, whether of body or mind. 3. from the period in which persons are most liable to be affected by this disease. this is generally between the 18th and 36th year of life, a period in which the system is liable, in a peculiar manner, to most diseases which induce it, and in which there is a greater expenditure of strength, than in any other stage of life, by the excessive exercises of the body and mind, in the pursuits of business or pleasure. i have conformed to authors, in fixing the period of consumptions between the 18th and 36th year of life; but it is well known that it sometimes appears in children, and frequently in persons beyond the 40th, or even 60th year of life. ii. the pulmonary consumption is a primary disease of the _whole_ system. this i infer, 1. from the causes which produce it, acting upon the whole system. 2. from the symptoms of general debility which always precede the affection of the lungs. these symptoms are a quick pulse, especially towards evening; a heat and burning in the palms of the hands; faintness, head-ach, sickness at stomach, and an occasional diarrh[oe]a. i have frequently observed each of these symptoms for several months before i have heard of a single complaint in the breast. 3. from the pulmonary consumption alternating with other diseases which obviously belong to the whole system. i shall briefly mention these diseases. the rheumatism. i have seen many cases in which this disease and the consumption have alternately, in different seasons or years, affected the system. in the winter of 1792, three clinical patients in the pennsylvania hospital exemplified by their complaints the truth of this observation. they were relieved several times of a cough by rheumatic pains in their limbs, which seemed for a while to promise a cure to their pulmonic complaints. the gout has often been observed to alternate with the pulmonary consumption, especially in persons in the decline of life. dr. sydenham describes a short cough continuing through the whole winter, as a symptom of gouty habits. a gentleman from virginia died under my care in the spring of 1788, in the 45th year of his age, with all the symptoms of pulmonary consumption, which had frequently alternated with pains and a swelling in his feet. the pulmonary consumption has been observed to alternate with madness. of this i have seen two instances, in both of which the cough and expectoration were wholly suspended during the continuance of the derangement of the mind. dr. mead mentions a melancholy case of the same kind in a young lady, and similar cases are to be met with in other authors. in all of them the disease proved fatal. in one of the cases which came under my notice, the symptoms of consumption returned before the death of the patient. i have likewise witnessed two cases in which the return of reason after madness, was suddenly succeeded by a fatal pulmonary consumption. perhaps the false hopes, and even the cheerfulness which so universally occur in this disease, may be resolved into a morbid state of the mind, produced by a general derangement of the whole system. so universal are the delusion and hopes of patients, with respect to the nature and issue of this disease, that i have never met with but one man, who, upon being asked what was the matter with him, answered unequivocally, "that he was in a consumption." again: dr. bennet mentions a case of "a phthisical patient, who was seized with a violent pain in the teeth for two days, and in whom, during that time, every symptom of a consumption, except the leanness of the body, altogether vanished:" and he adds further, "that a defluction on the lungs had often been relieved by salivary evacuations[20]." [20] treatise of the nature and cure of consumptions. exercitation x. i have seen several instances in which the pulmonary symptoms have alternated with headach and dyspepsia; also with pain and noise in one ear. this affection of the ears sometimes continues throughout the whole disease, without any remission of the pulmonary symptoms. i have seen one case of a discharge of matter from the left ear, without being accompanied by either pain or noise. in all our books of medicine are to be found cases of consumption alternating with eruptions on the skin. and who has not seen the pulmonary symptoms alternately relieved and reproduced by the appearance or cessation of a diarrh[oe]a, or pains in the bowels? to these facts i shall only add, under this head, as a proof of the consumption being a disease of the whole system, that it is always more or less relieved by the change which is induced in the system by pregnancy. 4. i infer that the pulmonary consumption is a disease of the whole system from its analogy with several other diseases, which, though accompanied by local affections, are obviously produced by a morbid state of the whole system. the rheumatism, the gout, the measles, small-pox, the different species of cynanche, all furnish examples of the connection of local affections with a general disease; but the apoplexy, and the pneumony, furnish the most striking analogies of local affection, succeeding a general disease of the system in the pulmonary consumption. the most frequent predisposing cause of apoplexy is a general debility of the system, produced by intemperance in eating and drinking. the phenomena of the disease are produced by an effusion of blood or serum, in consequence of a morbid distension, or of a rupture of the vessels of the brain. the pulmonary consumption begins and ends in the same way, allowing only for the difference of situation and structure of the brain and lungs. after the production of predisposing debility from the action of the remote causes formerly enumerated, the fluids are determined to the weakest part of the body. hence effusions of serum or blood take place in the lungs. when serum is effused, a pituitous or purulent expectoration alone takes place; when blood is discharged, a disease is produced which has been called hã¦moptysis. an effusion of blood in the brain, brought on by the operation of general debility, has been called by dr. hoffman, with equal propriety, a hã¦morrhage of the brain. the effusion of blood in the lungs, in consequence of the rupture of a blood-vessel, is less fatal than the same accident when it occurs in the brain, only because the blood in the former case is more easily discharged from the system. where no rupture of a blood-vessel is produced, death is nearly as speedy and certain in the one case as in the other. dissections show many cases of suffocation and death, from the lungs being preternaturally filled with blood or serum. from this great analogy between the remote and proximate causes of the two diseases which have been described, i have taken the liberty to call them both by the name of apoplexy. the only symptom which does not accord with the derivation of the term, is, that in the apoplexy of the lungs, the patient does not fall down as if by an external stroke, which is most frequently the case in the apoplexy of the brain. the history of the remote and proximate causes of pneumony will furnish us with a still more remarkable analogy of the connection between a _local_ affection, and a _general_ disease of the system. the pneumony is produced by remote exciting causes which act on the whole system. the whole arterial system is frequently agitated by a fever in this disease before a pain is perceived in the breast or sides, and this fever generally constitutes its strength and danger. the expectoration which terminates the disease in health, is always the effect of effusions produced by a general disease, and even the vomicas, which sometimes succeed a deficiency of bleeding, always depend upon the same general cause. from this view of the analogy between pneumony and pulmonary consumption, it would seem that the two diseases differed from each other only by the shorter or longer operation of the causes which induce them, and by the greater or less violence and duration of their symptoms. the pneumony appears to be an _acute_ consumption, and the consumption a _chronic_ pneumony. from the analogy of the pulmonary consumption with the diminutive term of certain fevers, i have taken the liberty of calling it a pneumonicula. 5. i infer that the pulmonary consumption is a disease of the whole system, from its existence without ulcers in the lungs. of this there are many cases recorded in books of medicine. dr. leigh informs us, in his natural history of lancashire, that the consumption was a very common disease on the sea coast of that country; but that it was not accompanied either by previous inflammation or ulcers in the lungs. it was generally attended, he says, by an unusual peevishness of temper. 6. i infer that the pulmonary consumption is a disease of the whole system, from its being relieved, or cured, only by remedies which act upon the whole system. this will appear, i hope, hereafter, when we come to treat of the cure of this disease. let us now enquire how far the principles i have laid down will apply to the supposed causes of consumption. these causes have been said to be, an abscess in the lungs, hã¦moptysis, tubercles, without and with ulcers, catarrh, hereditary diathesis, contagion, and the matter of cutaneous eruptions, or sores repelled, and thrown upon the lungs. i shall make a few observations upon each of them. 1. an abscess in the lungs is generally the consequence of a neglected, or half-cured pneumony. it is seldom fatal, where it is not connected with a predisposition to consumption from general debility, or where general debility is not previously induced by the want of appetite, sleep, and exercise, which sometimes accompany that disease of the lungs. this explanation of the production of consumption by an abscess in the lungs, will receive further support from attending to the effects of wounds in the lungs. how seldom are they followed by pulmonary consumption; and this only because they are as seldom accompanied by predisposing general debility. i do not recollect a single instance of this disease having followed a wound in the lungs, either by the bayonet, or a bullet, during our revolutionary war. the recoveries which have succeeded such wounds, and frequently under the most unfavourable circumstances, show how very improbable it is that a much slighter affection of the lungs should become the cause of a pulmonary consumption. a british officer, whom i met in the british camp, a few days after the battle of brandywine, in september, 1777, informed me that the surgeon-general of the royal army had assured him, that out of twenty-four soldiers who had been admitted into the hospitals, during the campaign of 1776, with wounds in their lungs, twenty-three of them had recovered. even primary diseases of the lungs often exist with peculiar violence, or continue for many years without inducing a consumption. i have never known but one instance of the whooping-cough ending in consumption, and all our books of medicine contain records of the asthma continuing for twenty and thirty years without terminating in that disease. the reason in both cases, must be ascribed to those two original diseases of the lungs not being accompanied by general debility. one fact more will serve to throw still further light upon the subject. millers are much afflicted with a cough from floating particles of flour constantly irritating their lungs, and yet they are not more subject to consumptions than other labouring people. hence "a miller's cough" is proverbial in some places, to denote a cough of long continuance without danger. 2. the hã¦moptysis is either a local disease, or it is the effect of general debility of the whole system. when it is local, or when it is the effect of causes which induce a _temporary_ or _acute_ debility only in the system, it is seldom followed by consumption. the accidental discharge of blood from the lungs, from injuries, and from an obstruction of the menses in women is of this kind. many persons are affected by this species of hã¦morrhage once or twice in their lives, without suffering any inconvenience from it afterwards. i have met with several cases in which it has occurred for many years every time the body was exposed to any of the causes which induce _sudden_ debility, and yet no consumption has followed it. the late king of prussia informed dr. zimmerman that he had been frequently attacked by it during his seven years war, and yet he lived, notwithstanding, above twenty years afterwards without any pulmonary complaints. it is only in persons who labour under _chronic_ debility, that a hã¦moptysis is necessarily followed by consumption. 3. i yield to the popular mode of expression when i speak of a consumption being produced by tubercles. but i maintain that they are the _effects_ of general debility communicated to the bronchial vessels which cause them to secrete a preternatural quantity of mucus. this mucus is sometimes poured into the trachea from whence it is discharged by hawking, more especially in the morning; for it is secreted more copiously during the languid hours of sleep than in the day time. but this mucus is frequently secreted into the substance of the lungs, where it produces those tumours we call tubercles. when this occurs, there is either no cough[21] or a very dry one. that tubercles are formed in this way, i infer from the dissections and experiments of dr. stark[22], who tells us, that he found them to consist of inorganic matter; that he was unable to discover any connection between them and the pulmonary vessels, by means of the microscope or injections; and that they first opened into the trachea through the bronchial vessels. it is remarkable that the colour and consistence of the matter of which they are composed, is nearly the same as the matter which is discharged through the trachea, in the moist cough which occurs from a relaxation of the bronchial vessels, and which has been called by dr. beddoes a bronchial gleet. [21] see med. com. vol. ii. [22] clinical and anatomical observations, p. 26, 27. see also morgagni, letter xxii. 21. i am aware that these tumours in the lungs have been ascribed to scrophula. but the frequent occurrence of consumptions in persons in whom no scrophulous taint existed, is sufficient to refute this opinion. i have frequently directed my inquiries after this disease in consumptive patients, and have met with very few cases which were produced by it. it is probable that it may frequently be a predisposing cause of consumption in great britain, but i am sure it is not in the united states. baron humboldt informed me, that the scrophula is unknown in mexico, and yet consumptions, he said, are very common in that part of north-america. that tubercles are the effects, and not the cause of pulmonary consumption, is further evident from similar tumours being suddenly formed on the intestines by the dysentery, and on the omentum by a yellow fever. cases of the former are to be met with in the dissections of sir john pringle, and one of the latter is mentioned by dr. mackittrick, in his inaugural dissertation upon the yellow fever, published in edinburgh in the year 1766[23]. [23] pages 7, 8. 4. the catarrh is of two kinds, acute and chronic, both of which are connected with general debility, but this debility is most obvious in the chronic catarrh: hence we find it increased by every thing which acts upon the whole system, such as cold and damp weather, fatigue, and, above all, by old age, and relieved or cured by exercise, and every thing else which invigorates the whole system. this species of catarrh often continues for twenty or thirty years without inducing pulmonary consumption, in persons who pursue active occupations. 5. in the hereditary consumption there is either a hereditary debility of the whole system, or a hereditary mal-conformation of the breast. in the latter case, the consumption is the effect of weakness communicated to the whole system, by the long continuance of difficult respiration, or of such injuries being done to the lungs as are incompatible with health and life. it is remarkable, that the consumptive diathesis is more frequently derived from paternal, than maternal ancestors. 6. physicians, the most distinguished characters, have agreed, that the pulmonary consumption may be communicated by contagion. under the influence of this belief, morgagni informs us, that valsalva, who was predisposed to the consumption, constantly avoided being present at the dissection of the lungs of persons who had died of that disease. in some parts of spain and portugal, its contagious nature is so generally believed, that cases of it are reported to the magistrates of those countries, and the clothes of persons who die of it are burned by their orders. the doctrine of nearly all diseases spreading by contagion, required but a short and simple act of the mind, and favoured the indolence and timidity which characterized the old school of medicine. i adopted this opinion, with respect to the consumption, in the early part of my life; but i have lately been led to call its truth in question, especially in the unqualified manner in which it has been taught. in most of the cases in which the disease has been said to be propagated by contagion, its limits are always confined to the members of a single family. upon examination, i have found them to depend upon some one or more of the following causes: 1. mal-conformation of the breast, in all the branches of the diseased family. it is not necessary that this organic predisposition should be hereditary. 2. upon the debility which is incurred by nursing, and the grief which follows the loss of relations who die of it. 3. upon some local cause undermining the constitutions of a whole family. this may be exhalations from a foul cellar, a privy, or a neighbouring mill-pond, but of so feeble a nature as to produce debility only, with an acute fever, and thus to render the consumption a kind of family epidemic. i was consulted, in the month of august, 1793, by a mr. gale, of maryland, in a pulmonary complaint. he informed me, that he had lost several brothers and sisters with the consumption, and that none of his ancestors had died of it. the deceased persons, five in number, had lived in a place that had been subject to the intermitting fever. 4. upon some peculiar and unwholesome article of diet, which exerts slowly debilitating effects upon all the branches of a family. 5. upon a fearful and debilitating apprehension entertained by the surviving members of a family, in which one or two have died of consumption, that they shall perish by the same disease. the effects of all the passions, and especially of fear, acted upon by a lively imagination, in inducing determinations to particular parts of the body, and subsequent disease, are so numerous, as to leave no doubt of the operation of this cause, in producing a number of successive deaths in the same family, from pulmonary consumption. in favour of its depending upon one or more of the above causes, i shall add two remarks. 1. there is often an interval of from two to ten years, between the sickness and deaths which occur in families from consumptions, and this we know never takes place in any disease which is admitted to be contagious. 2. the consumption is not singular in affecting several branches of a family. i was lately consulted by a young physician from maryland, who informed me, that two of his brothers, in common with himself, were afflicted with epilepsy. madness, scrophula, and a disposition to hã¦morrhage, often affect, in succession, several branches of the same family; and who will say that any one of the above diseases is propagated by contagion? the practice of the spaniards and portuguese, in burning the clothes of persons who die of consumptions, no more proves the disease to be contagious, than the same acts sanctioned by the advice or orders of public bodies in the united states, establish the contagious nature of the yellow fever. they are, in both countries, marks of the superstition of medicine. in suggesting these facts, and the inferences which have been drawn from them, i do not mean to deny the possibility of the acrid and f[oe]tid vapour, which is discharged by breathing from an ulcer or abscess in the lungs, nor of the hectic sweats, when rendered putrid by stagnating in sheets, or blankets, communicating this disease to persons who are long exposed to them, by sleeping with consumptive patients; but that such cases rarely occur i infer, from the persons affected often living at a distance from each other, or when they live under the same roof, having no intercourse with the sick. this was the case with the black slaves, who were supposed to have taken the disease from the white branches of a family in connecticut, and which was mentioned, upon the authority of dr. beardsley, in a former edition of this inquiry. admitting the above morbid matters now and then to act as a remote cause of consumption, it does not militate against the theory i have aimed to establish, for if it follow the analogy of common miasmata and contagions, it must act by first debilitating the whole system. the approach of the jail and bilious fevers is often indicated by general languor. the influenza and the measles are always accompanied by general debility, but the small-pox furnishes an analogy to the case in question more directly in point. the contagion of this disease, whether received by the medium of the air or the skin, never fails of producing weakness in the whole system, before it discovers itself in affections of those parts of the body on which the contagion produced its first operation. 7. i grant that cutaneous humours, and the matter of old sores, when repelled, or suddenly healed, have in some cases fallen upon the lungs, and produced consumption. but i believe, in every case where this has happened, the consumption was preceded by general debility, or that it was not induced, until the whole system had been previously debilitated by a tedious and distressing cough. if the reasonings founded upon the facts which have been mentioned be just, then it follows, iii. that the abscess, cough, tubercles, ulcers, and purulent or bloody discharges which occur in the pulmonary consumption, are the _effects_, and not the _causes_ of the disease; and, that all attempts to cure it, by inquiring after tubercles and ulcers, or into the quality of the discharges from the lungs, are as fruitless as an attempt would be to discover the causes or cure of dropsies, by an examination of the qualities of collections of water, or to find out the causes and cure of fevers, by the quantity or quality of the discharges which take place in those diseases from the kidneys and skin. it is to be lamented, that it is not in pulmonary consumption only, that the effects of a disease have been mistaken for its cause. water in the brain, a membrane in the trachea, and a preternatural secretion of bile, have been accused of producing hydrocephalus internus, cynanche trachealis, and bilious fever, whereas we now know they are the _effects_ of those diseases only, in the successive order in which each of them has been mentioned. it is high time to harness the steeds which drag the car of medicine before, instead of behind it. the earth, in our science, has stood still long enough. let us at last believe, it revolves round its sun. i admit that the cough, tubercles, and ulcers, after they are formed, increase the danger of a consumption, by becoming new causes of stimulus to the system, but in this they are upon a footing with the water, the membrane, and the bile that have been alluded to, which, though they constitute no part of the diseases that produce them, frequently induce symptoms, and a termination of them, wholly unconnected with the original disease. the tendency of general debility to produce a disease of the lungs appears in many cases, as well as in the pulmonary consumption. dr. lind tells us, that the last stage of the jail fever was often marked by a cough. i have seldom been disappointed in looking for a cough and a copious excretion of mucus and phlegm after the 14th or 15th days of the slow nervous fever. two cases of hypochondriasis under my care, ended in fatal diseases of the lungs. the debility of old age is generally accompanied by a troublesome cough, and the debility which precedes death, generally discovers its last symptoms in the lungs. hence most people die with what are called the _rattles_. they are produced by a sudden and copious effusion of mucus in the bronchial vessels of the lungs. sometimes the whole force of the consumptive fever falls upon the trachea instead of the lungs, producing in it defluxion, a hawking of blood, and occasionally a considerable discharge of blood, which are often followed by ulcers, and a spitting of pus. i have called it a _tracheal_, instead of a pulmonary consumption. many people pass through a long life with a mucous defluxion upon the trachea, and enjoy in other respects tolerable health. in such persons the disease is of a local nature. it is only when it is accompanied with debility of the whole system, that it ends in a consumption. mr. john harrison, of the northern liberties, died of this disease under my care, in the year 1801, in consequence of the discharge of pus from an ulcer which followed a hã¦morrhage from the trachea being suddenly suppressed. i have seen another case of the same kind in a lady in this city, in the year 1797. dr. spence, of dumfries, in virginia, in a letter which i received from him in june, 1805, describes a case then under his care, of this form of consumption. he calls it, very properly, "phthisis trachealis." i have met with two cases of death from this disease, in which there were tubercles in the trachea. the patients breathed with great difficulty, and spoke only in a whisper. one of them died from suffocation. in the other, the tubercle bursted a few days before his death, and discharged a large quantity of f[oe]tid matter. should it be asked, why does general debility terminate by a disease in the lungs and trachea, rather than in any other part of the body? i answer, that it seems to be a law of the system, that general debility should always produce some local disease. this local disease sometimes manifests itself in dyspepsia, as in the general debility which follows grief; sometimes it discovers itself in a diarrh[oe]a, as in the general debility which succeeds to fear. again it appears in the brain, as in the general debility which succeeds intemperance, and the constant or violent exercise of the understanding, or of stimulating passions; but it more frequently appears in the lungs, as the consequence of general debility. it would seem as if the debility in the cases of consumption is seated chiefly in the blood-vessels, while that debility which terminates in diseases of the stomach and bowels, is confined chiefly to the nerves, and that the local affections of the brain arise from a debility, invading alike the nervous and arterial systems. what makes it more probable that the arterial system is _materially_ affected in the consumption is, that the disease most frequently occurs in those periods of life, and in those habits in which a peculiar state of irritability or excitability is supposed to be present in the arterial system; also in those climates in which there are the most frequent vicissitudes in the temperature of the weather. it has been observed, that the debility in the inhabitants of the west-indies, whether produced by the heat of the climate or the excessive pursuits of business or pleasure, generally terminates in dropsy, or in some disease of the alimentary canal. i have said, that it seemed to be a law of the system, that general debility should always produce some local affection. but to this law there are sometimes exceptions: the atrophy appears to be a consumption without an affection of the lungs. this disease is frequently mentioned by the writers of the 16th and 17th centuries by the name of tabes. i have seen several instances of it in adults, but more in children, and a greater number in the children of black than of white parents. the hectic fever, and even the night sweats, were as obvious in several of these cases, as in those consumptions where general debility had discovered itself in an affection of the lungs. i come now to make a few observations upon the cure of consumption; and here i hope it will appear, that the theory which i have delivered admits of an early and very important application to practice. if the consumption be preceded by general debility, it becomes us to attempt the cure of it before it produce the active symptoms of cough, bloody or purulent discharges from the lungs, and inflammatory or hectic fever. the symptoms which mark its first stage, are too seldom observed; or if observed, they are too often treated with equal neglect by patients and physicians. i shall briefly enumerate these symptoms. they are a slight fever increased by the least exercise; a burning and dryness in the palms of the hands, more especially towards evening; rheumy eyes upon waking from sleep; an increase of urine; a dryness of the skin, more especially of the feet in the morning[24]; an occasional flushing in one, and sometimes in both cheeks; a hoarseness[25]; a slight or acute pain in the breast; a fixed pain in one side, or shooting pains in both sides; head-ache; occasional sick and fainty fits; a deficiency of appetite, and a general indisposition to exercise or motion of every kind. [24] the three last-mentioned symptoms are taken notice of by dr. bennet, in his treatise upon the nature and cure of the consumption, as _precursors_ of the disease. dr. boerhaave used to tell his pupils that they had never deceived him. [25] i have seen the _hoarseness_ in one case the first symptom of approaching consumption. in this symptom it preserves the analogy of pneumony, which often comes on with a hoarseness, and sometimes with paraphonia. it would be easy for me to mention cases in which every symptom that has been enumerated has occurred within my own observation. i wish them to be committed to memory by young practitioners; and if they derive the same advantages from attending to them, which i have done, i am sure they will not regret the trouble they have taken for that purpose. it is probable, while a morbid state of the lungs is supposed to be the proximate cause of this disease, they will not derive much reputation or emolument from curing it in its forming stage; but let them remember, that in all attempts to discover the causes and cures of diseases, which have been deemed incurable, a physician will do nothing effectual until he acquire a perfect indifference to his own interest and fame. the remedies for consumption, in this stage of the disease, are simple and certain. they consist in a desertion of all the remote and exciting causes of the disorder, particularly sedentary employments, damp or cold situations, and whatever tends to weaken the system. when the disease has not yielded to this desertion of its remote and exciting causes, i have recommended the _cold bath_, _steel_, and _bark_ with great advantage. however improper, or even dangerous, these remedies may be after the disease assumes an inflammatory or hectic type, and produces an affection of the lungs, they are perfectly safe and extremely useful in the state of the system which has been described. the use of the bark will readily be admitted by all those practitioners who believe the pulmonary consumption to depend upon a scrophulous diathesis. should even the lungs be affected by scrophulous tumours, it is no objection to the use of the bark, for there is no reason why it should not be as useful in scrophulous tumours of the lungs, as of the glands of the throat, provided it be given before those tumours have produced inflammation; and in this case, no prudent practitioner will ever prescribe it in scrophula, when seated even in the external parts of the body. to these remedies should be added a diet moderately stimulating, and gentle exercise. i shall hereafter mention the different species of exercise, and the manner in which each of them should be used, so as to derive the utmost advantage from them. i can say nothing of the use of salt water or sea air in this stage of the consumption, from my own experience. i have heard them commended by a physician of rhode-island; and if they be used before the disease has discovered itself in pulmonary affections, i can easily conceive they may do service. if the simple remedies which have been mentioned have been neglected, in the first stage of the disease, it generally terminates, in different periods of time, in pulmonary affections, which show themselves under one of the three following forms: 1. a fever, accompanied by a cough, a hard pulse, and a discharge of blood, or mucous matter from the lungs. 2. a fever of the hectic kind, accompanied by chilly fits, and night sweats, and a pulse full, quick, and occasionally hard. the discharges from the lungs, in this state of the disease, are frequently purulent. 3. a fever with a weak frequent pulse, a troublesome cough, and copious purulent discharges from the lungs, a hoarse and weak voice, and chilly fits and night sweats alternating with a diarrh[oe]a. from this short history of the symptoms of pulmonary consumption there are occasional deviations. i have seen four cases, in which the pulse was natural, or slower than natural, to the last day of life. mrs. rebecca smith, the lovely and accomplished wife of mr. robert smith, of this city, passed through the whole course of this disease, in the year 1802, without a single chilly fit. two other cases have come under my notice, in which there was not only an absence of chills, but of fever and night sweats. a similar case is recorded in the memoirs of the medical society of london; and lastly, i have seen two cases which terminated fatally, in which there was neither cough nor fever for several months. one of them was in miss mary loxley, the daughter of the late mr. benjamin loxley, in the year 1785. she had complained of a pain in her right side, and had frequent chills with a fever of the hectic kind. they all gave way to frequent and gentle bleedings. in the summer of 1786, she was seized with the same complaints, and as she had great objections to bleeding, she consulted a physician who gratified her, by attempting to cure her by recommending exercise and country air. in the autumn she returned to the city, much worse than when she left it. i was again sent for, and found her confined to her bed with a pain in her right side, but without the least cough or fever. her pulse was preternaturally slow. she could lie only on her left side. she sometimes complained of acute flying pains in her head, bowels, and limbs. about a month before her death, which was on the 3d of may, 1787, her pulse became quick, and she had a little hecking cough, but without any discharge from her lungs. upon my first visit to her in the preceding autumn, i told her friends that i believed she had an abscess in her lungs. the want of fever and cough afterwards, however, gave me reason to suspect that i had been mistaken. the morning after her death, i received a message from her father, informing me that it had been among the last requests of his daughter, that the cause of her death should be ascertained, by my opening her body. i complied with this request, and, in company with dr. hall, examined her thorax. we found the left lobe of the lungs perfectly sound; the right lobe adhered to the pleura, in separating of which, dr. hall plunged his hand into a large sac, which contained about half a pint of purulent matter, and which had nearly destroyed the whole substance of the right lobe of the lungs. i have never seen a dry tongue in any of the forms or stages of this disease. the three different forms of the pulmonary affection that i have mentioned, have been distinguished by the names of the first, second, and third stages of the consumption; but as they do not always succeed each other in the order in which they have been mentioned, i shall consider them as different states of the system. the first i shall call the inflammatory, the second the hectic, and the third the typhus state. i have seen the pulmonary consumption come on sometimes with all the symptoms of the second, and sometimes with most of the symptoms of the third state; and i have seen two cases in which a hard pulse, and other symptoms of inflammatory action, appeared in the last hours of life. it is agreeable to pursue the analogy of this disease with a pneumony, or an acute inflammation of the lungs. they both make their first appearance in the same seasons of the year. it is true, the pneumony most frequently attacks with inflammatory symptoms; but it sometimes occurs with symptoms which forbid blood-letting, and i have more than once seen it attended by symptoms which required the use of wine and bark. the pneumony is attended at first by a dry cough, and an expectoration of streaks of blood; the cough in the consumption, in like manner, is at first dry, and attended by a discharge of blood from the lungs, which is more copious than in the pneumony, only because the lungs are more relaxed in the former than in the latter disease. there are cases of pneumony in which no cough attends. i have just now mentioned that i had seen the absence of that symptom in pulmonary consumption. the pneumony terminates in different periods, according to the degrees of inflammation, or the nature of the effusions which take place in the lungs: the same observation applies to the pulmonary consumption. the symptoms of the different forms of pneumony frequently run into each other; so do the symptoms of the three forms of consumption which have been mentioned. in short, the pneumony and consumption are alike in so many particulars, that they appear to resemble shadows of the same substance. they differ only as the protracted shadow of the evening does from that of the noon-day sun. i know that it will be objected here that the consumption is sometimes produced by scrophula, and that this creates an essential difference between it and pneumony. i formerly admitted scrophula to be one of the _remote_ causes of the consumption; but this does not invalidate the parallel which has been given of the two diseases. the phenomena produced in the lungs are the same as to their nature, whether they be produced by the remote cause of scrophula, or by the sudden action of cold and heat upon them. no more happens in the cases of acute and chronic pneumony, than what happens in dysentery and rheumatism. these two last diseases are for the most part so acute, as to confine the patient to his bed or his room, yet we often meet with both of them in patients who go about their ordinary business, and, in some instances, carry their diseases with them for two or three years. the parallel which has been drawn between the pneumony and consumption, will enable us to understand the reason why the latter disease terminates in such different periods of time. the less it partakes of pneumony, the longer it continues, and vice versa. what is commonly called in this country a _galloping_ consumption, is a disease compounded of different degrees of consumption and pneumony. it terminates frequently in two or three months, and without many of the symptoms which usually attend the last stage of pulmonary consumption. but there are cases in which patients in a consumption are suddenly snatched away by an attack of pneumony. i have met with one case only, in which, contrary to my expectation, the patient mended after an attack of an acute inflammation of the lungs, so as to live two years afterwards. it would seem from these facts, as if nature had preferred a certain gradation in diseases, as well as in other parts of her works. there is scarcely a disease in which there is not a certain number of grades, which mark the distance between health and the lowest specific deviation from it. each of these grades has received different names, and has been considered as a distinct disease, but more accurate surveys of the animal economy have taught us, that they frequently depend upon the same original causes, and that they are only greater or less degrees of the same disease. i shall now proceed to say a few words upon the cure of the different states of pulmonary consumption. the remedies for this purpose are of two kinds, viz. palliative and radical. i shall first mention the palliative remedies which belong to each state, and then mention those which are alike proper in them all. the palliative remedies for the i. or inflammatory state, are i. blood-letting. it may seem strange to recommend this debilitating remedy in a disease brought on by debility. were it proper in this place, i could prove that there is no disease in which bleeding is prescribed, which is not induced by predisposing debility, in common with the pulmonary consumption. i shall only remark here, that in consequence of the exciting cause acting upon the system (rendered extremely excitable by debility) such a morbid and excessive excitement is produced in the arteries, as to render a diminution of the stimulus of the blood absolutely necessary to reduce it. i have used this remedy with great success, in every case of consumption attended by a hard pulse, or a pulse rendered weak by a laborious transmission of the blood through the lungs. in the months of february and march, in the year 1781, i bled a methodist minister, who was affected by this state of consumption, fifteen times in the course of six weeks. the quantity of blood drawn at each bleeding was never less than eight ounces, and it was at all times covered with an inflammatory crust. by the addition of country air, and moderate exercise, to this copious evacuation, in the ensuing spring he recovered his health so perfectly, as to discharge all the duties of his profession for many years, nor was he ever afflicted afterwards with a disease in his breast. i have, in another instance, bled a citizen of philadelphia eight times in two weeks, in this state of consumption, and with the happiest effects. the blood drawn at each bleeding was always sizy, and never less in quantity than ten ounces. mr. tracey of connecticut informed me, in the spring of 1802, that he had been bled eighty-five times in six months, by order of his physician, dr. sheldon, in the inflammatory state of this disease. he ascribed his recovery chiefly to this frequent use of the lancet. to these cases i might add many others of consumptive persons who have been perfectly cured by frequent, and of many others whose lives have been prolonged by occasional bleedings. but i am sorry to add, that i could relate many more cases of consumptive patients, who have died martyrs to their prejudices against the use of this invaluable remedy. a common objection to it is, that it has been used without success in this disease. when this has been the case, i suspect that it has been used in one of the other two states of pulmonary consumption which have been mentioned, for it has unfortunately been too fashionable among physicians to prescribe the same remedies in every stage and form of the same disease, and this i take to be the reason why the same medicines, which, in the hands of some physicians, are either inert or instruments of mischief, are, in the hands of others, used with more or less success in every case in which they are prescribed. another objection to bleeding in the inflammatory state of consumption, is derived from the apparent and even sensible weakness of the patient. the men who urge this objection, do not hesitate to take from sixty to a hundred ounces of blood from a patient in a pneumony, in the course of five or six days, without considering that the debility in the latter case is such as to confine a patient to his bed, while, in the former case, the patient's strength is such as to enable him to walk about his house, and even to attend to his ordinary business. the difference between the debility in the two diseases, consists in its being _acute_ in the one, and _chronic_ in the other. it is true, the preternatural or convulsive excitement of the arteries is somewhat greater in the pneumony, than in the inflammatory consumption; but the plethora, on which the necessity of bleeding is partly founded, is certainly greater in the inflammatory consumption than in pneumony. this is evident from women, and even nurses, discharging from four to six ounces of menstrual blood every month, while they are labouring with the most inflammatory symptoms of the disease; nor is it to be wondered at, since the appetite is frequently unimpaired, and the generation of blood continues to be the same as in perfect health. dr. cullen recommends the use of bleeding in consumptions, in order to lessen the inflammation of the ulcers in the lungs, and thereby to dispose them to heal. from the testimonies of the relief which bleeding affords in external ulcers and tumours accompanied by inflammation, i am disposed to expect the same benefit from it in inflamed ulcers and tumours in the lungs: whether, therefore, we adopt dr. cullen's theory of consumption, and treat it as a local disease, or assent to the one which i have delivered, repeated bleedings appear to be equally necessary and useful. i have seen two cases of inflammatory consumption, attended by a hã¦morrhage of a quart of blood from the lungs. i agreed at first with the friends of these patients in expecting a rapid termination of their disease in death, but to the joy and surprise of all connected with them, they both recovered. i ascribed their recovery wholly to the inflammatory action of their systems being suddenly reduced by a spontaneous discharge of blood. these facts, i hope, will serve to establish the usefulness of blood-letting in the inflammatory state of consumption, with those physicians who are yet disposed to trust more to the fortuitous operations of nature, than to the decisions of reason and experience. i have always found this remedy to be more necessary in the winter and first spring months, than at any other season. we obtain by means of repeated bleedings, such a mitigation of all the symptoms as enables the patient to use exercise with advantage as soon as the weather becomes so dry and settled, as to admit of his going abroad every day. the relief obtained by bleeding, is so certain in this state of consumption, that i often use it as a palliative remedy, where i do not expect it will perform a cure. i was lately made happy in finding, that i am not singular in this practice. dr. hamilton, of lynn regis, used it with success in a consumption, which was the effect of a most deplorable scrophula, without entertaining the least hope of its performing a cure[26]. in those cases where inflammatory action attends the last scene of the disease, there is often more relief obtained by a little bleeding than by the use of opiates, and it is always a more humane prescription, in desperate cases, than the usual remedies of vomits and blisters. [26] observations on scrophulous affections. i once bled a sea captain, whom i had declared to be within a few hours of his dissolution, in order to relieve him of uncommon pain, and difficulty in breathing. his pulse was at the same time hard. the evacuation, though it consisted of but four ounces of blood, had the wished for effect, and his death, i have reason to believe, was rendered more easy by it. the blood, in this case, was covered with a buffy coat. the quantity of blood drawn in every case of inflammatory consumption, should be determined by the force of the pulse, and the habits of the patient. i have seldom taken more than eight, but more frequently but six ounces at a time. it is much better to repeat the bleeding once or twice a week, than to use it less frequently, but in larger quantities. from many years experience of the efficacy of bleeding in this state of consumption, i feel myself authorised to assert, that where a greater proportion of persons die of consumption when it makes its first appearance in the lungs, with symptoms of inflammatory diathesis, than die of ordinary pneumonies (provided exercise be used afterwards), it must, in nine cases out of ten, be ascribed to the ignorance, or erroneous theories of physicians, or to the obstinacy or timidity of patients. in speaking thus confidently of the necessity and benefits of bleeding in the inflammatory state of consumption, i confine myself to observations made chiefly in the state of pennsylvania. it is possible the inhabitants of european countries and cities, may so far have passed the simple ages of inflammatory diseases, as never to exhibit those symptoms on which i have founded the indication of blood-letting. i suspect moreover that in most of the southern states of america, the inflammatory action of the arterial system is of too transient a nature to admit of the repeated bleedings in the consumption which are used with so much advantage in the middle and northern states. in reviewing the prejudices against this excellent remedy in consumptions, i have frequently wished to discover such a substitute for it as would with equal safety and certainty take down the morbid excitement, and action of the arterial system. at present we know of no such remedy; and until it be discovered, it becomes us to combat the prejudices against bleeding; and to derive all the advantages from it which have been mentioned. 2. a second remedy for the inflammatory state of consumption should be sought for in a milk and vegetable diet. in those cases where the milk does not lie easy on the stomach, it should be mixed with water, or it should be taken without its cheesy or oily parts, as in whey, or butter-milk, or it should be taken without skimming; for there are cases in which milk will agree with the stomach in this state, and in no other. the oil of the milk probably helps to promote the solution of its curds in the stomach. it is seldom in the power of physicians to prescribe ass' or goat's milk in this disease; but a good substitute may be prepared for them by adding to cow's milk a little sugar, and a third or fourth part of water, or of a weak infusion of green tea. the quantity of milk taken in a day should not exceed a pint, and even less than that quantity when we wish to lessen the force of the pulse by the abstraction of nourishment. the vegetables which are eaten in this state of the disease, should contain as little stimulus as possible. rice, in all the ways in which it is usually prepared for aliment, should be preferred to other grains, and the less saccharine fruits to those which abound with sugar. in those cases where the stomach is disposed to dyspepsia, a little salted meat, fish, or oysters, also soft boiled eggs, may be taken with safety, mixed with vegetable aliment. where there is no morbid affection of the stomach, i have seen the white meats eaten without increasing the inflammatory symptoms of the disease. the transition from a full diet to milk and vegetables should be gradual, and the addition of animal to vegetable aliment, should be made with the same caution. from the neglect of this direction, much error, both in theory and practice, has arisen in the treatment of consumptions. in every case it will be better for the patient to eat four or five, rather than but two or three meals in a day. a less stimulus is by this means communicated to the system, and less chyle is mixed with the blood in a given time. of so much importance do i conceive this direction to be, that i seldom prescribe for a chronic disease of any kind without enforcing it. 3. vomits have been much commended by dr. read in this disease. from their indiscriminate use in every state of consumption, i believe they have oftener done harm than good. in cases where a patient objects to bleeding, or where a physician doubts of its propriety, vomits may always be substituted in its room with great advantage. they are said to do most service when the disease is the effect of a catarrh. 4. nitre, in moderate doses of ten or fifteen grains, taken three or four times a day, has sometimes been useful in this disease; but it has been only when the disease has appeared with inflammatory symptoms. care should be taken not to persevere too long in the use of this remedy, as it is apt to impair the appetite. i have known one case in which it produced an obstinate dyspepsia, and a disposition to the colic; but it removed, at the same time, the symptoms of pulmonary consumption. 5. cold and dry air, when combined with the exercise of _walking_, deserves to be mentioned as an antiphlogistic remedy. i have repeatedly prescribed it in this species of the consumption with advantage, and have often had the pleasure of finding a single walk of two or three miles in a clear cold day, produce nearly the same diminution of the force and frequency of the pulse, as the loss of six or eight ounces of blood. i come now to treat of the palliative remedies which are proper in the ii. or hectic state of consumption. here we begin to behold the disease in a new and more distressing form than in the state which has been described. there is in this state of consumption the same complication of inflammatory and typhus diathesis which occurs in the typhoid and puerperile fevers, and of course the same difficulty in treating it successfully; for the same remedies do good and harm, according as the former or latter diathesis prevails in the system. all that i shall say upon this state is, that the treatment of it should be accommodated to the predominance of inflammatory or typhus symptoms, for the hectic state presents each of them alternately every week, and sometimes every day to the hand, or eye of a physician. when a hard pulse with acute pains in the side and breast occur, bleeding and other remedies for the inflammatory state must be used; but when the disease exhibits a predominance of typhus symptoms, the remedies for that state to be mentioned immediately, should be prescribed in moderate doses. there are several palliative medicines which have been found useful in the hectic state, but they are such as belong alike to the other two states; and therefore will be mentioned hereafter in a place assigned to them. i am sorry, however, to add, that where bleeding has not been indicated, i have seldom been able to afford much relief by medicine in this state of consumption. i have used alternately the most gentle, and the most powerful vegetable and metallic tonics to no purpose. even arsenic has failed in my hands of affording the least alleviation of the hectic fever. i conceive the removal of this fever to be the great desideratum in the cure of consumption; and should it be found, after all our researches, to exist only in exercise, it will be no departure from a law of nature, for i believe there are no diseases produced by equal degrees of chronic debility, in which medicines are of any more efficacy, than they are in the hectic fever of the pulmonary consumption. i proceed now to speak of the palliative remedies which are proper in the iii. or typhus state of the pulmonary consumption. the first of these are stimulating medicines. however just the complaints of dr. fothergill may be against the use of balsams in the inflammatory and mixed states of consumption, they appear to be not only safe, but useful likewise, in mitigating the symptoms of weak morbid action in the arterial system. i have therefore frequently prescribed opium, the balsam of copaivã¦, of peru, the oil of amber, and different preparations of turpentine and tar, in moderate doses, with obvious advantage. garlic, elixir of vitriol, the juice of dandelion, a strong tea made of horehound, and a decoction of the inner bark of the wild cherry tree[27], also bitters of all kinds, have all been found safe and useful tonics in this state of consumption. even the peruvian bark and the cold bath, so often and so generally condemned in consumptions, are always innocent, and frequently active remedies, where there is a total absence of inflammatory diathesis in this disease. the bark is said to be most useful when the consumption is the consequence of an intermitting fever, and when it occurs in old people. with these remedies should be combined 2. a cordial and stimulating diet. milk and vegetables, so proper in the inflammatory, are improper, when taken alone, in this state of consumption. i believe they often accelerate that decay of appetite and diarrh[oe]a, which form the closing scene of the disease. i have lately seen three persons recovered from the lowest stage of this state of consumption, by the use of animal food and cordial drinks, aided by frequent doses of opium, taken during the day as well as in the night. i should hesitate in mentioning these cures, had they not been witnessed by more than a hundred students of medicine in the pennsylvania hospital. the history of one of them is recorded in the 5th volume of the new-york medical repository, and of the two others in dr. coxe's medical museum. oysters, it has been said, have performed cures of consumption. if they have, it must have been only when they were eaten in that state of it which is now under consideration. they are a most savoury and wholesome article of diet, in all diseases of weak morbid action. to the cordial articles of diet belong sweet vegetable matters. grapes, sweet apples, and the juice of the sugar maple tree, when taken in large quantities, have all cured this disease. they all appear to act by filling the blood-vessels, and thereby imparting tone to the whole system. i have found the same advantage from dividing the meals in this state of consumption, that i mentioned under a former head. the exhibition of food in this case, should not be left to the calls of appetite, any more than the exhibition of a medicine. indeed food may be made to supply the place of cordial medicines, by keeping up a constant and gentle action in the whole system. for this reason, i have frequently advised my patients never to suffer their stomachs to be empty, even for a single hour. i have sometimes aimed to keep up the influence of a gentle action in the stomach upon the whole system, by advising them to eat in the night, in order to obviate the increase of secretion into the lungs and of the cough in the morning, which are brought on in part by the increase of debility from the long abstraction of the stimulus of aliment during the night. [27] prunus virginiana. however safe, and even useful, the cordial medicines and diet that have been mentioned may appear, yet i am sorry to add, that we seldom see any other advantages from them than a mitigation of distressing symptoms, except when they have been followed by suitable and long continued exercise. even under this favourable circumstance, they are often ineffectual; for there frequently occurs, in this state of consumption, such a destruction of the substance and functions of the lungs, as to preclude the possibility of a recovery by the use of any of the remedies which have been discovered. perhaps, where this is not the case, their want of efficacy may be occasioned by their being given before the pulse is completely reduced to a typhus state. the weaker the pulse, the greater is the probability of benefit being derived from the use of cordial diet and medicines. i have said formerly, that the three states of consumption do not observe any regular course in succeeding each other. they are not only complicated in some instances, but they often appear and disappear half a dozen times in the course of the disease, according to the influence of the weather, dress, diet, and the passions upon the system. the great secret, therefore, of treating this disease consists in accommodating all the remedies that have been mentioned to the predominance of any of the three different states of the system, as manifested chiefly by the pulse. it is in consequence of having observed the evils which have resulted from the ignorance or neglect of this practice, that i have sometimes wished that it were possible to abolish the seducing nomenclature of diseases altogether, in order thereby to oblige physicians to conform exactly to the fluctuating state of the system in all their prescriptions; for it is not more certain, that, in all cultivated languages, every idea has its appropriate word, than that every state of a disease has its appropriate dose of medicine, the knowledge and application of which can alone constitute rational, or secure uniformly successful practice. i come now to say a few words upon those palliative remedies which are alike proper in every state of the pulmonary consumption. the first remedy under this head is a dry situation. a damp air, whether breathed in a room, or out of doors, is generally hurtful in every form of this disease. a kitchen, or a bed-room, below the level of the ground, has often produced, and never fails to increase, a pulmonary consumption. i have often observed a peculiar paleness (the first symptom of general debility) to show itself very early in the faces of persons who work or sleep in cellar kitchens or shops. 2. country air. the higher and drier the situation which is chosen for the purpose of enjoying the benefit of this remedy, the better. situations exposed to the sea, should be carefully avoided; for it is a singular fact, that while consumptive persons are benefited by the sea-air, when they breathe it on the ocean, they are always injured by that portion of it which they breathe on the sea-shore. to show its influence, not only in aggravating consumptions, but in disposing to them, and in adding to the mortality of another disease of the lungs, i shall subjoin the following facts. from one fourth to one half of all the adults who die in great britain, dr. willan says, perish with this disease. in salem, in the state of massachusetts, which is situated near the sea, and exposed, during many months in the year, to a moist east wind, there died, in the year 1799, one hundred and sixty persons; fifty-three died of the consumption, making in all nearly one third of all the inhabitants of the town. eight more died of what is called a lung fever, probably of what is called in pennsylvania the galloping grade of that disease. consumptions are more frequent in boston, rhode-island, and new-york, from their damp winds, and vicinity to the sea-shore, than they are in philadelphia. in the neighbourhood of cape may, which lies near the sea-shore of new-jersey, there are three religious societies, among whom the influenza prevailed in the year 1790. its mortality, under equal circumstances, was in the exact ratio to their vicinity to the sea. the deaths were most numerous in that society which was nearest to it, and least so in that which was most remote from it. these unfriendly effects of the sea air, in the above pulmonary diseases, do not appear to be produced simply by its moisture. consumptions are scarcely known in the moist atmosphere which so generally prevails in lincolnshire, in england, and in the inland parts of holland and ireland. i shall not pause to inquire, why a mixture of land and sea air is so hurtful in the consumption, and at the same time so agreeable to persons in health, and so medicinal in many other diseases, but shall dismiss this head by adding a fact which was communicated to me by dr. matthew irvine, of south-carolina, and that is, that those situations which are in the neighbourhood of bays or rivers, where the salt and fresh waters mix their streams together, are more unfavourable to consumptive patients than the sea-shore, and therefore should be more carefully avoided by them in exchanging city for country air. 3. a change of climate. it is remarkable that climates uniformly cold or warm, which seldom produce consumptions, are generally fatal to persons who visit them in that disease. countries between the 30th and 40th degrees of latitude are most friendly to consumptive people. 4. loose dresses, and a careful accommodation of them to the changes in the weather. many facts might be mentioned to show the influence of compression and of tight ligatures of every kind, upon the different parts of the body; also of too much, or too little clothing, in producing, or increasing diseases of every kind, more especially those which affect the lungs. tight stays, garters, waistbands, and collars, should all be laid aside in the consumption, and the quality of the clothing should be suited to the weather. a citizen of maryland informed me, that he twice had a return of a cough and spitting of blood, by wearing his summer clothes a week after the weather became cool in the month of september. but it is not sufficient to vary the weight or quality of dress with the seasons. it should be varied with the changes which take place in the temperature of the air every day, even in the summer months, in middle latitudes. i know a citizen of philadelphia, who has laboured under a consumptive diathesis near thirty years, who believes that he has lessened the frequency and violence of pulmonic complaints during that time, by a careful accommodation of his dress to the weather. he has been observed frequently to change his waistcoat and small clothes twice or three times in a day, in a summer month. a repetition of colds, and thereby an increase of the disease, will be prevented by wearing flannel next to the skin in winter, and muslin in the summer, either in the form of a shirt or a waistcoat: where these are objected to, a piece of flannel, or of soft sheepskin, should be worn next to the breast. they not only prevent colds, but frequently remove chronic pains from that part of the body. 5. artificial evacuations, by means of blisters and issues. i suspect the usefulness of these remedies to be chiefly confined to the inflammatory and hectic states of consumption. in the typhus state, the system is too weak to sustain the discharges of either of them. fresh blisters should be preferred to such as are perpetual, and the issues, to be useful, should be large. they are supposed to afford relief by diverting a preternatural secretion and excretion of mucus or pus from the lungs, to an artificial emunctory in a less vital part of the body. blisters do most service when the disease arises from repelled eruptions, and when they are applied between the shoulders, and the upper and internal parts of the arms. when it arises from rheumatism and gout, the blisters should be applied to the joints, and such other external parts of the body as had been previously affected by those diseases. 6. certain fumigations and vapours. an accidental cure of a pulmonary affection by the smoke of rosin, in a man who bottled liquors, raised for a while the credit of fumigations. i have tried them, but without much permanent effect. i think i have seen the pain in the breast relieved by receiving the vapour from a mixture of equal parts of tar, bran, and boiling water into the lungs. the sulphureous and saline air of stabiã¦, between mount vesuvius and the mediterranean sea, and the effluvia of the pine forests of lybia, were supposed, in ancient times, to be powerful remedies in consumptive complaints; but it is probable, the exercise used in travelling to those countries, contributed chiefly to the cures which were ascribed to foreign matters acting upon the lungs. 7. lozenges, syrups, and demulcent teas. these are too common and too numerous to be mentioned. 8. opiates. it is a mistake in practice, founded upon a partial knowledge of the qualities of opium, to administer it only at night, or to suppose that its effects in composing a cough depend upon its inducing sleep. it should be given in small doses during the day, as well as in larger ones at night. the dose should be proportioned to the degrees of action in the arterial system. the less this action, the more opium may be taken with safety and advantage. 9. different positions of the body have been found to be more or less favourable to the abatement of the cough. these positions should be carefully sought for, and the body kept in that which procures the most freedom from coughing. i have heard of an instance in which a cough, which threatened a return of the hã¦morrhage from the lungs, was perfectly composed for two weeks, by keeping the patient nearly in one posture in bed; but i have known more cases in which relief from coughing was to be obtained only by an erect posture of the body. 10. considerable relief will often be obtained from the patient's sleeping between blankets in winter, and on a mattrass in summer. the former prevent fresh cold from night sweats; the latter frequently checks them altogether. in cases where a sufficient weight of blankets to keep up an agreeable warmth cannot be borne, without restraining easy and full acts of inspiration, the patient should sleep under a light feather bed, or an eider down coverlet. they both afford more warmth than double or treble their weight of blankets. however comfortable this mode of producing warmth in bed may be, it does not protect the lungs from the morbid effects of the distant points of temperature of a warm parlour in the day time, and a cold bed-chamber at night. to produce an equable temperature of air at all hours, i have frequently advised my patients, when going to a warm climate was not practicable, to pass their nights as well as days in an open stove room, in which nearly the same degrees of heat were kept up at all hours. i have found this practice, in several cases, a tolerable substitute for a warm climate. 11. the moderate use of the lungs, in reading, public speaking, laughing, and singing. the lungs, when debilitated, derive equal benefit with the limbs, or other parts of the body, from moderate exercise. i have mentioned, in another place[28], several facts which support this opinion. but too much pains cannot be taken to inculcate upon our patients to avoid all _excess_ in the use of the lungs, by _long_, or _loud_ reading, speaking, or singing, or by sudden and violent _bursts_ of laughter. i shall long lament the death of a female patient, who had discovered many hopeful signs of a recovery from a consumption, who relapsed, and died, in consequence of bursting a blood-vessel in her lungs, by a sudden fit of laughter. [28] an account of the effects of common salt in the cure of hã¦moptysis. 12. are there any advantages to be derived from the excitement of certain passions in the treatment of consumptions? dr. blane tells us, that many consumptive persons were relieved, and that some recovered, in consequence of the terror which was excited by a hurricane in barbadoes, in the year 1780. it will be difficult to imitate, by artificial means, the accidental cures which are recorded by dr. blane; but we learn enough from them to inspire the invigorating passions of hope and confidence in the minds of our patients, and to recommend to them such exercises as produce exertions of body and mind analogous to those which are produced by terror. van sweiten and smollet relate cures of consumptions, by patients falling into streams of cold water. perhaps, in both instances, the cures were performed only by the fright and consequent exertion produced by the fall. this is only one instance out of many which might be mentioned, of partial and unequal action being suddenly changed into general and equal excitement in every part of the system. the cures of consumptions which have been performed by a camp life[29], have probably been much assisted by the commotions in the passions which were excited by the various and changing events of war. [29] vol. i. p. 204. 13. a salivation has lately been prescribed in this disease with success. an accident first suggested its advantages, in the pennsylvania hospital, in the year 1800[30]. since that time, it has performed many cures in different parts of the united states. it is to be lamented, that in a majority of the cases in which the mercury has been given, it has failed of exciting a salivation. where it affects the mouth, it generally succeeds in recent cases, which is more than can be said of any, or of all other remedies in this disease. in its hectic state, a salivation frequently cures, and even in its typhus and last stage, i have more than once prescribed it with success. the same regard to the pulse should regulate the use of this new remedy in consumption, that has been recommended in other febrile diseases. it should never be advised until the inflammatory diathesis of the system has been in a great degree reduced, by the depleting remedies formerly mentioned. [30] medical repository of new-york. vol. v. during the use of the above remedies, great care should be taken to relieve the patient from the influence of all those debilitating and irritating causes which induced the disease. i shall say elsewhere that decayed teeth are one of them. these should be extracted where there is reason to suspect they have produced, or that they increase the disease. i have hitherto said nothing of the digitalis as a palliative remedy in pulmonary consumption. i am sorry to acknowledge that, in many cases in which i have prescribed it, it has done no good, and in some it has done harm. from the opposite accounts of physicians of the most respectable characters of the effects of this medicine, i have been inclined to ascribe its different issues, to a difference in the soil in which it has been cultivated, or in the times of gathering, or in the manner of preparing it, all of which we know influence the qualities of many other vegetables. if the theory of consumption which i have endeavoured to establish be admitted, that uncertain and unsafe medicine will be rendered unnecessary by the remedies that have been enumerated, provided they are administered at the times, and in the manner that has been recommended. before i proceed to speak of the radical cure of the consumption, it will be necessary to observe, that by means of the palliative remedies which have been mentioned, many persons have been recovered, and some have had their lives prolonged by them for many years; but in most of these cases i have found, upon inquiry, that the disease recurred as soon as the patient left off the use of his remedies, unless they were followed by necessary or voluntary exercise. it is truly surprising to observe how long some persons have lived who have been affected by a consumptive diathesis, and by frequent attacks of many of the most troublesome symptoms of this disease. van sweiten mentions the case of a man, who had lived thirty years in this state. morton relates the history of a man, in whom the symptoms of consumption appeared with but little variation or abatement from his early youth till the 70th year of his age. the widow of the celebrated senac lived to be 84 years of age, thirty of which she passed in a pulmonary consumption. dr. nicols was subject to occasional attacks of this disease during his whole life, and he lived to be above eighty years of age. bennet says he knew an instance in which it continued above sixty years. i prescribed for my first pupil, dr. edwards, in a consumption in the year 1769. he lived until 1802, and seldom passed a year without spitting blood, nor a week without a cough, during that long interval of time. the fatal tendency of his disease was constantly opposed by occasional blood-letting, rural exercises, a cordial, but temperate diet, the peruvian bark, two sea voyages, and travelling in foreign countries. there are besides these instances of long protracted consumptions, cases of it which appear in childhood, and continue for many years. i have seldom known them prove fatal under puberty. i am led here to mention another instance of the analogy between pneumony and the pulmonary consumption. we often see the same frequency of recurrence of both diseases in habits which are predisposed to them. i have attended a german citizen of philadelphia, in several fits of the pneumony, who has been confined to his bed eight-and-twenty times, by the same disease, in the course of the same number of years. he has, for the most part, enjoyed good health in the intervals of those attacks, and always appeared, till lately, to possess a good constitution. in the cases of the frequent recurrence of pneumony, no one has suspected the disease to have originated exclusively in a morbid state of the lungs; on the contrary, it appears evidently to be produced by the _sudden_ influence of the same causes, which, by acting with less force, and for a _longer_ time, produce the pulmonary consumption. the name of pneumony is taken from the principal symptom of this disease, but it as certainly belongs to the whole arterial system as the consumption; and i add further, that it is as certainly produced by general predisposing debility. the hardness and fulness of the pulse do not militate against this assertion, for they are altogether the effects of a morbid and convulsive excitement of the sanguiferous system. the strength manifested by the pulse is moreover partial, for every other part of the body discovers, at the same time, signs of extreme debility. it would be easy, by pursuing this subject a little further, to mention a number of facts which, by the aid of principles in physiology and pathology, which are universally admitted, would open to us a new theory of fevers, but this would lead us too far from the subject before us. i shall only remark, that all that has been said of the influence of _general_ debilitating causes upon the lungs, both in pneumony and consumption, and of the alternation of the consumption with other general diseases, will receive great support from considering the lungs only as a part of the whole external surface of the body, upon which most of the remote and exciting causes of both diseases produce their first effects. this extent of the surface of the body, not only to the lungs, but to the alimentary canal, was first taken notice of by dr. boerhaave; but was unhappily neglected by him in his theories of the diseases of the lungs and bowels. dr. keil supposes that the lungs, from the peculiar structure of the bronchial vessels, and air vesicles, expose a surface to the action of the air, equal to the extent of the whole external and visible surface of the body. thus have i mentioned the usual palliative remedies for the consumption. many of these remedies, under certain circumstances, i have said have cured the disease, but i suspect that most of these cures have taken place only when the disease has partaken of an intermediate nature between a pneumony and a true pulmonary consumption. such connecting shades, appear between the extreme points of many other diseases. in a former essay[31], i endeavoured to account for the transmutation (if i may be allowed the expression) of the pneumony into the consumption, by ascribing it to the increase of the debilitating refinements of civilized life. this opinion has derived constant support from every observation i have made connected with this subject, since its first publication, in the year 1772. [31] inquiry into the diseases and remedies of the indians of north-america; and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations. vol. i. i come now to treat of the radical remedies for the pulmonary consumption. in an essay formerly alluded to[32], i mentioned the effects of labour, and the hardships of a camp or naval life, upon this disease. as there must frequently occur such objections to each of those remedies, as to forbid their being recommended or adopted, it will be necessary to seek for substitutes for them in the different species of exercise. these are, _active_, _passive_, and _mixed_. the _active_ includes walking, and the exercise of the hands and feet in working or dancing. the _passive_ includes rocking in a cradle, swinging, sailing, and riding in carriages of different kinds. the _mixed_ is confined chiefly to riding on horseback. [32] thoughts on the pulmonary consumption. vol. i. i have mentioned all the different species of exercise, not because i think they all belong to the class of radical remedies for the consumption, but because it is often necessary to use those which are passive, before we recommend those of a mixed or active nature. that physician does not err more who advises a patient to take physic, without specifying its qualities and doses, than the physician does who advises a patient, in a consumption, to use exercise, without specifying its species and degrees. from the neglect of this direction, we often find consumptive patients injured instead of being relieved by exercises, which, if used with judgment, might have been attended with the happiest effects. i have before suggested that the stimulus of every medicine, which is intended to excite action in the system, should always be in an exact ratio to its excitability. the same rule should be applied to the stimulus of exercise. i have heard a well-attested case of a young lady, upon whose consumption the first salutary impression was made by rocking her in a cradle; and i know another case in which a young lady, in the lowest state of that debility which precedes an affection of the lungs, was prepared for the use of the mixed and active exercises, by being first moved gently backwards and forwards in a chariot without horses, for an hour every day. swinging appears to act in the same gentle manner. in the case of a gardener, who was far advanced in a consumption, in the pennsylvania hospital, i had the pleasure of observing its good effects, in an eminent degree. it so far restored him, as to enable him to complete his recovery by working at his former occupation. in cases of extreme debility, the following order should be recommended in the use of the different species of exercise. 1. rocking in a cradle, or riding on an elastic board, commonly called a chamber-horse. 2. swinging. 3. sailing. 4. riding in a carriage. 5. riding on horseback. 6. walking. 7. running and dancing. in the use of each of those species of exercise great attention should be paid to the _degree_ or _force_ of action with which they are applied to the body. for example, in riding in a carriage, the exercise will be less in a four-wheel carriage than in a single horse chair, and less when the horses move in a walking, than a trotting gait. in riding on horseback, the exercise will be less or greater according as the horse walks, paces, canters, or trots, in passing over the ground. i have good reason to believe, that an english sea-captain, who was on the verge of the grave with the consumption, in the spring of the year 1790, owed his perfect recovery to nothing but the above gradual manner, in which, by my advice, he made use of the exercises of riding in a carriage and on horseback. i have seen many other cases of the good effects of thus accommodating exercise to debility; and i am sorry to add, that i have seen many cases in which, from the neglect of this manner of using exercise, most of the species and degrees of it, have either been useless, or done harm. however carelessly this observation may be read by physicians, or attended to by patients, i conceive no direction to be more necessary in the cure of consumptions. i have been thus particular in detailing it, not only because i believe it to be important, but that i might atone to society for that portion of evil which i might have prevented by a more strict attention to it in the first years of my practice. the more the arms are used in exercise the better. one of the proprietary governors of pennsylvania, who laboured for many years under consumptive diathesis, derived great benefit from frequently rowing himself in a small boat, a few miles up and down the river schuylkill. two young men, who were predisposed to a consumption, were perfectly cured by working steadily at a printing press in this city. a french physician in martinique cured this disease, by simply rubbing the arms between the shoulders and the elbows, until they inflamed. the remedy is strongly recommended, by the recoveries from pulmonary consumption which have followed abscesses in the arm-pits. perhaps the superior advantages of riding on horseback, in this disease, may arise in part from the constant and gentle use of the arms in the management of the bridle and the whip. much has been said in favour of sea voyages in consumptions. in the mild degrees of the disease they certainly have done service, but i suspect the relief given, or the cures performed by them, should be confined chiefly to seafaring people, who add to the benefits of a constant change of pure air, a share of the invigorating exercises of navigating the ship. i have frequently heard of consumptive patients reviving at sea, probably from the transient effects of sea sickness upon the whole system, and growing worse as soon as they came near the end of their voyage. it would seem as if the mixture of land and sea airs was hurtful to the lungs, in every situation and condition in which it could be applied to them. nor are the peculiar and morbid effects of the first operation of land and sea airs upon the human body, in sea voyages, confined only to consumptive people. i crossed the atlantic ocean, in the year 1766, with a sea captain, who announced to his passengers the agreeable news that we were near the british coast, before any discovery had been made of our situation by sounding, or by a change in the colour of the water. upon asking him upon what he founded his opinion, he said, that he had been sneezing, which, he added, was the sign of an approaching cold, and that, in the course of upwards of twenty years, he had never made the land (to use the seaman's phrase) without being affected in a similar manner. i have visited many sick people in philadelphia, soon after their arrival from sea, who have informed me, that they had enjoyed good health during the greatest part of their voyage, and that they had contracted their indispositions after they came within sight of the land. i mention these facts only to show the necessity of advising consumptive patients, who undertake a sea voyage for the recovery of their health, not to expose themselves upon deck in the morning and at night, after they arrive within the region in which the mixture of the land and sea airs may be supposed to take place. i subscribe, from what i have observed, to the bold declaration of dr. sydenham, in favour of the efficacy of riding on horseback, in the cure of consumption. i do not think the existence of an abscess, when broken, or even tubercles in the lungs, when recent, or of a moderate size, the least objection to the use of this excellent remedy. an abscess in the lungs is not necessarily fatal, and tubercles have no malignity in them which should render their removal impracticable by this species of exercise. the first question, therefore, to be asked by a physician who visits a patient in this disease should be, not what is the state of his lungs, but, is he able to ride on horseback. there are two methods of riding for health in this disease. the first is by short excursions; the second is by long journies. in slight consumptive affections, and after a recovery from an acute illness, short excursions are sufficient to remove the existing debility; but in the more advanced stages of consumption, they are seldom effectual, and frequently do harm, by exciting an occasional appetite without adding to the digestive powers. they, moreover, keep the system constantly vibrating by their unavoidable inconstancy, between distant points of tone and debility[33], and they are unhappily accompanied at all times, from the want of a succession of fresh objects to divert the mind, by the melancholy reflection that they are the sad, but necessary conditions of life. [33] the bad effects of _inconstant_ exercise have been taken notice of in the gout. dr. sydenham says, when it is used only by fits and starts in this disease, it does harm. in a consumption of long continuance or of great danger, long journies on horseback are the most effectual modes of exercise. they afford a constant succession of fresh objects and company, which divert the mind from dwelling upon the danger of the existing malady; they are moreover attended by a constant change of air, and they are not liable to be interrupted by company, or transient changes in the weather, by which means appetite and digestion, action and power, all keep pace with each other. it is to be lamented that the use of this excellent remedy is frequently opposed by indolence and narrow circumstances in both sexes, and by the peculiarity of situation and temper in the female sex. women are attached to their families by stronger ties than men. they cannot travel alone. their delicacy, which is increased by sickness, is liable to be offended at every stage; and, lastly, they sooner relax in their exertions to prolong their lives than men. of the truth of the last observation, sir william hamilton has furnished us with a striking illustration. he tells us, that in digging into the ruins produced by the late earthquake in calabria, the women who perished in it, were all found with their arms folded, as if they had abandoned themselves immediately to despair and death; whereas, the men were found with their arms extended, as if they had resisted their fate to the last moment of their lives. it would seem, from this fact, and many others of a similar nature which might be related, that a capacity of bearing pain and distress with fortitude and resignation, was the distinguishing characteristic of the female mind; while a disposition to resist and overcome evil, belonged in a more peculiar manner to the mind of man. i have mentioned this peculiarity of circumstances and temper in female patients, only for the sake of convincing physicians that it will be necessary for them to add all the force of eloquence to their advice, when they recommend journies to women in preference to all other remedies, for the recovery of their health. persons, moreover, who pursue active employments, frequently object to undertaking journies, from an opinion that their daily occupations are sufficient to produce all the salutary effects we expect from artificial exercise. it will be highly necessary to correct this mistake, by assuring such persons that, however useful the habitual exercise of an active, or even a laborious employment may be to _preserve_ health, it must always be exchanged for one which excites new impressions, both upon the mind and body, in every attempt to _restore_ the system from that debility which is connected with pulmonary consumption. as travelling is often rendered useless, and even hurtful in this disease, from being pursued in an improper manner, it will be necessary to furnish our patients with such directions as will enable them to derive the greatest benefit from their journies. i shall, therefore, in this place, mention the substance of the directions which i have given in writing for many years to such consumptive patients as undertake journies by my advice. 1. to avoid fatigue. too much cannot be said to enforce this direction. it is the hinge on which the recovery or death of a consumptive patient frequently turns. i repeat it again, therefore, that patients should be charged over and over when they set off on a journey, as well as when they use exercise of any kind, to avoid fatigue. for this purpose they should begin by travelling only a few miles in a day, and increase the distance of their stages, as they increase their strength. by neglecting this practice, many persons have returned from journies much worse than when they left home, and many have died in taverns, or at the houses of their friends on the road. travelling in stage-coaches is seldom safe for a consumptive patient. they are often crowded; they give too much motion; and they afford by their short delays and distant stages, too little time for rest, or for taking the frequent refreshment which was formerly recommended. 2. to avoid travelling too soon in the morning, and after the going down of the sun in the evening, and, if the weather be hot, never to travel in the middle of the day. the sooner a patient breakfasts after he leaves his bed the better; and in no case should he leave his morning stage with an empty stomach. 3. if it should be necessary for a patient to lie down, or to sleep in the day time, he should be advised to undress himself, and to cover his body between sheets or blankets. the usual ligatures of garters, stocks, knee-bands, waistcoats, and shoes, are very unfriendly to sound sleep; hence persons who lie down with their clothes on, often awake from an afternoon's nap in terror from dreams, or in a profuse sweat, or with a head-ach or sick stomach; and generally out of humour. the surveyors are so sensible of the truth of this remark, that they always undress themselves when they sleep in the woods. an intelligent gentleman of this profession informed me, that he had frequently seen young woodsmen, who had refused to conform to this practice, so much indisposed in the morning, that, after the experience of a few nights, they were forced to adopt it. great care should be taken in sleeping, whether in the day time or at night, never to lie down in damp sheets. dr. sydenham excepts the danger from this quarter, when he speaks of the efficacy of travelling on horseback in curing the consumption. 4. patients who travel for health in this disease should avoid all large companies, more especially evening and night parties. the air of a contaminated room, phlogisticated by the breath of fifteen or twenty persons, and by the same number of burning candles, is poison to a consumptive patient. to avoid impure air from every other source, he should likewise avoid sleeping in a crowded room, or with curtains around his bed, and even with a bed-fellow. 5. travelling, to be effectual in this disease, should be conducted in such a manner as that a patient may escape the extremes of heat and cold. for this purpose he should pass the winter, and part of the spring, in georgia or south-carolina, and the summer in new-hampshire, massachusetts, or vermont, or, if he pleases, he may still more effectually shun the summer heats, by crossing the lakes, and travelling along the shores of the st. laurence to the city of quebec. he will thus escape the extremes of heat and cold, particularly the less avoidable one of heat; for i have constantly found the hot month of july to be as unfriendly to consumptive patients in pennsylvania, as the variable month of march. by these means too he will enjoy nearly an equable temperature of air in every month of the year; and his system will be free from the inconvenience of the alternate action of heat and cold upon it. the autumnal months should be spent in new-jersey or pennsylvania. in these journies from north to south, or from south to north, he should be careful, for reasons before mentioned, to keep at as great a distance as possible from the sea coast. should this inquiry fall into the hands of a british physician, i would beg leave to suggest to him, whether more advantages would not accrue to his consumptive patients from advising them to cross the atlantic ocean, and afterwards to pursue the tour which i have recommended, than by sending them to portugal, france, or italy. here they will arrive with such a mitigation of the violence of the disease, in consequence of the length of their sea voyage, as will enable them immediately to begin their journies on horseback. here they will be exposed to fewer temptations to intemperance, or to unhealthy amusements, than in old european countries. and, lastly, in the whole course of this tour, they will travel among a people related to them by a sameness of language and manners, and by ancient or modern ties of citizenship. long journies for the recovery of health, under circumstances so agreeable, should certainly be preferred to travelling among strangers of different nations, languages, and manners, on the continent of europe. 6. to render travelling on horseback effectual in a consumption, it should be continued with moderate intervals from _six to twelve months_. but the cure should not be rested upon a single journey. it should be repeated every _two_ or _three years_, till our patient has passed the consumptive stages of life. nay, he must do more; he must acquire a _habit_ of riding constantly, both at home and abroad; or, to use the words of dr. fuller, "he must, like a tartar, learn to live on horseback, by which means he will acquire in time the constitution of a tartar[34]." [34] medicina gymnastica, p. 116. where benefit is expected from a change of climate, as well as from travelling, patients should reside at least two years in the place which is chosen for that purpose. i have seldom known a residence for a shorter time in a foreign climate do much service. to secure a perfect obedience to medical advice, it would be extremely useful if consumptive patients could always be accompanied by a physician. celsus says, he found it more easy to cure the dropsy in slaves than in freemen, because they more readily submitted to the restraints he imposed upon their appetites. madness has become a curable disease in england, since the physicians of that country have opened private mad-houses, and have taken the entire and constant direction of their patients into their own hands. the same successful practice would probably follow the treatment of consumptions, if patients were constantly kept under the eye and authority of their physicians. the keenness of appetite, and great stock of animal spirits, which those persons frequently possess, hurry them into many excesses which defeat the best concerted plans of a recovery; or, if they escape these irregularities, they are frequently seduced from our directions by every quack remedy which is recommended to them. unfortunately the cough becomes a signal of their disease, at every stage of their journey, and the easy or pleasant prescriptions of even hostlers and ferrymen, are often substituted to the self-denial and exertion which have been imposed by physicians. the love of life in these cases seems to level all capacities; for i have observed persons of the most cultivated understandings to yield in common with the vulgar, to the use of these prescriptions. in a former volume i mentioned the good effects of accidental labour in pulmonary consumptions. the reader will find a particular account in the first volume of dr. coxe's medical museum, of a clergyman and his wife, in virginia, being cured by the voluntary use of that remedy. the following circumstances and symptoms, indicate the longer or shorter duration of this disease, and its issue in life and death: the consumption from gout, rheumatism, and scrophula, is generally of long duration. it is more rapid in its progress to death, when it arises from a half cured pleurisy, or neglected colds, measles, and influenza. it is of shorter duration in persons under thirty, than in those who are more advanced in life. it is always dangerous in proportion to the length of time, in which the debilitating causes, that predisposed to it, have acted upon the body. it is more dangerous when a predisposition to it has been derived from ancestors, than when it has been acquired. it is generally fatal when accompanied with a bad conformation of the breast. chilly fits occurring in the forenoon, are more favourable than when they occur in the evening. they indicate the disease to partake a little of the nature of an intermittent, and are a call for the use of the remedies proper in that disease. rheumatic pains, attended with an abatement of the cough, or pains in the breast, are always favourable; so are eruptions, or an abscess on the external parts of the body, if they occur before the last stage of the disease. a spitting of blood, in the early, or forming stage of the disease, is favourable, but after the lungs become much obstructed, or ulcerated, it is most commonly fatal. a pleurisy, occurring in the low state of the disease, generally kills, but i have seen a case in which it suddenly removed the cough and hectic fever, and thus became the means of prolonging the patient's life for several years. the discharge of calculi from the lungs by coughing and spitting, and of a thin watery liquid, with a small portion of pus swimming on its surface, are commonly signs of an incurable consumption. no prediction unfavourable to life can be drawn from pus being discharged from the lungs. we see many recoveries after it has taken place, and many deaths where that symptom has been absent. large quantities of pus are discharged in consumptions attended with abscesses, and yet few die of them, where they have not been preceded by long continued debility of the whole system. no pus is expectorated from tubercles, and how generally fatal is the disease, after they are formed in the lungs! it is only after they ulcerate that they discharge pus, and it is only after ulcers are thus formed, that the consumption probably becomes uniformly fatal. i suspect these ulcers are sometimes of a cancerous nature. a sudden cessation of the cough, without a supervening diarrh[oe]a, indicates death to be at hand. a constant vomiting in a consumption, is generally a bad sign. feet obstinately cold, also a swelling of the feet during the day, and of the face in the night, commonly indicate a speedy and fatal issue of the disease. lice, and the falling off of the hair, often precede death. a hoarseness, in the beginning of the disease, is always alarming, but it is more so in its last stage. a change of the eyes from a blue, or dark, to a light colour, similar to that which takes place in very old people, is a sign of speedy dissolution. i have never seen a recovery after an apthous sore throat took place. death from the consumption comes on in some or more than one, of the following ways: 1. with a diarrh[oe]a. in its absence, 2. with wasting night sweats. 3. a rupture of an abscess. 4. a rupture of a large blood-vessel in the lungs, attended with external or internal hã¦morrhage. _sudden_ and _unexpected_ death in a consumption is generally induced by this, or the preceding cause. 5. madness. the cough and expectoration cease with this disease. it generally carries off the patient in a week or ten days. 6. a pleurisy, brought on by exposure to cold. 7. a typhus fever, attended with tremors, twitchings of the tendons, and a dry tongue. 8. swelled hands, feet, legs, thighs, and face. 9. an apthous sore throat. 10. great and tormenting pains, sometimes of a spasmodic nature in the limbs. in a majority of the fatal cases of consumption, which i have seen, the passage out of life has been attended with pain; but i have seen many persons die with it, in whom all the above symptoms were so lenient, or so completely mitigated by opium, that death resembled a quiet transition from a waking, to a sleeping state. i cannot conclude this inquiry without adding, that the author of it derived from his paternal ancestors a predisposition to the pulmonary consumption, and that between the 18th and 43d years of his age, he has occasionally been afflicted with many of the symptoms of that disease which he has described. by the constant and faithful use of many of the remedies which he has recommended, he now, in the 61st year of his age, enjoys nearly an uninterrupted exemption from pulmonary complaints. in humble gratitude, therefore, to that being, who condescends to be called the preserver of men, he thus publicly devotes this result of his experience and inquiries to the benefit of such of his fellow-creatures as may be afflicted with the same disease, sincerely wishing that they may be as useful to them, as they have been to the author. observations on the symptoms and cure of _dropsies_. whether we admit the exhaling and absorbing vessels to be affected in general dropsies by preternatural debility, palsy, or rupture, or by a retrograde motion of their fluids, it is certain that their exhaling and absorbing power is materially affected by too much, or too little action in the arterial system. that too little action in the arteries should favour dropsical effusions, has been long observed; but it has been less obvious, that the same effusions are sometimes promoted, and their absorption prevented, by too much action in these vessels. that this fact should have escaped our notice is the more remarkable, considering how long we have been accustomed to seeing serous swellings in the joints in the acute rheumatism, and copious, but partial effusions of water in the form of sweat, in every species of inflammatory fever. it is nothing new that the healthy action of one part, should depend upon the healthy action of another part of the system. we see it in many of the diseases of the nerves and brain. the tetanus is cured by exciting a tone in the arterial system; madness is cured by lessening the action of the arteries by copious blood-letting; and epilepsy and hysteria are often mitigated by the moderate use of the same remedy. by too much action in the arterial system, i mean a certain morbid excitement in the arteries, accompanied by preternatural force, which is obvious to the sense of touch. it differs from the morbid excitement of the arteries, which takes place in common inflammatory fevers, in being attended by less febrile heat, and with little or no pain in the head or limbs. the thirst is nearly the same in this state of dropsy, as in inflammatory fevers. i include here those dropsies only in which the whole system is affected by what is called a hydropic diathesis. that debility should, under certain circumstances, dispose to excessive action, and that excessive action should occur in one part of the body, at the same time that debility prevailed in every other, are abundantly evident from the history and phenomena of many diseases. inflammatory fever, active hã¦morrhages, tonic gout, asthma, apoplexy, and palsy, however much they are accompanied by excessive action in the arterial system, are always preceded by original debility, and are always accompanied by obvious debility in every other part of the system. but it has been less observed by physicians that an undue force or excess of action occurs in the arterial system in certain dropsies, and that the same theory which explains the union of predisposing and nearly general debility, with a partial excitement and preternatural action in the arterial system, in the diseases before-mentioned, will explain the symptoms and cure of certain dropsies. that debility predisposes to every state of dropsy, is evident from the history of all the remote and occasional causes which produce them. it will be unnecessary to mention these causes, as they are to be found in all our systems of physic. nor will it be necessary to mention any proofs of the existence of debility in nearly every part of the body. it is too plain to be denied. i shall only mention the symptoms which indicate a morbid excitement and preternatural action of the arterial system. these are, 1. a _hard_, _full_, and _quick_ pulse. this symptom, i believe, is more common in dropsies than is generally supposed, for many physicians visit and examine patients in these diseases, without feeling the pulse. dr. home mentions the _frequency_ of the pulse, in the patients whose cures he has recorded[35], but he takes no notice of its force except in two cases. dr. zimmerman, in his account of the dropsy which terminated the life of frederick ii, of prussia, tells us that he found his pulse _hard_ and _full_. i have repeatedly found it full and hard in every form of dropsy, and more especially in the first stage of the disease. indeed i have seldom found it otherwise in the beginning of the dropsy of the breast. [35] medical facts. 2. _sizy blood._ this has been taken notice of by many practical writers, and has very justly been ascribed, under certain circumstances of blood-letting, to an excessive action of the vessels upon the blood. 3. _alternation of dropsies with certain diseases which were evidently accompanied by excess of action in the arterial system._ i have seen anasarca alternate with vertigo, and both ascites and anasarca alternate with tonic madness. a case of nearly the same kind is related by dr. mead. dr. grimes, of georgia, informed me that he had seen a tertian fever, in which the intermissions were attended with dropsical swellings all over the body, which suddenly disappeared in every accession of a paroxysm of the fever. 4. _the occasional connection of certain dropsies with diseases evidently of an inflammatory nature_, particularly pneumony, rheumatism, and gout. 5. spontaneous _hã¦morrhages_ from the lungs, hã¦morrhodial vessels, and nose, cases of which shall be mentioned hereafter, when we come to treat of the cure of dropsies. 6. _the appearance of dropsies in the winter and spring, in habits previously affected by the intermitting fever._ the debility produced by this state of fever, frequently disposes to inflammatory diathesis, as soon as the body is exposed to the alternate action of heat and cold, nor is this inflammatory diathesis always laid aside, by the transition of the intermitting fever into a dropsy, in the succeeding cold weather. 7. _the injurious effects of stimulating medicines in certain dropsies_, prove that there exists in them, at times, too much action in the blood-vessels. dr. tissot, in a letter to dr. haller, "de variolis, apoplexia, et hydrope," condemns, in strong terms, the use of opium in the dropsy. now the bad effects of this medicine in dropsies, must have arisen from its having been given in cases of too much action in the arterial system; for opium, we know, increases, by its stimulating qualities, the action and tone of the blood-vessels, and hence we find, it has been prescribed with success in dropsies of too little action in the system. 8. _the termination of certain fevers in dropsies in which blood-letting was not used._ this has been ascertained by many observations. dr. wilkes relates[36], that after "an epidemical fever, which began in kidderminster, in 1728, and soon afterwards spread, not only over great britain, but all europe, more people died dropsical in three years, than did perhaps in twenty or thirty years before," probably from the neglect of bleeding in the fever. [36] historical essay on the dropsy, p. 326. but the existence of too much action in the arterial system in certain dropsies, will appear more fully from the history of the effects of the remedies which have been employed either by design or accident in the cure of these diseases. i shall first mention the remedies which have been used with success in tonic or inflammatory dropsies; and afterwards mention those which have been given with success in dropsies of a weak action in the arteries. i have constantly proposed to treat only of the theory and cure of dropsies in general, without specifying any of the numerous names it derives from the different parts of the body in which they may be seated; but in speaking of the remedies which have been used with advantage in both the tonic and atonic states, i shall occasionally mention the name or seat of the dropsy in which the remedy has done service. the first remedy that i shall mention for dropsies is _blood-letting_. dr. hoffman and dr. home both cured dropsies accompanied by pulmonic congestion by means of this remedy. dr. monroe quotes a case of dropsy from sponius, in which bleeding succeeded, but not till after it had been used twenty times[37]. mr. cruikshank relates a case[38] of accidental bleeding, which confirms the efficacy of blood-letting in these diseases. he tells us that he attended a patient with dropsical swellings in his legs, who had had a hoarseness for two years. one morning, in stooping to buckle his shoes, he bursted a blood-vessel in his lungs, from which he lost a quart of blood; in consequence of which, both the swellings and the hoarseness went off gradually, and he continued well two years afterwards. i have known one case in which spontaneous hã¦morrhages from the hã¦morrhodial vessels, and from the nose, suddenly reduced universal dropsical swellings. in this patient there had been an uncommon tension and fulness in the pulse. [37] treatise on the dropsy. [38] treatise on the lymphatics. i could add the histories of many cures of anasarca and ascites, performed by means of blood-letting, not only by myself, but by a number of respectable physicians in the united states. indeed i conceive this remedy to be as much indicated by a tense and full pulse in those forms of dropsy, as it is in a pleurisy, or in any other common inflammatory disease. in those deplorable cases of hydrothorax, which do not admit of a radical cure, i have given temporary relief, and thereby protracted life, by taking away occasionally a few ounces of blood. had dr. zimmerman used this remedy in the case of the king of prussia, i cannot help thinking from the account which the doctor gives us of the diet and pulse of his royal patient, that he would have lessened his sufferings much more than by plentiful doses of dandelion; for i take it for granted, from the candour and integrity which the doctor discovered in all his visits to the king, that he did not expect that dandelion, or any other medicine, would cure him. although a _full_ and _tense_ pulse is always an indication of the necessity of bleeding; yet i can easily conceive there may be such congestions, and such a degree of stimulus to the arterial system, as to produce a depressed, or a _low_ or _weak_ pulse. two cases of this kind are related by dr. monroe, one of which was cured by bleeding. the same symptom of a low and weak pulse is often met with in the _first_ stage of pneumony, and apoplexy, and is only to be removed by the plentiful use of the same remedy. ii. _vomits_ have often been given with advantage in dropsies. dr. home says, that squills were useful in these diseases only when they produced a vomiting. by abstracting excitement and action from the arterial system, it disposes the lymphatics to absorb and discharge large quantities of water. the efficacy of vomits in promoting the absorption of stagnating fluids is not confined to dropsies. mr. hunter was once called to visit a patient in whom he found a bubo in such a state that he purposed to open it the next day. in the mean while, the patient went on board of a vessel, where he was severely affected by sea-sickness and vomiting; in consequence of which the bubo disappeared, and the patient recovered without the use of the knife. mr. cruikshank further mentions a case[39] of a swelling in the knee being nearly cured by a patient vomiting eight and forty hours, in consequence of his taking a large dose of the salt of tartar instead of soluble tartar. [39] letter to mr. clare, p. 166. iii. _purges._ the efficacy of this remedy, in the cure of dropsies, has been acknowledged by physicians in all ages and countries. jalap, calomel, scammony, and gamboge, are often preferred for this purpose; but i have heard of two cases of ascites being cured by a table spoonful of sweet oil taken every day. it probably acted only as a gentle laxative. the cream of tartar, so highly commended by dr. home, seems to act _chiefly_ in the same way. gherlius, from whom dr. home learned the use of this medicine, says, that all the persons whom he cured by it were in the vigour of life, and that their diseases had been only of a few months continuance. from these two circumstances, it is most probable they were dropsies of great morbid action in the arterial system. he adds further, that the persons who were cured by this medicine, were reduced very low by the use of it. dr. home says that it produced the same effect upon the patients whom he cured by it, in the infirmary of edinburgh. dr. sydenham prefers gentle to drastic purges, and recommends the exhibition of them every day. both drastic and gentle purges act by diminishing the action of the arterial system, and thereby promote the absorption and discharge of water. that purges promote absorption, we learn not only from their effects in dropsies, but from an experiment related by mr. cruikshank[40], of a man who acquired several ounces of weight after the operation of a purge. the absorption in this case was from the atmosphere. so great is the effect of purges in promoting absorption, that mr. hunter supposes the matter of a gonorrh[oe]a, or of topical venereal ulcers to be conveyed by them in some instances into every part of the body. [40] letter to mr. clare, p. 117. iv. _certain medicines_, which, by lessening the _action of the arterial system_, favour the absorption and evacuation of water. the only medicines of this class which i shall name are _nitre_, _cream of tartar_, and _foxglove_. 1. two ounces of nitre dissolved in a pint of water, and a wine-glass full of it taken three times a-day have performed perfect cures, in two cases of ascites, which have come under my notice. i think i have cured two persons of anasarca, by giving one scruple of the same medicine three times a-day for several weeks. the two last cures were evidently dropsies of violent action in the arterial system. where nitre has been given in atonic dropsies it has generally been useless, and sometimes done harm. i have seen one instance of an incurable diarrh[oe]a after tapping, which i suspected arose from the destruction of the tone of the stomach and bowels, by large and long continued doses of nitre, which the patient had previously taken by the advice of a person who had been cured by that remedy. to avoid this, or any other inconvenience from the use of nitre in dropsies, it should be given at first in small doses, and should always be laid aside, if it should prove ineffectual after having been given two or three weeks. 2. i can say nothing of the efficacy of _cream of tartar_ in dropsies from my own experience, where it has not acted as a purge. perhaps my want of decision upon this subject has arisen only from my not having persisted in the use of it for the same length of time which is mentioned by dr. home. 3. there are different opinions concerning the efficacy of foxglove in dropsies. from the cases related by dr. withering, it appears to have done good; but from those related by dr. lettsom[41] it seems to have done harm. i suspect the different accounts of those two gentlemen have arisen from their having given it in different states of the system, or perhaps from a difference in the quality of the plant from causes mentioned in another place[42]. i am sorry to add further, that after many trials of this medicine i have failed in most of the cases in which i have given it. i have discharged the water in three instances by it, but the disease returned, and my patients finally died. i can ascribe only one complete cure to its use, which was in the year 1789, in a young man in the pennsylvania hospital, of five and thirty years of age, of a robust habit, and plethoric pulse. [41] medical memoirs, vol. ii. [42] inquiry into the causes and cure of pulmonary consumption. where medicines have once been in use, and afterwards fall into disrepute, as was the case with the foxglove, i suspect the cases in which they were useful, to have been either few or doubtful, and that the cases in which they had done harm, were so much more numerous and unequivocal, as justly to banish them from the materia medica. v. _hard labour_, or exercise in such a degree as to produce fatigue, have, in several instances, cured the dropsy. a dispensary patient, in this city, was cured of this disease by sawing wood. and a patient in an ascites under my care in the pennsylvania hospital, had his belly reduced seven inches in circumference in one day, by the labour of carrying wood from the yard into the hospital. a second patient belonging to the philadelphia dispensary was cured by walking to lancaster, 66 miles from the city, in the middle of winter. the efficacy of travelling in this disease, in cold weather, is taken notice of by dr. monroe, who quotes a case from dr. holler, of a french merchant, who was cured of a dropsy by a journey from paris to england, in the winter season. it would seem, that in these two cases, the _cold_ co-operated as a sedative with the fatigue produced by labour or exercise, in reducing the tone of the arterial system. vi. _low diet._ i have heard of a woman who was cured of a dropsy by eating nothing but boiled beans for three weeks, and drinking nothing but the water in which they had been boiled. many other cases of the good effects of low diet in dropsies are to be found in the records of medicine. vii. _thirst._ this cruel remedy acts by debilitating the system in two ways: 1st, by abstracting the stimulus of distention; and, 2dly, by preventing a supply of fresh water to replace that which is discharged by the ordinary emunctories of nature. viii. _fasting._ an accidental circumstance, related by sir john hawkins, in the life of dr. johnson, first led me to observe the good effects of fasting in the dropsy. if the fact alluded to stood alone under the present head of this essay, it would be sufficient to establish the existence of too much action, and the efficacy of debilitating remedies in certain dropsies. i am the more disposed to lay a good deal of stress upon this fact, as it was the clue which conducted me out of the labyrinth of empirical practice, in which i had been bewildered for many years, and finally led me to adopt the principles and practice which i am now endeavouring to establish. the passage which contains this interesting fact is as follows: "a few days after (says sir john) he [meaning dr. johnson] sent for me, and informed me, that he had discovered in himself the symptoms of a dropsy, and, indeed, his very much increased bulk, and the swollen appearance of his legs, seemed to indicate no less. it was on thursday that i had this conversation with him; in the course thereof he declared, that he intended to devote the whole of the next day to _fasting_, humiliation, and such other devotional exercises as became a man in his situation. on the saturday following i made him a visit, and, upon entering his room, i observed in his countenance such a serenity as indicated, that some remarkable crisis of his disease had produced a change in his feelings. he told me that, pursuant to the resolution he had mentioned to me, he had spent the preceding day in an abstraction from all worldly concerns; that to prevent interruption he had in the morning ordered _frank_ [his servant] not to admit any one to him, and, the better to enforce the charge, had added these awful words, _for your master is preparing himself to die_. he then mentioned to me, that in the course of this exercise he found himself relieved from the disease which had been growing upon him, and was becoming very oppressive, viz. the _dropsy_, by the gradual evacuation of water, to the amount of _twenty pints_, a like instance whereof he had never before experienced." sir john hawkins ascribes this immense discharge of water to the influence of dr. johnson's prayers; but he neglects to take notice, that these prayers were answered, in this instance, as they are in many others, in a perfect consistence with the common and established laws of nature. to satisfy myself that this discharge of water, in the case of dr. johnson, was produced by the fasting only, i recommended it, soon after i read the above account, to a gentlewoman whom i was then attending in an ascites. i was delighted with the effects of it. her urine, which for some time before had not exceeded half a pint a-day, amounted to _two quarts_ on the day she fasted. i repeated the same prescription once a week for several weeks, and each time was informed of an increase of urine, though it was considerably less in the last experiments than in the first. two patients in an ascites, to whom i prescribed the same remedy, in the pennsylvania hospital, the one in the winter of 1790, and the other in the winter of 1792, exhibited proofs in the presence of many of the students of the university, equally satisfactory of the efficacy of fasting in suddenly increasing the quantity of urine. ix. _fear._ this passion is evidently of a debilitating nature, and, therefore, it has frequently afforded an accidental aid in the cure of dropsies, of too much action. i suspect, that the fear of death, which was so distinguishing a part of the character of dr. johnson, added a good deal to the efficacy of fasting, in procuring the immense discharge of water before-mentioned. in support of the efficacy of fear simply applied, in discharging water from the body in dropsies, i shall mention the following facts. in a letter which i received from dr. john pennington, dated edinburgh, august 3, 1790, i was favoured with the following communication. "since the conversation i had with you on the subject of the dropsy, i feel more and more inclined to adopt your opinion. i can furnish you with a fact which i learned from a danish sailor, on my passage to this country, which is much in favour of your doctrine. a sailor in an ascites, fell off the end of the yard into the sea; the weather being calm, he was taken up unhurt, but, to use the sailor's own words, who told me the story, he was _frightened half to death_, and as soon as he was taken out of the water, he discharged a gallon of urine or more. a doctor on board ascribed this large evacuation to sea bathing, and accordingly ordered the man to be dipped in the sea every morning, much against his will, for, my informant adds, that he had not forgotten his fall, and that in four weeks he was perfectly well. i think this fact can only be explained on your principles. the sedative operation of _fear_ was, no doubt, the cause of his cure." there is an account of an ascites being cured by a fall from an open chaise, recorded in the third volume of the medical memoirs, by m. lowdell. i have heard of a complete recovery from dropsy, having suddenly followed a fall from a horse. in both these cases, the cures were probably the effects of fear. dr. hall, of york-town, in pennsylvania, informed me, that he had been called to visit a young woman of 19 years of age, who had taken all the usual remedies for ascites without effect. he at once proposed to her the operation of tapping. to this she objected, but so great was the _fear_ of this operation, which the proposal of it suddenly excited in her mind, that it brought on a plentiful discharge of urine, which in a few days perfectly removed her disease. on the 27th of august, 1790, i visited a gentlewoman in this city with the late dr. jones, in an ascites. we told her for the first time, that she could not be relieved without being tapped. she appeared to be much terrified upon hearing our opinion, and said that she would consider of it. i saw her two days afterwards, when she told me, with a smile on her countenance, that she hoped she should get well without tapping, for that she had discharged two quarts of water in the course of the day after we had advised her to submit to that operation. for many days before, she had not discharged more than two or three gills in twenty-four hours. the operation, notwithstanding, was still indicated, and she submitted to be tapped a few days afterwards. i tapped the same gentlewoman a second time, in january, 1791. she was much terrified while i was preparing for the operation, and fainted immediately after the puncture was made. the second time that i visited her after the operation was performed, she told me (without being interrogated on that subject), that she had discharged a pint and a half of urine, within twenty minutes after i left the room on the day i tapped her. what made this discharge the more remarkable was, she had not made more than a table spoonful of water in a day, for several days before she was tapped. i have seen similar discharges of urine in two other cases of tapping which have come under my notice, but they resembled so nearly those which have been mentioned, that it will be unnecessary to record them. but the influence of fear upon the system, in the dropsy, extends far beyond the effects which i have ascribed to it. dr. currie, of this city, informed me that he called, some years ago, by appointment, to tap a woman. he no sooner entered the room than he observed her, as he thought, to faint away. he attempted to recover her, but to no purpose. she died of a sudden paroxysm of fear. it is a matter of surprise, that we should have remained so long ignorant of the influence of fear upon the urinary organs in dropsies, after having been so long familiar with the same effect of that passion in the hysteria. x. _a recumbent posture of the body._ it is most useful when the dropsy is seated in the lower limbs. i have often seen, with great pleasure, the happiest effects from this prescription in a few days. xi. _punctures._ these, when made in the legs and feet, often discharge in eight and forty hours the water of the whole body. i have never seen a mortification produced by them. as they are not followed by inflammation, they should be preferred to blisters, which are sometimes used for the same purpose. i cannot dismiss the remedies which discharge water from the body through the urinary passages, without taking notice, that they furnish an additional argument in favour of blood-letting in dropsies, for they act, not by discharging the stagnating water, but by creating such a plentiful secretion in the kidneys from the serum of the circulating blood, as to make room for the absorption and conveyance of the stagnating water into the blood-vessels. now the same effect may be produced in all tonic or inflammatory dropsies, with more certainty and safety, by means of blood-letting. in recommending the antiphlogistic treatment of certain dropsies, i must here confine myself to the dropsies of such climates as dispose to diseases of great morbid action in the system. i am satisfied that it will often be proper in the middle and eastern states of america; and i have lately met with two observations, which show that it has been used with success at vienna, in germany. dr. stoll tells us, that, in the month of january, 1780, "hydropic and asthmatic patients discovered more or less marks of inflammatory diathesis, and that blood was drawn from them with a sparing hand with advantage;" and in the month of november, of the same year, he says, "the stronger diuretics injured dropsical patients in this season; but an antiphlogistic drink, composed of a quart of the decoction of grass, with two ounces of simple oxymel, and nitre and cream of tartar, of each a drachm, did service[43]." it is probable that the same difference should be observed between the treatment of dropsies in warm and cold climates that is observed in the treatment of fevers. the tonic action probably exists in the system in both countries. in the former it resembles the tides which are suddenly produced by a shower of rain, and as suddenly disappear; whereas, in the latter, it may be compared to those tides which are produced by the flow and gradual addition of water from numerous streams, and which continue for days and weeks together to exhibit marks of violence in every part of their course. [43] ratio medendi nosocomio practico vindobonensi, vol. iv. p. 56 and 99. i come now to say a few words upon atonic dropsies, or such as are accompanied with a feeble morbid action in the blood-vessels. this morbid action is essential to the nature of dropsies, for we never see them take place without it. this is obvious from the absence of swellings after famine, marasmus, and in extreme old age, in each of which there exists the lowest degree of debility, but no morbid action in the blood-vessels. these atonic or typhus dropsies may easily be distinguished from those which have been described, by occurring in habits naturally weak; by being produced by the operation of chronic causes; by a weak and quick pulse; and by little or no preternatural heat or thirst. the remedies for atonic dropsies are all such stimulating substances as increase the action of the arterial system, or determine the fluids to the urinary organs. these are, i. _bitter_ and _aromatic substances_ of all kinds, exhibited in substance or in infusions of wine, spirit, beer, or water. ii. _certain acrid vegetables_, such as scurvy-grass, horse-radish, mustard, water-cresses, and garlic. i knew an old man who was perfectly cured of an anasarca, by eating water-cresses, on bread and butter. iii. _opium._ the efficacy of this medicine in dropsies has been attested by dr. willis, and several other practical writers. it seems to possess almost an exclusive power of acting alike upon the arterial, the lymphatic, the glandular, and the nervous systems. iv. _metallic tonics_, such as chalybeate medicines of all kinds, and the mild preparations of copper and mercury. i once cured an incipient ascites and anasarca by large doses of the rust of iron; and i have cured many dropsies by giving mercury in such quantities as to excite a plentiful salivation. i have, it is true, often given it without effect, probably from my former ignorance of the violent action of the arteries, which so frequently occurs in dropsies, and in which cases mercury must necessarily have done harm. v. _diuretics_, consisting of alkaline salts, nitre, and the oxymels of squills and colchicum. it is difficult to determine how far these medicines produce their salutary effects by acting directly upon the kidneys. it is remarkable that these organs are seldom affected in dropsies, and that their diseases are rarely followed by dropsical effusions in any part of the body. vi. _generous diet_, consisting of animal food, rendered cordial by spices; also sound old wine. vii. _diluting drinks_ taken in such large quantities as to excite the action of the vessels by the stimulus of distention. this effect has been produced, sir george baker informs us, by means of large draughts of simple water, and of cyder and water[44]. the influence of distention in promoting absorption is evident in the urinary and gall bladders, which frequently return their contents to the blood by the lymphatics, when they are unable to discharge them through their usual emunctories. is it not probable that the distention produced by the large quantities of liquids which we are directed to administer after giving the foxglove, may have been the means of performing some of those cures of dropsies, which have been ascribed to that remedy? [44] the remark upon this fact by sir george, is worthy of notice, and implies much more than was probably intended by it. "when common means have failed, success has sometimes followed a method _directly contrary_ to the established practice." medical transactions, vol. ii. viii. _pressure._ bandages bound tightly around the belly and limbs, sometimes prevent the increase or return of dropsical swellings. the influence of pressure upon the action of the lymphatics appears in the absorption of bone which frequently follows the pressure of contiguous tumours, also in the absorption of flesh which follows the long pressure of certain parts of the body upon a sick bed. ix. _frictions_, either by means of a dry, or oiled hand, or with linen or flannel impregnated with volatile and other stimulating substances. i have found evident advantages from following the advice of dr. cullen, by rubbing the lower extremities _upwards_, and that only in the _morning_. i have been at a loss to account for the manner in which sweet oil acts, when applied to dropsical swellings. if it act by what is improperly called a sedative power upon the blood-vessels, it will be more proper in tonic than atonic dropsies; but if it act by closing the pores, and thereby preventing the absorption of moisture from the air, it will be very proper in the state of dropsy which is now under consideration. it is in this manner that dr. cullen supposes that sweet oil, when applied to the body, cures that state of diabetes in which nothing but insipid water is discharged from the bladder. x. _heat_, applied either separately or combined with moisture in the form of warm or vapour baths, has been often used with success in dropsies of too little action. dampier, in his voyage round the world, was cured of a dropsy by means of a copious sweat, excited by burying himself in a bed of warm sand. warm fomentations to the legs, rendered moderately stimulating by the addition of saline or aromatic substances, have often done service in the atonic dropsical swellings of the lower extremities. xi. the _cold bath_. i can say nothing in favour of the efficacy of this remedy in dropsies, from my own experience. its good effects seem to depend wholly on its increasing the excitability of the system to common stimuli, by the diminution of its excitement. if this be the case, i would ask, whether _fear_ might not be employed for the same purpose, and thus become as useful in atonic, as it was formerly proved to be in tonic dropsies? xii. _wounds_, whether excited by cutting instruments or by fire, provided they excite inflammation and action in the arteries, frequently cure atonic dropsies. the good effects of inflammation and action in these cases, appear in the cure of hydrocele by means of the needle, or the caustic. xiii. _exercise._ this is probably as necessary in the atonic dropsy, as it is in the consumption, and should never be omitted when a patient is able to take it. the passive exercises of swinging, and riding in a carriage, are most proper in the lowest stage of the disease; but as soon as the patient's strength will admit of it, he should ride on horseback. a journey should be preferred, in this disease, to short excursions from home. xiv. a _recumbent posture of the body_ should always be advised during the intervals of exercise, when the swellings are seated in the lower extremities. xv. _punctures in the legs and feet_ afford the same relief in general dropsy, accompanied with a weak action in the blood-vessels, that has been ascribed to them in dropsies of an opposite character. in the application of each of the remedies which have been mentioned, for the cure of both tonic and atonic dropsies, great care should be taken to use them in such a manner, as to accommodate them to the strength and excitability of the patient's system. the most powerful remedies have often been rendered _hurtful_, by being given in too large doses in the beginning, and _useless_, by being given in too small doses in the subsequent stages of the disease. i have avoided saying any thing of the usual operations for discharging water from different parts of the body, as my design was to treat only of the symptoms and cure of those dropsies which affect the whole system. i shall only remark, that if tapping and punctures have been more successful in the early, than in the late stage of these diseases, it is probably because the sudden or gradual evacuation of water takes down that excessive action in the arterial system, which is most common in their early stage, and thereby favours the speedy restoration of healthy action in the exhaling or lymphatic vessels. thus have i endeavoured to prove, that two different states of action take place in dropsies, and have mentioned the remedies which are proper for each of them under separate heads. but i suspect that dropsies are often connected with a certain _intermediate_ or mixed action in the arterial system, analogous to the typhoid action which takes place in certain fevers. i am led to adopt this opinion, not only from having observed mixed action to be so universal in most of the diseases of the arterial and nervous system, but because i have so frequently observed dropsical swellings to follow the scarlatina, and the puerperile fever, two diseases which appear to derive their peculiar character from a mixture of excessive and moderate _force_, combined with irregularity of action in the arterial system. in dropsies of mixed action, where too much force prevails in the action of some, and too little in the action of other of the arterial fibres, the remedies must be debilitating or stimulating, according to the greater or less predominance of tonic or atonic diathesis in the arterial system. i shall conclude this history of dropsies, and of the different and opposite remedies which have cured them, by the following observations. 1. we learn, in the first place, from what has been said, the impropriety and even danger of prescribing stimulating medicines indiscriminately in every case of dropsy. 2. we are taught, by the facts which have been mentioned, the reason why physicians have differed so much in their accounts of the same remedies, and why the same remedies have operated so differently in the hands of the same physicians. it is because they have been given without a reference to the different states of the system, which have been described. dr. sydenham says, that he cured the first dropsical patient he was called to, by frequent purges. he began to exult in the discovery, as he thought, of a certain cure for dropsies, but his triumph was of short duration. the same remedy failed in the next case in which he prescribed it. the reason probably was, the dropsy in the first case was of a tonic, but in the second of an atonic nature; for the latter was an ascites from a quartan ague. it is agreeable, however, to discover, from the theory of dropsies which has been laid down, that all the different remedies for these diseases have been proper in their nature, and improper only in the state of the system in which they have been given. as the discovery of truth in religion reconciles the principles of the most opposite sects, so the discovery of truth in medicine reconciles the most opposite modes of practice. it would be happy if the inquirers after truth in medicine should be taught, by such discoveries, to treat each other with tenderness and respect, and to wait with patience till accident, or time, shall combine into one perfect and consistent system, all the contradictory facts and opinions, about which physicians have been so long divided. 3. if a state of great morbid action in the arteries has been demonstrated in dropsies, both from its symptoms and remedies, and if these dropsies are evidently produced by previous debility, who will deny the existence of a similar action in certain hã¦morrhages, in gout, palsy, apoplexy, and madness, notwithstanding they are all the offspring of predisposing debility? and who will deny the efficacy of bleeding, purges, and other debilitating medicines in certain states of those diseases, that has seen the same medicines administered with success in certain dropsies? to reject bleeding, purging, and the other remedies for violent action in the system, in any of the above diseases, because that action was preceded by general debility, will lead us to reject them in the most acute inflammatory fevers, for these are as much the offspring of previous debility as dropsies or palsy. the previous debility of the former differs from that of the latter diseases, only in being of a more acute, or, in other words, of a shorter duration. 4. from the symptoms of tonic dropsy which have been mentioned, it follows, that the distinction of apoplexy into serous and sanguineous, affords no rational indication for a difference in the mode of treating that disease. if an effusion of serum in the thorax, bowels, or limbs, produce a hard and full pulse, it is reasonable to suppose that the same symptom will be produced by the effusion of serum in the brain. but the dissections collected by lieutaud[45] place this opinion beyond all controversy. they prove that the symptoms of great and feeble morbid action, as they appear in the pulse, follow alike the effusion of serum and blood in the brain. this fact will admit of an important application to the disease, which is to be the subject of the next inquiry. [45] historia anatomica medica, vol. ii. 5. from the influence which has been described, of the different states of action of the arterial system, upon the lymphatic vessels, in dropsies, we are led to reject the indiscriminate use of bark, mercury, and salt water, in the scrophula. when the action of the arteries is weak, those remedies are proper; but when an opposite state of the arterial system occurs, and, above all, when scrophulous tumours are attended with inflammatory ulcers, stimulating medicines of all kinds are hurtful. by alternating the above remedies with a milk and vegetable diet, according to the tonic, or atonic states of the arterial system, i have succeeded in the cure of a case of scrophula, attended by large ulcers in the inguinal glands, which had for several years resisted the constant use of the three stimulating remedies which have been mentioned. 6. notwithstanding i have supposed dropsies to be connected with a peculiar state of force in the blood-vessels, yet i have not ventured to assert, that dropsies may not exist from an exclusive affection of the exhaling and absorbing vessels. i conceive this to be as possible, as for a fever to exist from an exclusive affection of the arteries, or a hysteria from an exclusive affection of the nervous system. nothing, however, can be said upon this subject, until physiology and pathology have taught us more of the structure and diseases of the lymphatic vessels. nor have i ventured further to assert, that there are not medicines which may act specifically upon the lymphatics, independently of the arteries. this i conceive to be as possible as for asaf[oe]tida to act chiefly upon the nerves, or ipecacuanha and jalap upon the alimentary canal, without affecting other parts of the system. until such medicines are discovered, it becomes us to avail ourselves of the access to the lymphatics, which is furnished us through the medium of the arteries, by means of most of the remedies which have been mentioned. 7. if it should appear hereafter, that we have lessened the mortality of certain dropsies by the theory and practice which have been proposed, yet many cases of dropsy must still occur in which they will afford us no aid. the cases i allude to are dropsies from enclosing cysts, from the ossification of certain arteries, from schirri of certain viscera from large ruptures of exhaling or lymphatic vessels, from a peculiar and corrosive acrimony of the fluids, and, lastly, from an exhausted state of the whole system. the records of medicine furnish us with instances of death from each of the above causes. but let us not despair. it becomes a physician to believe, that there is no disease necessarily incurable; and that there exist in the womb of time, certain remedies for all those morbid affections, which elude the present limits of the healing art. an inquiry into the _causes and cure_ of the internal dropsy of the brain. having, for many years, been unsuccessful in all the cases, except two, of internal dropsy of the brain, which came under my care, i began to entertain doubts of the common theory of this disease, and to suspect that the effusion of water should be considered only as the effect of a primary disease in the brain. i mentioned this opinion to my colleague, dr. wistar, in the month of june, 1788, and delivered it the winter following in my lectures. the year afterwards i was confirmed in it, by hearing that the same idea had occurred to dr. quin. i have since read dr. quin's treatise on the dropsy of the brain with great pleasure, and consider it as the first dawn of light which has been shed upon it. in pursuing this subject, therefore, i shall avail myself of dr. quin's discoveries, and endeavour to arrange the facts and observations i have collected in such a manner, as to form a connected theory from them, which i hope will lead to a new and more successful mode of treating this disease. i shall begin this inquiry by delivering a few general propositions. 1. the internal dropsy of the brain is a disease confined chiefly to children. 2. in children the brain is larger in proportion to other parts of the body, than it is in adults; and of course a greater proportion of blood is sent to it in childhood, than in the subsequent periods of life. the effects of this determination of blood to the brain appear in the mucous discharge from the nose, and in the sores on the head and behind the ears, which are so common in childhood. 3. in all febrile diseases, there is a preternatural determination of blood to the brain. this occurs in a more especial manner in children: hence the reason why they are so apt to be affected by convulsions in the eruptive fever of the small-pox, in dentition, in the diseases from worms, and in the first paroxysm of intermitting fevers. 4. in fevers of every kind, and in every stage of life, there is a disposition to effusion in that part to which there is the greatest determination. thus, in inflammatory fever, effusions take place in the lungs and in the joints. in the bilious fever they occur in the liver, and in the gout in every part of the body. the matter effused is always influenced by the structure of the part in which it takes place. these propositions being premised, i should have proceeded to mention the remote causes of this disease; but as this inquiry may possibly fall into the hands of some gentlemen who may not have access to the description of it as given by dr. whytt, dr. fothergill, and dr. quin, i shall introduce a history of its symptoms taken from the last of those authors. i prefer it to the histories by dr. whytt and dr. fothergill, as it accords most with the ordinary phenomena of this disease in the united states. "in general, the patient is at first languid and inactive, often drowsy and peevish, but at intervals cheerful and apparently free from complaint. the appetite is weak, a nausea, and, in many cases, a vomiting, occurs once or twice in the day, and the skin is observed to be hot and dry towards the evenings: soon after these symptoms have appeared, the patient is affected with a sharp head-ach, chiefly in the fore-part, or, if not there, generally in the crown of the head: it is sometimes, however, confined to one side of the head, and, in that case, when the posture of the body is erect, the head often inclines to the side affected. we frequently find, also, that the head-ach alternates with the affection of the stomach; the vomiting being less troublesome when the pain is most violent, and _vice versã¢_; other parts of the body are likewise subject to temporary attacks of pain, viz. the extremities, or the bowels, but more constantly the back of the neck, and between the scapulã¦; in all such cases the head is more free from uneasiness. "the patient dislikes the light at this period; cries much, sleeps little, and when he does sleep, he grinds his teeth, picks his nose, appears to be uneasy, and starts often, screaming as if he were terrified; the bowels are in the majority of cases very much confined, though it sometimes happens that they are in an opposite state: the pulse in this early stage of the disorder, does not usually indicate any material derangement. "when the symptoms above-mentioned have continued for a few days, subject as they always are in this disease to great fluctuation, the axis of one eye is generally found to be turned in towards the nose; the pupil on this side is rather more dilated than the other; and when both eyes have the axes directed inwards (which sometimes happens), both pupils are larger than they are observed to be in the eyes of healthy persons: the vomiting becomes more constant, and the head-ach more excruciating; every symptom of fever then makes its appearance, the pulse is frequent, and the breathing quick; exacerbations of the fever take place towards the evening, and the face is occasionally flushed; usually one cheek is much more affected than the other; temporary perspirations likewise break forth, which are not followed by any alleviation of distress; a discharge of blood from the nose, which sometimes appears about this period, is equally inefficacious. "delirium, and that of the most violent kind, particularly if the patient has arrived at the age of puberty, now takes place, and with all the preceding symptoms of fever, continues for a while to increase, until about fourteen days, often a much shorter space of time, shall have elapsed since the appearance of the symptoms, which were first mentioned in the above detail. "the disease then undergoes that remarkable change, which sometimes suddenly points out the commencement of what has been called its second stage: the pulse becomes slow but unequal, both as to its strength, and the intervals between the pulsations; the pain of the head, or of whatever part had previously been affected, seems to abate, or at least the patient becomes apparently less sensible of it; the interrupted slumbers, or perpetual restlessness which prevailed during the earlier periods of the disorder, are now succeeded by an almost lethargetic torpor, the strabismus, and dilatation of the pupil increase, the patient lies with one, or both eyes half closed, which, when minutely examined, are often found to be completely insensible to light; the vomiting ceases; whatever food or medicine is offered is usually swallowed with apparent voracity; the bowels at this period generally remain obstinately costive. "if every effort made by art fails to excite the sinking powers of life, the symptoms of what has been called the second stage are soon succeeded by others, which more certainly announce the approach of death. the pulse again becomes equal, but so weak and quick, that it is almost impossible to count it; a difficulty of breathing, nearly resembling the _stertor apoplecticus_, is often observed; sometimes the eyes are suffused with blood, the flushing of the face is more frequent than before, but of shorter duration, and followed by a deadly paleness; red spots, or blotches, sometimes appear on the body and limbs; deglutition becomes difficult, and convulsions generally close the scene. in one case, i may observe, the jaws of a child of four years of age were so firmly locked for more than a day before death, that it was impossible to introduce either food or medicine into his mouth; and, in another case, a hemiplegia, attended with some remarkable circumstances, occurred during the two days preceding dissolution. "having thus given as exact a history of _apoplexia hydrocephalica_ as i could compile from the writings of others, and from my own observations, i should think myself guilty of imposition on my readers, if i did not caution them that it must be considered merely as a general outline: the human brain seems to be so extremely capricious (if the expression may be allowed) in the signals it gives to other parts of the system, of the injury it suffers throughout the course of this disease, that although every symptom above-mentioned does occasionally occur, and indeed few cases of the disease are to be met with, which do not exhibit many of them; yet it does not appear to me, that any one of them is constantly and inseparably connected with it." to this history i shall add a few facts, which are the result of observations made by myself, or communicated to me by my medical brethren. these facts will serve to show that there are many deviations from the history of the disease which has been given, and that it is indeed, as dr. quin has happily expressed it, of "a truly proteiform" nature. i have not found the dilated and insensible pupil, the puking, the delirium, or the strabismus, to attend universally in this disease. i saw one case in which the appetite was unimpaired from the first to the last stage of the disease. i have met with one case in which the disease was attended by blindness, and another by double vision. i have observed an uncommon acuteness in hearing to attend two cases of this disease. in one of them the noise of the sparks which were discharged from a hiccory fire, produced great pain and startings which threatened convulsions. i have seen three cases in which the disease terminated in hemiplegia. in two of them it proved fatal in a few days; in the third it continued for nearly eighteen months. i have met with one case in which no preternatural slowness or intermission was ever perceived in the pulse. i have seen the disease in children of nearly all ages. i once saw it in a child of six weeks old. it was preceded by the cholera infantum. the sudden deaths which we sometimes observe in infancy, i believe, are often produced by this disease. dr. stoll is of the same opinion. he calls it, when it appears in this form, "apoplexia infantalis[46]." [46] prã¦lectiones, vol. i. p. 254. in the month of march, 1771, i obtained a gill of water from the ventricles of the brain of a negro girl of nine years of age, who died of this disease, who complained in no stage of it of a pain in her head or limbs, nor of a sick stomach. the disease in this case was introduced suddenly by a pain in the breast, a fever, and the usual symptoms of a catarrh. dr. wistar informed me, that he had likewise met with a case of internal dropsy of the brain, in which there was a total absence of pain in the head. dr. carson informed me, that he had attended a child in this disease that discovered, for some days before it died, the symptom of hydrophobia. dr. currie obtained, by dissection, seven ounces of water from the brain of a child which died of this disease; in whom, he assured me, no dilatation of the pupil, strabismus, sickness, or loss of appetite had attended, and but very little head-ach. the causes which induce this disease, act either _directly_ on the brain, or _indirectly_ upon it, through the medium of the whole system. the causes which act _directly_ on the brain are falls or bruises upon the head, certain positions of the body, and childish plays which bring on congestion or inflammation, and afterwards an effusion of water in the brain. i have known it brought on in a child by falling into a cellar upon its feet. the _indirect_ causes of this disease are more numerous, and more frequent, though less suspected, than those which have been mentioned. the following diseases of the whole system appear to act indirectly in producing an internal dropsy of the brain. 1. _intermitting_, _remitting_, and _continual_ fevers. of the effects of these fevers in inducing this disease, many cases are recorded by lieutaud[47]. [47] historia anatomica-medica, vol. ii. my former pupil, dr. woodhouse, has furnished me with a dissection, in which the disease was evidently the effect of the remitting fever. that state of continual fever which has been distinguished by the name of typhus, is often the remote cause of this disease. the languor and weakness in all the muscles of voluntary motion, the head-ach, the inclination to rest and sleep, and the disposition to be disturbed, or terrified by dreams, which are said to be the precursors of water in the brain, i believe are frequently symptoms of a typhus fever which terminates in an inflammation, or effusion of water in the brain. the history which is given of the typhus state of fever in children by dr. butter[48], seems to favour this opinion. [48] treatise on the infantile remitting fever. 2. the _rheumatism_. of this i have known two instances. dr. lettsom has recorded a case from the same cause[49]. the pains in the limbs, which are supposed to be the effect, i suspect are frequently the cause of the disease. [49] medical memoirs, vol. i. p. 174. 3. the _pulmonary consumption_. of the connection of this disease with an internal dropsy of the brain, dr. percival has furnished us with the following communication[50]: "mr. c----'s daughter, aged nine years, after labouring under the phthisis pulmonalis four months, was affected with unusual pains in her head. these rapidly increased, so as to occasion frequent screamings. the cough, which had before been extremely violent, and was attended with stitches in the breast, now abated, and in a few days ceased almost entirely. the pupils of the eyes became dilated, a strabismus ensued, and in about a week death put an end to her agonies. whether this affection of the head arose from the effusion of water or of blood, is uncertain, but its influence on the state of the lungs is worthy of notice." dr. quin likewise mentions a case from dr. cullen's private practice, in which an internal dropsy of the brain followed a pulmonary consumption. lieutaud mentions three cases of the same kind[51], and two, in which it succeeded a catarrh[52]. [50] essays, medical, philosophical, and experimental, vol. ii. p. 339, 340. [51] historia anatomica-medica, vol. ii. lib. tertius. obs. 380, 394, 1121. [52] obs. 383, 431. 4. _eruptive fevers._ dr. odier informs us[53], that he had seen four cases in which it had followed the small-pox, measles, and scarlatina. dr. lettsom mentions a case in which it followed the small-pox[54], and i have seen one in which it was obviously the effects of debility induced upon the system by the measles. [53] medical journal. [54] medical memoirs, vol. i. p. 171. 5. _worms._ notwithstanding the discharge of worms gives no relief in this disease, yet there is good reason to believe, that it has, in some instances, been produced by them. the morbid action continues in the brain, as in other cases of disease, after the cause which induced it, has ceased to act upon the body. 6. from the dissections of lieutaud, quin, and others, it appears further, that the internal dropsy of the brain has been observed to succeed each of the following diseases, viz. the colic, palsy, melancholy, dysentery, dentition, insolation, and scrophula, also the sudden healing of old sores. i have seen two cases of it from the last cause, and one in which it was produced by the action of the vernal sun alone upon the system. from the facts which have been enumerated, and from dissections to be mentioned hereafter, it appears, that the disease in its first stage is the effect of causes which produce a less degree of that morbid action in the brain which constitutes phrenitis, and that its second stage is the effect of a less degree of that effusion, which produces serous apoplexy in adults. the former partakes of the nature of the chronic inflammation of dr. cullen, and of the asthenic inflammation of dr. brown. i have taken the liberty to call it _phrenicula_, from its being a diminutive species or state of phrenitis. it bears the same relation to phrenitis, when it arises from indirect causes, which pneumonicula does to pneumony; and it is produced nearly in the same manner as the pulmonary consumption, by debilitating causes which act primarily on the whole system. the peculiar size and texture of the brain seem to invite the inflammation and effusions which follow debility, to that organ in childhood, just as the peculiar structure and situation of the lungs invite the same morbid phã¦nomena to them, after the body has acquired its growth, in youth and middle life. in the latter stage which has been mentioned, the internal dropsy of the brain partakes of some of the properties of apoplexy. it differs from it in being the effect of a _slow_, instead of a _sudden_ effusion of water or blood, and in being the effect of causes which are of an acute instead of a chronic nature. in persons advanced beyond middle life, who are affected by this disease, it approaches to the nature of the common apoplexy, by a speedy termination in life or death. dr. cullen has called it simply by the name of "apoplexia hydrocephalica." i have preferred for its last stage the term of _chronic apoplexy_, for i believe with dr. quin, that it has no connection with a hydropic diathesis of the whole system. i am forced to adopt this opinion, from my having rarely seen it accompanied by dropsical effusions in other parts of the body, nor a general dropsy accompanied by an internal dropsy of the brain. no more occurs in this disease than takes place when hydrothorax follows an inflammation of the lungs, or when serous effusions follow an inflammation of the joints. i do not suppose that both inflammation and effusion always attend in this disease; on the contrary, dissections have shown some cases of inflammation, with little or no effusion, and some of effusion without inflammation. perhaps this variety may have been produced by the different stages of the disease in which death and the inspection of the brain took place. neither do i suppose, that the two stages which have been mentioned, always succeed each other in the common order of inflammation and effusion. in every case where the full tense, slow and intermitting pulse occurs, i believe there is inflammation; and as this state of the pulse occurs in most cases in the beginning of the disease, i suppose the inflammation, in most cases, to precede the effusion of water. i have met with only one case in which the slow and tense pulse was absent; and out of six dissections of patients whom i have lost by this disease, the brains of four of them exhibited marks of inflammation. mr. davis discovered signs of inflammation, after death from this disease, to be universal. in eighteen or twenty dissections, he tells us, he found the pia mater always distended with blood[55]. where signs of inflammation have not occurred, the blood-vessels had probably relieved themselves by the effusion of serum, or the morbid action of the blood-vessels had exceeded that grade of excitement, in which only inflammation can take place. i have seen one case of death from this disease, in which there was not more than a tea-spoonful of water in the ventricles of the brain. dr. quin mentions a similar case. here death was induced by simple excess of excitement. the water which is found in the ventricles of the brain refuses to coagulate by heat, and is always pale in those diseases, in which the serum of the blood, in every other part of the body, is of a yellow colour. [55] medical journal, vol. viii. in addition to these facts, in support of the internal dropsy of the brain being the effect of inflammation, i shall mention one more, communicated to me in a letter, dated july 17th, 1795, by my former pupil, dr. coxe, while he was prosecuting his studies in london. "it so happened (says my ingenious correspondent), that at the time of my receiving your letter, dr. clark was at the hospital. i read to him that part which relates to your success in the treatment of hydrocephalus internus. he was much pleased with it, and mentioned to me a fact which strongly corroborates your idea of its being a primary inflammation of the brain. this fact was, that upon opening, not long since, the head of a child that had died of this disease, he found between three and four ounces of water in the ventricles of the brain; also an inflammatory crust on the optic nerves, as thick as he had ever observed it on the intestines in a state of inflammation. the child lost its sight before it died. the crust accounted in a satisfactory manner for its blindness. perhaps something similar may always be noticed in the dissections of such as die of this disease, in whom the eyes are much affected." having adopted the theory of this disease, which i have delivered, i resolved upon such a change in my practice as should accord with it. the first remedy indicated by it was i. _blood-letting._ i shall briefly mention the effects of this remedy in a few of the first cases in which i prescribed it. case i. on the 15th of november, 1790, i was called to visit the daughter of william webb, aged four years, who was indisposed with a cough, a pain in her bowels, a coma, great sensibility of her eyes to light, costiveness, and a suppression of urine, a slow and irregular, but tense pulse, dilated pupils, but no head-ach. i found, upon inquiry, that she had received a hurt on her head by a fall, about seven weeks before i saw her. from this information, as well as from her symptoms, i had no doubt of the disease being the internal dropsy of the brain. i advised the loss of five ounces of blood, which gave her some relief. the blood was sizy. the next day she took a dose of jalap and calomel, which operated twelve times. on the 18th she lost four ounces more of blood, which was more sizy than that drawn on the 15th. from this time she mended rapidly. her coma left her on the 20th, and her appetite returned; on the 21st she made a large quantity of turbid dark coloured urine. on the 22d her pulse became again a little tense, for which she took a gentle puke. on the 23d she had a natural stool. on the 24th her pupils appeared to be contracted to their natural size, and on the 30th i had the pleasure of seeing her seated at a tea-table in good health. her pulse notwithstanding, was a little more active and tense than natural. case ii. on the 24th of the same month, i was called to visit the son of john cypher, in south-street, aged four years, who had been hurt about a month before, by a wound on his forehead with a brick-bat, the mark of which still appeared. he had been ill for near two weeks with coma, head-ach, colic, vomiting, and frequent startings in his sleep. his evacuations by stool and urine were suppressed; he had discharged three worms, and had had two convulsion fits just before i saw him. the pupil of the right eye was larger than that of the left. his pulse was full, tense, and slow, and intermitted every _fourth_ stroke. the symptoms plainly indicated an internal dropsy of the brain. i ordered him to lose four or five ounces of blood. but three ounces of blood were drawn, which produced a small change in his pulse. it rendered the intermission of a pulsation perceptible only after every tenth stroke. on the 25th he lost five ounces of blood, and took a purge of calomel and jalap. on the 26th he was better. on the 27th the vomiting was troublesome, and his pulse was still full and tense, but regular. i ordered him to lose four ounces of blood. on the 28th his puking and head-ach continued; his pulse was a little tense, but regular; and his right pupil less dilated. on the 29th his head-ach and puking ceased, and he played about the room. on the 4th of december he grew worse; his head-ach and puking returned, with a hard pulse, for which i ordered him to lose five ounces of blood. on the 5th he was better, but on the 6th his head-ach and puking returned. on the 7th i ordered his forehead to be bathed frequently with vinegar, in which ice had been dissolved. on the 8th he was much better. on the 9th his pulse became soft, and he complained but little of head-ach. after appearing to be well for near three weeks, except that he complained of a little head-ach, on the 29th his pulse became again full and tense, for which i ordered him to lose six ounces of blood, which for the first time discovered a buffy coat. after this last bleeding, he discharged a large quantity of water. from this time he recovered slowly, but his pulse was a little fuller than natural on the 19th of january following. he afterwards enjoyed good health. cases iii. and iv. in the month of march, 1792, i attended two children of three years of age, the one the daughter of william king, the other the daughter of william blake: each of whom had most of the symptoms of the inflammatory stage of the internal dropsy of the brain. i prescribed the loss of four ounces of blood, and a smart purge in both cases, and in the course of a few days had the pleasure of observing all the symptoms of the disease perfectly subdued in each of them. case v. in the months of july and august, 1792, i attended a female slave of mrs. oneal, of st. croix, who had an obstinate head-ach, coma, vomiting, and a tense, full, and _slow_ pulse. i believed it to be the phrenicula, or internal dropsy of the brain, in its inflammatory stage. i bled her five times in the course of two months, and each time with obvious relief of all the symptoms of the disease. finding that her head-ach, and a disposition to vomit, continued after the tension of her pulse was nearly reduced, i gave her as much calomel as excited a gentle salivation, which in a few weeks completed her cure. case vi. the daughter of robert moffat, aged eight years, in consequence of the suppression of a habitual discharge from sores on her head, in the month of april, 1793, was affected by violent head-ach, puking, great pains and weakness in her limbs, and a full, tense, and _slow_ pulse. i believed these symptoms to be produced by an inflammation of the brain. i ordered her to lose six or seven ounces of blood, and gave her two purges of jalap and calomel, which operated very plentifully. i afterwards applied a blister to her neck. in one week from the time of my first visit to her she appeared to be in perfect health. case vii. a young woman of eighteen years of age, a hired servant in the family of mrs. elizabeth smith, had been subject to a head-ach every spring for several years. the unusually warm days which occurred in the beginning of april, 1793, produced a return of this periodical pain. on the eighth of the month, it was so severe as to confine her to her bed. i was called to visit her on the ninth. i found her comatose, and, when awake, delirious. her pupils were unusually dilated, and insensible to the light. she was constantly sick at her stomach, and vomited frequently. her bowels were obstinately costive, and her pulse was full, tense, and so slow as seldom to exceed, for several days, from 56 to 60 strokes in a minute. i ordered her to lose ten ounces of blood every day, for three days successively, and gave her, on each of those days, strong doses of jalap and aloes. the last blood which was drawn from her was sizy. the purges procured from three to ten discharges every day from her bowels. on the 12th, she appeared to be much better. her pulse was less tense, and beat 80 strokes in a minute. on the 14th, she had a fainting fit. on the 15th, she sat up, and called for food. the pupils of her eyes now recovered their sensibility to light, as well as their natural size. her head-ach left her, and, on the 17th, she appeared to be in good health. her pulse, however, continued to beat between 50 and 60 strokes in a minute, and retained a small portion of irregular action for several days after she recovered. i am the more disposed to pronounce the cases which have been described to have been internal dropsy of the brain, from my having never been deceived in a single case in which i have examined the brains of patients whom i have suspected to have died of it. i could add many other cases to those which have been related, but enough, i hope, have been mentioned to establish the safety and efficacy of the remedies that have been recommended. i believe, with dr. quin, that this disease is much more frequent than is commonly supposed. i can recollect many cases of anomalous fever and head-ach in children, which have excited the most distressing apprehensions of an approaching internal dropsy of the brain, but which have yielded in a few days to bleeding, or to purges and blisters. i think it probable, that some, or perhaps most of these cases, might have terminated in an effusion of water in the brain, had they been left to themselves, or not been treated with the above remedies. i believe further, that it is often prevented by all those physicians who treat the first stage of febrile diseases in children with evacuations, just as the pulmonary consumption is prevented by bleeding, and low diet, in an inflammatory catarrh. where blood-letting has failed of curing this disease, i am disposed to ascribe it to its being used less copiously than the disease required. if its relation to pneumonicula be the same in its cure, that i have supposed it to be in its cause, then i am persuaded, that the same excess in blood-letting is indicated in it, above what is necessary in phrenitis, that has been practised in pneumonicula, above what is necessary in the cure of an acute inflammation of the lungs. the continuance, and, in some instances, the increase of the appetite in the internal dropsy of the brain, would seem to favour this opinion no less in this disease, than in the inflammatory state of pulmonary consumption. the extreme danger from the effusion of water into the ventricles of the brain, and the certainty of death from its confinement there, is a reason likewise why more blood should be drawn in this disease, than in diseases of the same force in other parts of the body, where the products of inflammation have a prompt, or certain outlet from the body. where the internal dropsy is obviously the effect of a fall, or of any other cause which acts _directly_ on the brain, there can be no doubt of the safety of very plentiful bleeding; all practical writers upon surgery concur in advising it. the late dr. pennington favoured me with an extract from mr. cline's manuscript lectures upon anatomy, delivered in london in the winter of 1792, which places the advantage of blood-letting, in that species of inflammation which follows a local injury of the brain, in a very strong point of light. "i know (says he) that several practitioners object to the use of evacuations as remedies for concussions of the brain, because of the weakness of the pulse; but in these cases the pulse is _depressed_. besides, experience shows, that evacuations are frequently attended with very great advantages. i remember a remarkable case of a man in this [st. thomas's] hospital, who was under the care of mr. baker. he lay in a comatose state for three weeks after an injury of the head. during that time he was bled _twenty_ times, that is to say, he was bled once every day upon an average. he was bled twice a day _plentifully_, but towards the conclusion he was bled more sparingly, and only every other day; but at each bleeding, there were taken, upon an average, about sixteen ounces of blood. in consequence of this treatment, the man perfectly recovered his health and reason." local bleeding by cups, leaches, scarifications, or arteriotomy, should be combined with venesection, or preferred to it, where the whole arterial system does not sympathize with the disease in the brain. ii. a second remedy to be used in the second stage of this disease is _purges_. i have constantly observed all the patients whose cases have been related, to be relieved by plentiful and repeated evacuations from the bowels. i was led to the use of frequent purges, by having long observed their good effects in palsies, and other cases of congestion in the brain, where blood-letting was unsafe, and where it had been used without benefit. in the leipsic commentaries[56], there is an account of a case of internal dropsy of the brain, which followed the measles, being cured by no other medicines than purges and diuretics. i can say nothing in favour of the latter remedy, in this disease, from my own experience. the foxglove has been used in this city by several respectable practitioners, but, i believe, in no instance with any advantage. [56] vol. xxix. p. 139. iii. _blisters_ have been uniformly recommended by all practical writers upon this disease. i have applied them to the head, neck, and temples, and generally with obvious relief to the pain in the head. they should be omitted in no stage of the disease; for even in its inflammatory stage, the discharge they occasion from the vessels of the head, greatly overbalances their stimulating effects upon the whole system. iv. _mercury_ was long considered as the only remedy, which gave the least chance of a recovery from a dropsy of the brain. out of all the cases in which i gave it, before the year 1790, i succeeded in but two: one of them was a child of three years old, the other was a young woman of twenty-six years of age. i am the more convinced that the latter case was internal dropsy of the brain, from my patient having relapsed, and died between two or three years afterwards, of the same disease. since i have adopted the depleting remedies which have been mentioned, i have declined giving mercury altogether, except when combined with some purging medicine, and i have given it in this form chiefly with a view of dislodging worms. my reasons for not giving it as a sialagogue are the uncertainty of its operation, its frequent inefficacy when it excites a salivation, and, above all, its disposition to produce gangrene in the tender jaws of children. seven instances of its inducing death from that cause, in children between three and eight years of age, and with circumstances of uncommon distress, have occurred in philadelphia since the year 1795. v. _linen cloths_, wetted with cold vinegar, or water, and applied to the forehead, contribute very much to relieve the pain in the head. in the case of mr. cypher's son[57], the solution of ice in the vinegar appeared to afford the most obvious relief of this distressing symptom. [57] case ii. a puncture in the brain has been proposed by some writers to discharge the water from its ventricles. if the theory i have delivered be true, the operation promises nothing, even though it could always be performed with perfect safety. in cases of local injuries, or of inflammation from any cause, it must necessarily increase the disease; and in cases of effusion only, the debilitated state of the whole system forbids us to hope for any relief from such a local remedy. bark, wine, and opium promise much more success in the last stage of the disease. i can say nothing in their favour from my own experience; but from the aid they afford to mercury in other diseases, i conceive they might be made to accompany it with advantage. considering the nature of the indirect causes which induce the disease, and the case of a relapse, which has been mentioned, after an interval of near three years, as well as the symptoms of slow convalescence, manifested by the pulse, which occurred in the first and seventh cases, i submit it to the consideration of physicians, whether the use of moderate exercise, and the cold bath, should not be recommended to prevent a return of the disease in every case, where it has yielded to the power of medicine. i have great pleasure in adding, that the theory of this disease, which i have delivered, has been adopted by many respectable physicians in philadelphia, and in other parts of the united states, and that it has led to the practice that has been recommended, particularly to copious blood-letting; in consequence of which, death from a dropsy of the brain is not a more frequent occurrence, than from any other of the acute febrile diseases of our country. observations upon the nature and cure of the _gout_. in treating upon the gout, i shall deliver a few preliminary propositions. 1. the gout is a disease of the whole system. it affects the ligaments, blood-vessels, stomach, bowels, brain, liver, lymphatics, nerves, muscles, cartilages, bones, and skin. 2. the gout is a primary disease, only of the solids. chalk-stones, abscesses, dropsical effusions into cavities, and cellular membrane, and eruptions on the skin, are all the effects of a morbid action in the blood-vessels. the truth of this proposition has been ably proved by dr. cullen in his first lines. 3. it affects most frequently persons of a sanguineous temperament; but sometimes it affects persons of nervous and phlegmatic temperaments. the idle and luxurious are more subject to it, than the labouring and temperate part of mankind. women are said to be less subject to it than men. i once believed, and taught this opinion, but i now retract it. from the peculiar delicacy of the female constitution, and from the thin covering they wear on their feet and limbs, the gout is less apt to fall upon those parts than in men, but they exhibit all its other symptoms, perhaps more frequently than men, in other parts of the body. the remote causes of gout moreover to be mentioned presently, act with equal force upon both sexes, and more of them i believe upon women, than upon men. it generally attacks in those periods of life, and in those countries, and seasons of the year, in which inflammatory diseases are most common. it seldom affects persons before puberty, or in old age, and yet i have heard of its appearing with all its most characteristic symptoms in this city in a child of 6, and in a man above 80 years of age. men of active minds are said to be most subject to it, but i think i have seen it as frequently in persons of slender and torpid intellects, as in persons of an opposite character. i have heard of a case of gout in an indian at pittsburg, and i have cured a fit of it in an indian in this city. they had both been intemperate in the use of wine and fermented liquors. 4. it is in one respect a hereditary disease, depending upon the propagation of a similar temperament from father to son. when a predisposition to the gout has been derived from ancestors, less force in exciting causes will induce it than in those habits where this has not been the case. this predisposition sometimes passes by children, and appears in grand-children. there are instances likewise in which it has passed by the males, and appeared only in the females of a family. it even appears in the descendants of families who have been reduced to poverty, but not often where they have been obliged to labour for a subsistence. it generally passes by those children who are born before the gout makes its appearance in a father. it is curious to observe how extensively the predisposition pervades some families. an english gentleman, who had been afflicted with the gout, married a young woman in philadelphia many years ago, by whom he had one daughter. his wife dying three weeks after the birth of this child, he returned to england, where he married a second wife, by whom he had six children, all of whom except one died with the gout before they attained to the usual age of matrimony in great britain. one of them died in her 16th year. finally the father and grandfather died with the same disease. the daughter whom this afflicted gentleman left in this city, passed her life subject to the gout, and finally died under my care in the year 1789, in the 68th year of her age. she left a family of children, two of whom had the gout. one of them, a lady, has suffered exquisitely from it. 5. the gout is always induced by general predisposing debility. 6. the remote causes of the gout which induce this debility, are, indolence, great bodily labour, long protracted bodily exercise, intemperance in eating, and in venery, acid aliments and drinks, strong tea and coffee, public and domestic vexation, the violent, or long continued exercise of the understanding, imagination, and passions in study, business, or pleasure, and, lastly, the use of ardent, and fermented liquors. the last are absolutely necessary to produce that form of gout which appears in the ligaments and muscles. i assert this, not only from my own observations, but from those of dr. cadogan, and dr. darwin, who say they never saw a case of gout in the limbs in any person who had not used spirits or wine in a greater or less quantity. perhaps this may be another reason why women, who drink less of those liquors than men, are so rarely affected with this disease in the extreme parts of their bodies. wines of all kinds are more disposed to produce this form of gout than spirits. the reason of this must be resolved into the less stimulus in the former, than in the latter liquors. wine appears to resemble, in its action upon the body, the moderate stimulus of miasmata which produce a common remitting fever, or intermitting fever, while spirits resemble that violent action induced by miasmata which passes by the blood-vessels, ligaments, and muscles, and invades at once the liver, bowels, and brain. there is one symptom of the gout in the extremities which seems to be produced exclusively by ardent spirits, and that is a burning in the palms of the hands, and soles of the feet. this is so uniform, that i have sometimes been able to convict my patients of intemperance in the use of spirits, when no other mark of their having taken them in _excess_, appeared in the system. i have enumerated among the remote causes of the gout, the use of strong tea. i infer its predisposing quality to that disease, from its frequency at japan, where tea is used in large quantities, and from the gout being more common among that sex in our country who drink the most, and the strongest tea. 7. the exciting causes of the gout are frequently a greater degree, or a sudden application of its remote and predisposing causes. they act upon the accumulated excitability of the system, and by destroying its equilibrium of excitement, and regular order of actions, produce convulsion, or irregular morbid and local excitement. these exciting causes are either of a stimulating, or of a sedative nature. the former are violent exercise, of body or mind, night-watching, and even sitting up late at night, a hearty meal, a fit of drunkenness, a few glasses of claret or a draught of cyder, where those liquors have not been habitual to the patient, a sudden paroxysm of joy, anger, or terror, a dislocation of a bone, straining of a joint, particularly of the ankle, undue pressure upon the foot, or leg, from a tight shoe or boot, an irritated corn, and the usual remote causes of fever. the latter exciting causes are sudden inanition from bleeding, purging, vomiting, fasting, cold, a sudden stoppage of moisture on the feet, fear, grief, excess in venery, and the debility left upon the system by the crisis of a fever. all these causes act more certainly when they are aided by the additional debility induced upon the system in sleep. it is for this reason that the gout generally makes its first attack in the night, and in a part of the system most remote from the energy of the brain, and most debilitated by exercise, viz. in the great toe, or in some part of the foot. in ascribing a fit of the gout to a cause which is of a sedative nature, the reader will not suppose that i have departed from the simplicity and uniformity of a proposition i have elsewhere delivered, that disease is the effect of stimulus. the abstraction of a natural and habitual impression of any kind, by increasing the force of those which remain, renders the production of morbid and excessive actions in the system as much the effect of preternatural or disproportioned stimulus, as if they were induced by causes that are externally and evidently stimulating. it is thus in many other of the operations of nature, opposite causes produce the same effects. 8. the gout consists simply in morbid excitement, accompanied with irregular action, or the absence of all action from the force of stimulus. there is nothing specific in the morbid excitement and actions which take place in the gout different from what occur in fevers. it is to be lamented that a kind of metastasis of error has taken place in pathology. the rejection of a specific acrimony as the cause of each disease, has unfortunately been followed by a belief in as many specific actions as there are different forms and grades of disease, and thus perpetuated the evils of our ancient systems of medicine. however varied morbid actions may be by their causes, seats, and effects, they are all of the same nature, and the time will probably come when the whole nomenclature of morbid actions will be absorbed in the single name of disease. i shall now briefly enumerate the symptoms of the gout, as they appear in the ligaments, the blood-vessels, the viscera, the nervous system, the alimentary canal, the lymphatics, the skin, and the bones of the human body, and here we shall find that it is an epitome of all disease. i. the ligaments which connect the bones are the seats, of what is called a legitimate or true gout. they are affected with pain, swelling, and inflammation. the pain is sometimes so acute as to be compared to the gnawing of a dog. we perceive here the sameness of the gout with the rheumatism. many pages, and indeed whole essays, have been composed by writers to distinguish them, but they are exactly the same disease while the morbid actions are confined to this part of the body. they are, it is true, produced by different remote causes, but this constitutes no more difference in their nature, than is produced in a coal of fire, whether it be inflamed by a candle, or by a spark of electricity. the morbid actions which are induced by the usual causes of rheumatism affect, though less frequently, the lungs, the trachea, the head, the bowels, and even the heart, as well as the gout. those actions, moreover, are the means of a fluid being effused, which is changed into calcareous matter in the joints and other parts of the body, exactly like that which is produced by the gout. they likewise twist and dislocate the bones in common with the gout, in a manner to be described hereafter. the only difference between what are called gouty, and rheumatic actions, consists in their seats, and in the degrees of their force. the debility which predisposes to the gout, being greater, and more extensively diffused through the body than the debility which precedes rheumatism, the morbid actions, in the former case, pass more readily from external to internal parts, and produce in both more acute and more dangerous effects. a simile derived from the difference in the degrees of action produced in the system by marsh miasmata, made use of upon a former occasion, will serve me again to illustrate this part of our subject. a mild remittent, and a yellow fever, are different grades of the same disease. the former, like the rheumatism, affects the bones chiefly with pain, while the latter, like the gout, affects not only the bones, but the stomach, bowels, brain, nerves, lymphatics, and all the internal parts of the body. ii. in the arterial system the gout produces fever. this fever appears not only in the increased force or frequency of the pulse, but in morbid affections of all the viscera. it puts on all the different grades of fever, from the malignity of the plague, to the mildness of a common intermittent. it has moreover its regular exacerbations and remissions once in every four and twenty hours, and its crisis usually on the fourteenth day, in violent cases. in moderate attacks, it runs on from twenty to forty days in common with the typhus or slow chronic state of fever. it is common for those persons who consider the gout as a specific disease, when it appears in the above forms, to say, that it is complicated with fever; but this is an error, for there can exist but one morbid action in the blood-vessels at once, and the same laws are imposed upon the morbid actions excited in those parts of the body by the remote causes of the gout, as by the common causes of fever. i have seen two instances of this disease appearing in the form of a genuine hectic, and one in which it appeared to yield to lunar influence, in the manner described by dr. balfour. in the highly inflammatory state of the gout, the sensibility of the blood-vessels far exceeds what is seen in the same state of fever from more common causes. i have known an instance in which a translation of the gouty action to the eye produced such an exquisite degree of sensibility, that the patient was unable to bear the feeble light which was emitted from a few coals of fire in his room, at a time too when the coldness of the weather would have made a large fire agreeable to him. it is from the extreme sensibility which the gout imparts to the stomach, that the bark is so generally rejected by it. i knew a british officer who had nearly died from taking a spoonful of the infusion of that medicine, while his arterial system was in this state of morbid excitability, from a fit of the gout. it is remarkable that the gout is most disposed to assume a malignant character, during the prevalence of an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere. this has been long ago remarked by dr. huxham. several instances of it have occurred in this city since the year 1793. iii. the gout affects most of the viscera. in the brain it produces head-ach, vertigo, coma, apoplexy, and palsy. in the lungs it produces pneumonia vera, notha, asthma, hã¦moptysis, pulmonary consumption, and a short hecking cough, first described by dr. sydenham. in the throat it produces inflammatory angina. in the uterus it produces hã¦morrhagia uterina. it affects the kidneys with inflammation, strangury, diabetes, and calculi. the position of the body for weeks or months on the back, by favouring the compression of the kidneys by the bowels, is the principal reason why those parts suffer so much in gouty people. the strangury appears to be produced by the same kind of engorgement or choking of the vessels of the kidneys, which takes place in the small-pox and yellow fever. four cases of it are described in the 3d volume of the physical and literary essays of edinburgh, by dr. david clerk. i have seen one instance of death in an old man from this cause. the catheter brought no water from his bladder. the late mr. john penn, formerly governor of pennsylvania, i have been informed by one of his physicians, died from a similar affection in his kidneys from gout. the catheter was as ineffectual in giving him relief, as it was in the case of my patient. the neck of the bladder sometimes becomes the seat of the gout. it discovers itself by spasm, and a suppression of urine in some cases, and occasionally by a habitual discharge of mucus through the urethra. this disease has been called, by lieutaud, "a catarrh of the bladder." dr. stoll describes it, and calls it "hã¦morrhoids of the bladder." but of all the viscera, the liver suffers most from the gout. it produces in it inflammation, suppuration, melena, schirrus, gall-stones, jaundice, and a habitual increased secretion and excretion of bile. these affections of the liver appear most frequently in southern countries, and in female habits. they are substitutes for a gout in the ligaments, and in the extremities of the body. they appear likewise in drunkards from ardent spirits. it would seem that certain stimuli act specifically upon the liver, probably for the wise purpose of discharging such parts of the blood from the body, as are vitiated by the rapidity of its circulation. i shall, in another place[58], take notice of the action of marsh miasmata upon the livers of men and beasts. it has been observed that hogs that live near brewhouses, and feed upon the fermented grains of barley, always discover enlarged or diseased livers. but a determination of the blood to the liver, and an increased action of its vessels, are produced by other causes than marsh miasmata, and fermented and distilled liquors. they appear in the fever which accompanies madness and the malignant sore-throat, also in contusions of the brain, and in the excited state of the blood-vessels which is produced by anger and exercise. i have found an attention to these facts useful in prescribing for diseases of the liver, inasmuch as they have led me from considering them as idiopathic affections, but as the effects only of morbid actions excited in other parts of the body. [58] volume iv. iv. the gout sometimes affects the arterial and nervous systems _jointly_, producing in the brain, coma, vertigo, apoplexy, palsy, loss of memory, and madness, and in the _nerves_, hysteria, hypochondriasis, and syncope. it is common to say the gout counterfeits all these diseases. but this is an inaccurate mode of speaking. all those diseases have but one cause, and they are exactly the same, however different the stimulus may be, from which they are derived. sometimes the gout affects the brain and nerves exclusively, without producing the least morbid action in the blood-vessels. i once attended a gentleman from barbadoes who suffered, from this affection of his brain and nerves, the most intolerable depression of spirits. it yielded to large doses of wine, but his relief was perfect, and more durable, when a pain was excited by nature or art, in his hands or feet. the muscles are sometimes affected by the gout with spasm, with general and partial convulsions, and lastly with great pain. dr. stoll describes a case of opisthotonos from it. the angina pectoris, or a sudden inability to breathe after climbing a hill, or a pair of stairs, and after a long walk, is sometimes a symptom of the gout. there is a pain which suddenly pervades the head, breast, and limbs, which resembles an electric shock. i have known two instances of it in gouty patients, and have taken the liberty of calling it the "aura arthritica." but the pain which affects the muscles is often of a more permanent nature. it is felt with most severity in the calves of the legs. sometimes it affects the muscles of the head, breast, and limbs, exciting in them large and distressing swellings. but further; the gout in some cases seizes upon the tendons, and twists them in such a manner as to dislocate bones in the hands and feet. it even affects the cartilages. of this i once saw an instance in colonel adams, of the state of maryland. the external parts of both his ears were so much inflamed in a fit of the gout, that he was unable to lie on either of his sides. v. the gout affects the alimentary canal, from the stomach to its termination in the rectum. flatulency, sickness, acidity, indigestion, pain, or vomiting, usually usher in a fit of the disease. the sick head-ach, also dyspepsia, with all its train of distressing evils, are frequently the effects of gout concentrated in the stomach. i have seen a case in which the gout, by retreating to this viscus, produced the same burning sensation which is felt in the yellow fever. the patient who was the subject of this symptom died two days afterwards with a black vomiting. it was mr. patterson, formerly collector of the port of philadelphia, under the british government. i was not surprised at these two uncommon symptoms in the gout, for i had long been familiar with its disposition to affect the biliary secretion, and the actions of the stomach. the colic and dysentery are often produced by the gout in the bowels. in the southern states of america, it sometimes produces a chronic diarrh[oe]a, which is known in some places by the name of the "downward consumption." the piles are a common symptom of gout, and where they pour forth blood occasionally, render it a harmless disease. i have known an instance in which a gouty pain in the rectum produced involuntary stools in a gentleman in this city, and i have heard from a southern gentleman, who had been afflicted with gouty symptoms, that a similar pain was excited in the same part to such a degree, whenever he went into a crowded room lighted by candles, as to oblige him to leave it. in considering the effects of the gout upon this part, i am led to take notice of a troublesome itching in the anus which has been described by dr. lettsom, and justly attributed by him to this disease[59]. i have known several cases of it. they always occurred in gouty habits. a distressing collection of air in the rectum, which renders frequent retirement from company necessary to discharge it, is likewise a symptom of gout. it is accompanied with frequent, and small, but hard stools. [59] medical memoirs, vol. iii. of the above morbid affections of the nerves, stomach, and bowels, the hysteria, the sick head-ach, and the colic, appear much oftener in women than in men. i have said that dyspepsia is a symptom of gout. out of more than 500 persons who were the patients of the liverpool infirmary and dispensary, in one year, dr. currie informs us, "a great majority were females[60]." [60] medical reports on the effects of hot and cold water, p. 215. vi. the gout affects the glands and lymphatics. it produced a salivation of a profuse nature in major pearce butler, which continued for two days. it produced a bubo in the groin in a citizen of philadelphia. he had never been infected with the venereal disease, of course no suspicion was entertained by me of its being derived from that cause. i knew a lady who had periodical swellings in her breasts, at the same season of the year in which she had before been accustomed to have a regular fit of the gout. the scrophula and all the forms of dropsy are the effects in many cases of the disposition of the gout to attack the lymphatic system. there is a large hard swelling without pain, of one, or both the legs and thighs, which has been called a dropsy, but is very different from the common disease of that name. it comes on, and goes off suddenly. it has lately been called in england the _dumb_ gout. in the spring of 1798 i attended colonel innes, of virginia, in consultation with my edinburgh friend and fellow-student, dr. walter jones, of the same state. the colonel had large anasarcous swellings in his thighs and legs, which we had reason to believe were the effects of an indolent gout. we made several punctures in his feet and ancles, and thereby discharged a large quantity of water from his legs and thighs. a day or two afterwards his ancles exhibited in pain and inflammation, the usual form of gout in those parts. in the year 1794 i attended mrs. lloyd jones, who had a swelling of the same kind in her foot and leg. her constitution, habits, and the sober manners of her ancestors, gave me no reason to suspect it to arise from the usual remote causes of gout. she was feverish, and her pulse was tense. i drew ten ounces of blood from her, and gave her a purge. the swelling subsided, but it was succeeded by an acute rheumatic pain in the part, which was cured in a few days. i mention these facts as an additional proof of the sameness of the gout and rheumatism, and to show that the vessels in a simple disease, as well as in malignant fevers, are often oppressed beyond that point in which they emit the sensation of pain. under this head i shall include an account of the mucous discharge from the urethra, which sometimes takes place in an attack of the gout, and which has ignorantly been ascribed to a venereal gonorrhã¦a. there is a description of this symptom of the gout in the 3d volume of the physical and literary essays of edinburgh, by dr. clark. it was first taken notice of by sauvages by the name of "gonorrhã¦a podagrica," in a work entitled pathologia methodica. i have known three instances of it in this city. in the visits which the gout pays to the genitals, it sometimes excites great pain in the testicles. dr. whytt mentions three cases of this kind. one of them was attended with a troublesome itching of the scrotum. i have seen one case in which the testicles were affected with great pain, and the penis with an obstinate priapism. they succeeded a sudden translation of the gout from the bowels. from the occasional disposition of the gout to produce a mucous discharge from the urethra in men, it is easy to conceive that it is the frequent cause of the fluor albus in women, for in them, the gout which is restrained from the feet, by a cause formerly mentioned, is driven to other parts, and particularly to that part which, from its offices, is more disposed to invite disease to it, than any other. the fluor albus sometimes occurs in females, apparently of the most robust habits. in such persons, more especially if they have been descended from gouty ancestors, and have led indolent and luxurious lives, there can be no doubt but the disease is derived from the gout, and should be treated with remedies which act not only upon the affected part, but the whole system. an itching similar to that i formerly mentioned in the anus, sometimes occurs in the vagina of women. dr. lettsom has described it. in all the cases i have known of it, i believe it was derived from the usual causes of the gout. vii. there are many records in the annals of medicine of the gout affecting the skin. the erysipelas, gangrene, and petechiã¦ are its acute, and tetters, and running sores are its usual chronic forms when it appears in this part of the body. i attended a patient with the late dr. hutchinson, in whom the whole calf of one leg was destroyed by a mortification which succeeded the gout. dr. alexander, of baltimore, informed me that petechiã¦ were among the last symptoms of this disease in the rev. mr. oliver, who died in the town of baltimore, about two years ago. in the disposition of the gout to attack external parts, it sometimes affects the eyes and ears with the most acute and distressing inflammation and pain. i hesitate the less in ascribing them both to the gout, because they not only occur in gouty habits, but because they now and then effuse a calcareous matter of the same nature with that which is found in the ligaments of the joints. viii. even the bones are not exempted from the ravages of this disease. i have before mentioned that the bones of the hands and feet are sometimes dislocated by it. i have heard of an instance in which it dislocated the thigh bone. it probably produced this effect by the effusion of that part of the blood which constitutes chalk-stones, or by an excrescence of flesh in the cavity of the joint. two instances have occurred in this city of its dislodging the teeth, after having produced the most distressing pains in the jaws. the long protracted, and acute pain in the face, which has been so accurately described by dr. fothergill, probably arises wholly from the gout acting upon the bones of the part affected. i have more than once hinted at the sameness of some of the states of the gout, and the yellow fever. who can compare the symptoms and seats of both diseases, and not admit the unity of the remote and immediate causes of fever? thus have i enumerated proofs of the gout being a disease of the _whole_ system. i have only to add under this proposition, that it affects different parts of the body in different people, according to the nature of their congenital or acquired temperaments, and that it often passes from one part of the body to another in the twinkling of an eye. the morbid excitement, and actions of the gout, when seated in the ligaments, the blood-vessels, and viscera, and left to themselves, produce effects different in their nature, according to the parts in which they take place. in the viscera they produce congestions composed of all the component parts of the blood. from the blood-vessels which terminate in hollow cavities and in cellular membrane, they produce those effusions of serum which compose dropsies. from the same vessels proceed those effusions which produce on the skin erysipelas, tetters, and all the different kinds of eruptions. in the ligaments they produce an effusion of coagulable lymph, which by stagnation is changed into what are called chalk-stones. in the urinary organs they produce an effusion of particles of coagulable lymph or red blood, which, under certain circumstances, are changed into sand, gravel, and stone. all these observations are liable to some exceptions. there are instances in which chalk-stones have been found in the lungs, mouth, on the eye-lids, and in the passages of the ears, and a preternatural flux of water and blood has taken place from the kidneys. pus has likewise been formed in the joints, and air has been found in the cavity of the belly, instead of water. sometimes the gout is said to combine with the fevers which arise from cold and miasmata. we are not to suppose from this circumstance, that the system is under a twofold stimulus. by no means. the symptoms which are ascribed to the gout, are the effects of morbid excitement excited by the cold, or miasmata acting upon parts previously debilitated by the usual remote causes of that disease. a bilious diathesis in the air so often excites the peculiar symptoms of gout, in persons predisposed to it, that it has sometimes been said to be epidemic. this was the case, dr. stoll says, in vienna, in the years 1782 and 1784. the same mixture of gouty and bilious symptoms was observed by dr. hillary, in the fevers of barbadoes. from a review of the symptoms of the gout, the impropriety of distinguishing it from its various seats, by specific names, must be obvious to the reader. as well might we talk of a yellow fever in the brain, in the nerves, or in the groin, when its symptoms affect those parts, as talk of _misplaced_ or _retrocedent_ gout. the great toe, and the joints of the hands and feet, are no more its exclusive seats, than the "stomach is the throne of the yellow fever." in short, the gout may be compared to a monarch whose empire is unlimited. the whole body crouches before it. it has been said as a reflection upon our profession, that physicians are always changing their opinions respecting chronic diseases. for a long while they were all classed under the heads of nervous, or bilious. these names for many years afforded a sanctuary for the protection of fraud and error in medicine. they have happily yielded of late years to the name of gout. if we mean by this disease a primary affection of the joints, we have gained nothing by assuming that name; but if we mean by it a disease which consists simply of morbid excitement, invited by debility, and disposed to invade every part of the body, we conform our ideas to facts, and thus simplify theory and practice in chronic diseases. i proceed now to treat of the method of cure. let not the reader startle when i mention curing the gout. it is not a sacred disease. there will be no profanity in handling it freely. it has been cured often, and i hope to deliver such directions under this head, as will reduce it as much under the power of medicine, as a pleurisy or an intermitting fever. let not superstition say here, that the gout is the just punishment of folly, and vice, and that the justice of heaven would be defeated by curing it. the venereal disease is more egregiously the effect of vice than the gout, and yet heaven has kindly directed human reason to the discovery of a remedy which effectually eradicates it from the constitution. this opinion of the gout being a curable disease, is as humane as it is just. it is calculated to prompt to early application for medical aid, and to prevent that despair of relief which has contributed so much to its duration, and mortality. but does not the gout prevent other diseases, and is it not improper upon this account to cure it? i answer, that it prevents other diseases, as the daily use of drams prevents the intermitting fever. in doing this, they bring on a hundred more incurable morbid affections. the yellow fever carried off many chronic diseases in the year 1793, and yet who would wish for, or admit such a remedy for a similar purpose? the practice of encouraging, and inviting what has been called a "friendly fit" of the gout as a cure for other diseases, resembles the practice of school boys who swallow the stones of cherries to assist their stomachs in digesting that delicate fruit. it is no more necessary to produce the gout in the feet, in order to cure it, than it is to wait for, or encourage abscesses or natural hã¦morrhages, to cure a fever. the practice originated at a time when morbific matter was supposed to be the cause of the gout, but it has unfortunately continued under the influence of theories which have placed the seat of the disease in the solids. the remedies for the gout naturally divide themselves into the following heads. i. such as are proper in its approaching, or forming state. ii. such as are proper in _violent_ morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera. iii. such as are proper in a _feeble_ morbid action in the same parts of the body. iv. such as are proper to relieve certain local symptoms which are not accompanied by general morbid action. and v. such as are proper to prevent its recurrence, or, in other words, to eradicate it from the system. i. the symptoms of an approaching fit of the gout are great languor, and dulness of body and mind, doziness, giddiness, wakefulness, or sleep disturbed by vivid dreams, a dryness, and sometimes a coldness, numbness, and prickling in the feet and legs, a disappearance of pimples in the face, occasional chills, acidity and flatulency in the stomach, with an increased, a weak, or a defect of appetite. these symptoms are not universal, but more or less of them usher in nearly every fit of the gout. the reader will see at once their sameness with the premonitory symptoms of fever from cold and miasmata, and assent from this proof, in addition to others formerly mentioned, to the propriety of considering a fit of the gout, as a paroxysm of fever. the system, during the existence of these symptoms, is in a state of morbid depression. the disease is as yet unformed, and may easily be prevented by the loss of a few ounces of blood, or, if this remedy be objected to, by a gentle doze of physic, and afterwards by bathing the feet in warm water, by a few drops of the spirit of hartshorn in a little sage or camomile tea, by a draught of wine whey, or a common doze of liquid laudanum, and, according to a late portuguese physician, by taking a few doses of bark. it is worthy of notice, that if these remedies are omitted, all the premonitory symptoms that have been mentioned disappear as soon as the arthritic fever is formed, just as lassitude and chilliness yield to a paroxysm of fever from other causes. ii. of the remedies that are proper in cases of great morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera. i shall begin this head by repudiating the notion of a specific cure for the gout existing in any single article of the materia medica. every attempt to cure it by elixirs, diet-drinks, pills, or boluses, which were intended to act singly on the system, has been as unsuccessful as the attempts to cure the whooping cough by spells, or tricks of legerdemain. the first remedy that i shall mention for reducing great morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera, is _blood-letting_. i was first taught the safety of this remedy in the gout by reading the works of dr. lister, above thirty years ago, and i have used it ever since with great advantage. it has the sanction of dr. hoffman, dr. cullen, and many others of the first names in medicine in its favour. the usual objections to bleeding as a remedy, have been urged with more success in the gout, than in any other disease. it has been forbidden, because the gout is said to be a disease of debility. this is an error. debility is not a disease. it is only its predisposing cause. disease is preternatural strength in the state of the system now under consideration, occasioned by the abstraction of excitement from one part, and the accumulation of it in another part of the body. every argument in favour of bleeding in a pleurisy applies in the present instance, for they both depend upon the same kind of morbid action in the blood-vessels. bleeding acts moreover alike in both cases by abstracting the excess of excitement from the blood-vessels, and restoring its natural and healthy equality to every part of the system. it has been further said, that bleeding disposes to more frequent returns of the gout. this objection to the lancet has been urged by dr. sydenham, who was misled in his opinion of it, by his theory of the disease being the offspring of morbific matter. the assertion is unfounded, for bleeding in a fit of the gout has no such effect, provided the remedies to be mentioned hereafter are used to prevent it. but a fit of the gout is not singular in its disposition to recur after being once cured. the rheumatism, the pleurisy, and the intermitting fever are all equally disposed to return when persons are exposed to their remote and exciting causes, and yet we do not upon this account consider them as incurable diseases, nor do we abstain from the usual remedies which cure them. the inflammatory or violent state of the gout is said most commonly to affect the limbs. but this is far from being the case. it frequently makes its first attack upon the head, lungs, kidneys, stomach, and bowels. the remedies for expelling it from the stomach and bowels are generally of a stimulating nature. they are as improper in full habits, and in the recent state of the disease, as cordials are to drive the small-pox from the vitals to the skin. hundreds have been destroyed by them. bleeding in these cases affords the same speedy and certain relief that it does in removing pain from the stomach and bowels in the first stage of the yellow fever. colonel miles owes his life to the loss of 60 ounces of blood in an attack of the gout in his bowels, in the winter of 1795, and major butler derived the same benefit from the loss of near 30 ounces, in an attack of the gout in his stomach in the spring of 1798. i could add many more instances of the efficacy of the lancet in the gout when it affects the viscera, from my own experience, but i prefer mentioning one only from sir john floyer, which is more striking than any i have met with in its favour. he tells us, sir henry coningsby was much disposed to the palsy from the gout when he was 30 years old. by frequent bleedings, and the use of the cold bath, he recovered, and lived to be 88. during his old age, he was bled every three months. i have said, in the history of the symptoms of the gout, that it sometimes appeared in the form of a hectic fever. i have prescribed occasional bleedings in a case of this kind accompanied with a tense pulse, with the happiest effects. it confined the disease for several years wholly to the blood-vessels, and it bid fair in time to eradicate it from the system. the state of the pulse, as described in another place[61], should govern the use of the lancet in this disease. bleeding is required as much in its depressed, as in its full and chorded state. colonel miles's pulse, at the time he suffered from the gout in his bowels, was scarcely perceptible. it did not rise till after a second or third bleeding. [61] defence of blood-letting, vol. iv. some advantage may be derived from examining the blood. i have once known it to be dissolved; but for the most part i have observed it, with dr. lister, to be covered with the buffy coat of common inflammation. the arguments made use of in favour of bleeding in the diseases of old people in a former volume, apply with equal force to its use in the gout. the inflammatory state of this disease frequently occurs in the decline of life, and bleeding is as much indicated in such cases as in any other inflammatory fever. the late dr. chovet died with an inflammation in his liver from gout, in the 86th year of his age. he was twice bled, and his blood each time was covered with a buffy coat. where the gout affects the head with obstinate pain, and appears to be seated in the muscles, cupping and leeches give great relief. this mode of bleeding should be trusted in those cases only in which the morbid action is confined chiefly to the head, and appears in a feeble state in the rest of the arterial system. the advantages of bleeding in the gout, when performed under all the circumstances that have been mentioned, are as follow: 1. it removes or lessens pain. 2. it prevents those congestions and effusions which produce apoplexy, palsy, pneumonia notha, calculi in the kidneys and bladder, and chalk-stones in the hands and feet. the gravel and stone are nine times in ten, i believe, the effects of an effusion of lymph or blood from previous morbid action in the kidneys. if this disease were narrowly watched, and cured as often as it occurs, by the loss of blood, we should have but little gravel or stone among gouty people. a citizen of philadelphia died a few years ago, in the 96th year of his age, who had been subject to the strangury the greatest part of his life. his only remedy for it was bleeding. he lived free from the gravel and stone; and died, or rather appeared to fall asleep in death, from old age. dr. haller mentions a similar case in his bibliotheca medicinã¦, in which bleeding had the same happy effects. 3. it prevents the system from wearing itself down by fruitless pain and sickness, and thereby inducing a predisposition to frequent returns of the disease. 4. it shortens the duration of a fit of gout, by throwing it, not into the feet, but out of the system, and thus prevents a patient's lying upon his back for two or three months with a writhing face, scolding a wife and family of children, and sometimes cursing every servant that comes near enough to endanger the touch of an inflamed limb. besides preventing all this parade of pain and peevishness, it frequently, when assisted with other remedies to be mentioned presently, restores a man to his business and society in two or three days: a circumstance this of great importance in the public as well as private pursuits of men; for who has not read of the most interesting affairs of nations being neglected or protracted, by the principal agents in them being suddenly confined to their beds, or chairs, for weeks or months, by a fit of the gout? 2. a second remedy in the state of the gout which has been mentioned, is _purging_. sulphur is generally preferred for this purpose, but castor oil, cream of tartar, sena, jalap, rhubarb, and calomel, may all be used with equal safety and advantage. the stomach and habits of the patient should determine the choice of a suitable purge in every case. salts are generally offensive to the stomach. they once brought on a fit of the gout in dr. brown. 3. _vomits_ may be given in all those cases where bleeding is objected to, or where the pulse is only moderately active. mr. small, in an excellent paper upon the gout, in the 6th volume of the medical observations and inquiries, p. 205, containing the history of his own case, tells us that he always took a vomit upon the first attack of the gout, and that it never failed of relieving all its symptoms. the matter discharged by this vomit indicated a morbid state of the liver, for it was always a dark greenish bile, which was insoluble in water. a british lieutenant, whose misfortunes reduced him to the necessity of accepting a bed in the poor-house of this city, informed the late dr. stuben, that he had once been much afflicted with the gout, and that he had upon many occasions strangled a fit of it by the early use of an emetic. dr. pye adds his testimony to those which have been given in favour of vomits, and says further, that they do most service when they discharge an acid humour from the stomach. they appear to act in part by equalizing the divided excitement of the system, and in part by discharging the contents of the gall-bladder and stomach, vitiated by the previous debility of those organs. care should be taken not to exhibit this remedy where the gout attacks the stomach with symptoms of inflammation, or where it has a tendency to fix itself upon the brain. 4. _nitre_ may be given with advantage in cases of inflammatory action, where the stomach is not affected. 5. a fifth remedy is _cool_ or _cold air_. this is as safe and useful in the gout as in any other inflammatory state of fever. the affected limbs should be kept out of bed, _uncovered_. in this way mr. small says he moderated the pains of the gout in his hands and feet[62]. i have directed the same practice with great comfort, as well as advantage to my patients. even cold water has been applied with good effects to a limb inflamed by the gout. mr. blair m'clenachan taught me the safety and benefit of this remedy, by using it upon himself without the advice of a physician. it instantly removed his pain, nor was the gout translated by it to any other part of his body. it was removed in the same manner, dr. heberden tells us, by the celebrated dr. harvey from his own feet. perhaps it would be best in most cases to prefer cool, or cold air, to cold water. the safety and advantages of both these modes of applying cold to the affected limbs, show the impropriety of the common practice of wrapping them in flannel. [62] medical observations and inquiries, vol vi. p. 201. 6. _diluting liquors_, such as are prescribed in common inflammatory fevers, should be given in such quantities as to dispose to a gentle perspiration. 7. _abstinence from wine, spirits, and malt liquors_, also from such aliments as afford much nourishment or stimulus, should be carefully enjoined. sago, panada, tapioca, diluted milk with bread, and the pulp of apples, summer fruits, tea, coffee, weak chocolate, and bread soaked in chicken water or beef tea, should constitute the principal diet of patients in this state of the gout. 8. _blisters_ are an invaluable remedy in this disease, when used at a proper time, that is, after the reduction of the morbid actions in the system by evacuations. they should be applied to the joints of the feet and wrists in general gout, and to the neck and sides, when it attacks the head or breast. a strangury from the gout is no objection to their use. so far from increasing this complaint, dr. clark and dr. whytt inform us, that they remove it[63]. but the principal advantage of blisters is derived from their collecting and concentrating scattered and painful sensations, and conveying them out of the system, and thus becoming excellent substitutes for a tedious fit of the gout. [63] physical and literary essays, vol. iii. p. 469. 9. _fear_ and _terror_ have in some instances cured a paroxysm of this disease. a captain of a british ship of war, who had been confined for several weeks to his cabin, by a severe fit of the gout in his feet, was suddenly cured by hearing the cry of fire on board his ship. this fact was communicated to me by a gentleman who was a witness of it. many similar cases are upon record in books of medicine. i shall in another place insert an account of one in which the cure effected by a fright, eradicated the disease from the system so completely, as ever afterwards to prevent its return. thus have i enumerated the remedies which are proper in the gout when it affects the blood-vessels and viscera with great morbid action. most of those remedies are alike proper when the morbid actions are seated in the muscular fibres, whether of the bowels or limbs, and whether they produce local pain, or general convulsion, provided they are of a violent nature. there are some remedies under this head of a doubtful nature, on which i shall make a few observations. _sweating_ has been recommended in this state of the gout. all the objections to it in preference to other modes of depletion, mentioned in another place[64], apply against its use in the inflammatory state of the gout. it is not only less safe than bleeding, purging, and abstinence, but it is often an impracticable remedy. the only sudorific medicine to be trusted in this state of the disease is the seneka snake-root. it promotes all the secretions and excretions, and exerts but a feeble stimulus upon the arterial system. [64] defence of blood-letting. many different preparations of _opium_ have been advised in this state of the gout. they are all hurtful if given before the morbid action of the system is nearly reduced. it should then be given in small doses accommodated to the excitability of the system. applications of various kinds to the affected limbs have been used in a fit of the gout, and some of them with success. the late dr. chalmers of south-carolina used to meet the pain of the gout as soon as it fixed in any of his limbs, with a blister, and generally removed it by that means in two or three days. i have imitated this practice in several cases, and always with success, nor have i ever seen the gout thrown upon any of the viscera by means of this remedy. caustics have sometimes been applied to gouty limbs with advantage. the moxa described and used by sir william temple, which is nothing but culinary fire, has often not only given relief to a pained limb, but carried off a fit of the gout in a few hours. these powerful applications may be used with equal advantage in those cases in which the gout by falling upon the head produces coma, or symptoms of apoplexy. a large caustic to the neck roused mr. john m. nesbit from a coma in which he had lain for three days, and thereby appeared to save his life. blisters, and cataplasms of mustard, had been previously used to different parts of his body, but without the least effect. in cases of moderate pain, where a blister has been objected to, i have seen a cabbage leaf afford considerable relief. it produces a moisture upon the part affected, without exciting any pain. an old sea captain taught me to apply molasses to a limb inflamed or pained by the gout. i have frequently advised it, and generally with advantage. all volatile and stimulating liniments are improper, for they not only endanger a translation of the morbid excitement to the viscera, but where they have not this effect, they increase the pain and inflammation of the part affected. the sooner a patient exercises his lower limbs by walking, after a fit of the gout, the better. "i made it a constant rule (says mr. small) to walk abroad as soon as the inflammatory state of the gout was past, and though by so doing, i often suffered great pain, i am well convinced that the free use i now enjoy of my limbs is chiefly owing to my determined perseverance in the use of that exercise; nor am i less persuaded that nine in ten of gouty cripples owe their lameness more to indolence, and fear of pain, than to the genuine effects of the gout[65]." sir william temple confirms the propriety of mr. small's opinion and practice, by an account of an old man who obviated a fit of the gout as often as he felt it coming in his feet, by walking in the open air, and afterwards by going into a warm bed, and having the parts well rubbed where the pain began. "by following this course (he says) he was never laid up with the gout, and before his death recommended the same course to his son if ever he should fall into that accident." under a conviction of the safety of this practice the same author concludes the history of his own case in the following words: "i favoured it [viz. the swelling in my feet] all this while more than i needed, upon the common opinion, that walking too much might draw down the humour, which i have since had reason to conclude is a great mistake, and that if i had walked as much as i could from the first day the pain left me, the swelling might have left me too in a much less time[66]." [65] medical observations and inquiries, vol. vi. p. 220. [66] essay upon the cure of the gout by moxa, vol. i. folio edition, p. 143 and 141. iii. i come now to mention the remedies which are proper in that state of the gout in which a _feeble_ morbid action takes place in the blood-vessels and viscera. i shall begin this head, by remarking, that this state of the gout is often created, like the typhus state of fever, by the neglect, or too scanty use of evacuations in its first stage. when the prejudices which now prevent the adoption of those remedies in their proper time, are removed, we shall hear but little of the low state of the arthritic fever, nor of the numerous diseases from obstruction which are produced by the blood-vessels disorganizing the viscera, by repeated and violent attacks of the disease. to determine the character of a paroxysm of gout and the remedies proper to relieve it, the climate, the season of the year, the constitution of the atmosphere, and the nature of the prevailing epidemic, should be carefully attended to by a physician. but his principal dependence should be placed upon the state of the pulse. if it do not discover the marks which indicate bleeding formerly referred to, but is weak, quick, and soft, the remedies should be such as are calculated to produce a more vigorous, and equable action in the blood-vessels and viscera. they are, 1. _opium._ it should at first be given in small doses, and afterwards increased, as circumstances may require. 2. _madeira_ or _sherry wine_ alone, or diluted with water, or in the form of whey, or rendered more cordial by having any agreeable spice infused in it. it may be given cold or warm, according to the taste of the patient, or the state of his stomach. if this medicine be rejected in all the above forms, 3. _porter_ should be given. it is often retained when no other liquor will lie upon the stomach. i think i once saved the life of mr. nesbit by this medicine. it checked a vomiting, from the gout, which seemed to be the last symptom of his departing life. if porter fail of giving relief, 4. _ardent spirits_ should be given, either alone, or in the form of grog, or toddy. cases have occurred in which a pint of brandy has been taken in the course of an hour with advantage. great benefit has sometimes been found from dr. warner's tincture, in this state of the gout. as these observations may fall into the hands of persons who may not have access to dr. warner's book, i shall here insert the receipt for preparing it. of raisins, sliced and stoned, half a pound. rhubarb, one ounce. sena, two drachms. coriander and fennel seeds, of each one drachm. cochineal, saffron, and liquorice root, each half a drachm. infuse them for ten days in a quart of french brandy, then strain it, and add a pint more of brandy to the ingredients, afterwards strain it, and mix both tinctures together. four table spoons full of this cordial are to be taken every hour, mixed with an equal quantity of water, until relief be obtained. ten drops of laudanum may be added to each dose in those cases in which the cordial does not produce its intended effects, in two or three hours. if all the different forms of ardent spirits which have been mentioned fail of giving relief, 5. from 30 drops to a tea spoonful of _ã¦ther_ should be given in any agreeable vehicle. also, 6. _volatile alkali._ from five to ten grains of this medicine should be given every two hours. 7. _aromatic substances_, such as alspice, ginger, virginia snake-root, cloves, and mace in the form of teas, have all been useful in this state of the gout. all these remedies are indicated in a more especial manner when the gout affects the stomach. they are likewise proper when it affects the bowels. the laudanum in this case should be given by way of glyster. after the vomiting was checked in mr. nesbit by means of porter, he was afflicted with a dull and distressing pain in his bowels, which was finally removed by two anodyne glysters injected daily for two or three weeks. 8. where the gout produces spasmodic or convulsive motions, the _oil of amber_ may be given with advantage. i once saw it remove for a while a convulsive cough from the gout. 9. in cases where the stomach will bear the _bark_, it should be given in large and frequent doses. it does the same service in this state of gout, that it does in the slow, or low states of fever from any other cause. where the gout appears in the form of an intermittent, the bark affords the same relief that it does in the same disease from autumnal exhalations. mr. small found great benefit from it after discharging the contents of his stomach and bowels by a dose of tartar emetic. "i do not call (says this gentleman) a fit of the gout a paroxysm, for there are several paroxysms in the fit, each of which is ushered in with a rigour, sickness at stomach, and subsequent heat. in this the gout bears a resemblance to an irregular intermittent, at least to a remitting fever, and hence perhaps the efficacy of the bark in removing the gout[67]." [67] medical observations and inquiries, vol. vi. p. 220. 10. the _warm bath_ is a powerful remedy in exciting a regular and healthy action in the sanguiferous system. where the patient is too weak to be taken out of bed, and put into a bathing tub, his limbs and body should be wrapped in flannels dipped in warm water. in case of a failure of all the above remedies, 11. a _salivation_ should be excited as speedily as possible, by means of mercury. dr. cheyne commends it in high terms. i have once used it with success. the mercury, when used in this way, brings into action an immense mass of latent excitement, and afterwards diffuses it equally through every part of the body. 12. besides these internal remedies, frictions with brandy, and volatile liniment, should be used to the stomach and bowels. blisters should be applied to parts in which congestion or pain is seated, and stimulating cataplasms should be applied to the lower limbs. the flour of mustard has been justly preferred for this purpose. it should be applied to the upper part of the foot. the reader will perceive, in the account i have given of the remedies proper in the feeble state of chronic fever, that they are the same which are used in the common typhus, or what is called nervous fever. there is no reason why they should not be the same, for the supposed two morbid states of the system are but one disease. it is agreeable in medical researches to be under the direction of principles. they render unnecessary, in many instances, the slow and expensive operations of experience, and thus multiply knowledge, by lessening labour. the science of navigation has rested upon this basis, since the discovery of the loadstone. a mariner who has navigated a ship to one distant port, is capable of conducting her to every port on the globe. in like manner, the physician who can cure one disease by a knowledge of its principles, may by the same means cure all the diseases of the human body, for their causes are the same. judgment is required, only in accommodating the force of remedies to the force of each disease. the difference in diseases which arises from their seats, from age, sex, habit, season, and climate, may be known in a short time, and is within the compass of very moderate talents. iv. were i to enumerate all the local symptoms of gout which occur without fever, and the remedies that are proper to relieve them, i should be led into a tedious digression. the reader must consult practical books for an account of them. i shall only mention the remedies for a few of them. the theory of the gout which has been delivered, will enable us to understand the reason why a disease which properly belongs to the whole system, should at any time be accompanied only with local morbid affection. the whole body is a unit, and hence morbid impressions which are resisted by sound parts are propagated to such as are weak, where they excite those morbid actions we call disease. the _head-ach_ is a distressing symptom of the gout. it yields to depleting or tonic remedies, according to the degree of morbid action which accompanies it. i have heard an instance of an old man, who was cured of an obstinate head-ach by throwing aside his nightcap, and sleeping with his bare head exposed to the night air. the disease in this case was probably attended with great morbid action. in this state of the vessels of the brain, cupping, cold applications to the head, purges, a temperate diet, and blisters behind the ears, are all proper remedies, and should be used together, or in succession, as the nature of the disease may require. many persons have been cured of the same complaint by sleeping in woollen nightcaps. the morbid action in these cases is always of a feeble nature. with this remedy, tonics, particularly the bark and cold bath, will be proper. i have once known a chronic gouty pain in the head cured by an issue in the arm, after pounds of bark, and many other tonic remedies, had been taken to no purpose. the _ophthalmia_ from gout should be treated with the usual remedies for that disease when it arises from other causes, with the addition of such local applications to other and distant parts of the body, as may abstract the gouty action from the eyes. _dull but constant pains in the limbs_ yield to frictions, volatile liniments, muslin and woollen worn next to the skin, electricity, a salivation, and the warm and cold bath. a gentleman who was afflicted with a pain of this kind for three years and a half in one of his arms, informed me, that he had been cured by wearing a woollen stocking that had been boiled with sulphur in water, for two weeks upon the affected limb. he had previously worn flannel upon it, but without receiving any benefit from it. i have known wool and cotton, finely carded, and made into small mats, worn upon the hips, when affected by gout, with great advantage. in obstinate sciatic pains, without fever or inflammation, dr. pitcairn's remedy, published by dr. cheyne, has performed many cures. it consists in taking from one to four tea-spoons full of the fine spirit of turpentine every morning, for a week or ten days, in three times the quantity of honey, and afterwards in drinking a large quantity of sack whey, to settle it on the stomach, and carry it into the blood. an anodyne should be taken every night after taking this medicine. a _gouty diarrh[oe]a_ should be treated with the usual astringent medicines of the shops. blisters to the wrists and ankles, also a salivation, have often cured it. i have heard of its being checked, after continuing for many years, by the patient eating large quantities of alspice, which he carried loose in his pocket for that purpose. the _angina pectoris_, which i have said is a symptom of the gout, generally comes on with fulness and tension in the pulse. after these are reduced by two or three bleedings, mineral tonics seldom fail of giving relief. _spasms in the stomach_, and _pains in the bowels_, often seize gouty people in the midst of business or pleasure, or in the middle of the night. my constant prescription for these complaints is ten drops of laudanum every half hour, till relief be obtained. if this medicine be taken in the forming state of these pains, a single dose generally removes the disease. it is preferable to spiced wine and spirits, inasmuch as it acts quicker, and leaves no disposition to contract a love for it when it is not required to ease pain. the _pain in the rectum_ which has been described, yields to the common remedies for the piles. cold water applied to the part, generally gives immediate relief. for a _preternatural secretion and excretion of bile_, gentle laxatives, and abstinence from oily food, full meals, and all violent exercises of the body and mind, are proper. the _itching in the anus_, which i have supposed to be a symptom of gout, has yielded in one instance that has come within my knowledge to mercurial ointment applied to the part affected. dr. lettsom recommends fomenting the part with a decoction of poppy heads and hemlock, and advises lenient purges and a vegetable diet as a radical cure for the disease[68]. [68] medical memoirs, vol. iii. for the _itching in the vagina_ i have found a solution of the sugar of lead in water to be an excellent palliative application. dr. lettsom recommends as a cure for it, the use of bark in delicate habits, and occasional bleeding, with a light and moderate diet, if it occur about the time of the cessation of the menses. obstinate _cutaneous eruptions_, which are the effects of gout, have been cured by gentle physic, a suitable diet, issues, and applications of the unguentum citrinum to the parts affected. the _arthritic gonorrh[oe]a_ should be treated with the same remedies as a gonorrh[oe]a from any other cause. in the treatment of all the local symptoms that have been enumerated, it will be of great consequence to inquire, before we attempt to cure them, whether they have not succeeded general gout, and thereby relieved the system from its effects in parts essential to life. if this have been the case, the cure of them should be undertaken with caution, and the danger of a local disease being exchanged for a general one, should be obviated by remedies that are calculated to eradicate the gouty diathesis altogether from the system. the means for this purpose, agreeably to our order, come next under our consideration. before i enter upon this head, i shall premise, that i do not admit of the seeds of the gout remaining in the body to be eliminated by art after a complete termination of one of its paroxysms, any more than i admit of the seeds of a pleurisy or intermitting fever remaining in the body, after they have been cured by blood-letting or bark. a predisposition only remains in the system to a return of the gout, from its usual remote and exciting causes. the contrary idea took its rise in those ages of medicine in which morbific matter was supposed to be the proximate cause of the gout, but it has unfortunately continued since the rejection of that theory. thus in many cases we see wrong habits continue long after the principles have been discarded, from which they were derived. i have known several instances in which art, and i have heard and read of others in which accidental suffering from abstinence, pain, and terror have been the happy means of overcoming a predisposition to the gout. a gentleman from one of the west-india islands, who had been for many years afflicted with the gout, was perfectly cured of it by living a year or two upon the temperate diet of the jail in this city, into which he was thrown for debt by one of his creditors. a large hã¦morrhage from the foot, inflamed and swelled by the gout, accidentally produced by a penknife which fell upon it, effected in an irish gentleman a lasting cure of the disease. hildanus mentions the history of a gentleman, whom he knew intimately, who was radically cured of a gout with which he had been long afflicted, by the extreme bodily pain he suffered innocently from torture in the canton of berne. he lived to be an old man, and ever afterwards enjoyed good health[69]. the following letter from my brother contains the history of a case in which terror suddenly eradicated the gout from the system. [69] observat. chirurg. cent. 1. obs. 79. "_reading_, _july 27th, 1797_. "dear brother, "when i had the pleasure of seeing you last week, i mentioned an extraordinary cure of the gout in this town, by means of a _fright_. in compliance with your request, i now send an exact narration of the facts. "peter fether, the person cured, is now alive, a householder in reading, seventy-three years of age, a native of germany, and a very hearty man. the first fit of the gout he ever had, was about the year 1773; and from that time till 1785, he had a regular attack in the spring of every year. his feet, hands, and elbows were much swollen and inflamed; the fits lasted long, and were excruciating. in particular, the last fit in 1785 was so severe, as to induce an apprehension, that it would inevitably carry him off, when he was suddenly relieved by the following accident. "as he lay in a small back room adjoining the yard, it happened that one of his sons, in turning a waggon and horses, drove the tongue of the waggon with such force against the window, near which the old man lay stretched on a bed, as to beat in the sash of the window, and to scatter the pieces of broken glass all about him. to such a degree was he alarmed by the noise and violence, that he instantly leaped out of bed, forgot that he had ever used crutches, and eagerly inquired what was the matter. his wife, hearing the uproar, ran into the room, where, to her astonishment, she found her husband on his feet, bawling against the author of the mischief, with the most passionate vehemence. from _that_ moment, he has been entirely exempt from the gout, has never had the slightest touch of it, and _now_ enjoys perfect health, has a good appetite, and says he was never heartier in his life. this is probably the more remarkable, when i add, that he has always been used to the hard work of a farm, and _since_ the year 1785 has frequently mowed in his own meadow, which i understand is low and wet. i am well informed, in his mode of living, he has been temperate, occasionally indulging in a glass of wine, after the manner of the german farmers, but not to excess. "to you, who have been long accustomed to explore diseases, i leave the task of developing the principles, on which this mysterious restoration from the lowest decrepitude and bodily wretchedness, to a state of perfect health, has been accomplished. i well know that tooth-achs, head-achs, hiccoughs, &c. are often removed by the sudden impression of fear, and that they return again. but to see a debilitated gouty frame instantly restored to vigour; to see the whole system in a moment, as it were, undergo a perfect and entire change, and the most inveterate and incurable disease _radically_ expelled, is surely a _different_ thing, and must be acknowledged a very singular and marvellous event. if an old man, languishing under disease and infirmity, had _died_ of mere fright, nobody would have been surprised at it; but that he should be absolutely cured, and his constitution renovated by it, is a most extraordinary fact, which, while i am compelled to believe by unexceptionable evidence, i am totally at a loss to account for. i am your sincerely affectionate brother, jacob rush." these facts, and many similar ones which might be mentioned, afford ample encouragement to proceed in enumerating the means which are proper to prevent the recurrence of the gout, or, in other words, to eradicate it from the system. v. i shall first mention the means of preventing the return of that state of the disease which is accompanied with _violent_ action, and afterwards take notice of the means of preventing the return of that state of it, in which a _feeble_ morbid action takes place in the blood-vessels. the means for this purpose consist in avoiding all the remote, exciting, and predisposing causes of the gout which have been mentioned. i shall say a few words upon the most important of them, in the order that has been proposed. i. the first remedy for obviating the _violent_ state of gout is, 1. _temperance._ this should be regulated in its degrees by the age, habits, and constitution of the patient. a diet consisting wholly of milk, vegetables, and simple water, has been found necessary to prevent the recurrence of the gout in some cases. but, in general, fish, eggs, the white meats and weak broths may be taken in small quantities once a day, with milk and vegetables at other times. a little salted meat, which affords less nourishment than fresh, may be eaten occasionally. it imparts vigour to the stomach, and prevents dyspepsia from a diet consisting chiefly of vegetables. the low and acid wines should be avoided, but weak madeira or sherry wine and water, or small beer, may be drunken at meals. the latter liquor was the favourite drink of dr. sydenham in his fits of the gout. strong tea and coffee should not be tasted, where there is reason to believe the habitual use of them has contributed to bring on the disease. from the disposition of the gout to return in the spring and autumn, greater degrees of abstinence in eating and drinking will be necessary at those seasons than at any other time. with this diminution of aliment, gentle purges should be taken, to obviate an attack of the gout. in persons above fifty years of age, an abstemious mode of living should be commenced with great caution. it has sometimes, when entered upon suddenly, and carried to its utmost extent, induced fits of the gout, and precipitated death. in such persons, the abstractions from their usual diet should be small, and our dependence should be placed upon other means to prevent a return of the disease. 2. _moderate labour_ and _gentle exercise_ have frequently removed that debility and vibratility in the blood-vessels, on which a predisposition to the gout depends. hundreds of persons who have been reduced by misfortunes to the necessity of working for their daily bread, have thrown off a gouty diathesis derived from their patents, or acquired by personal acts of folly and intemperance. the employments of agriculture afford the most wholesome labour, and walking, the most salutary exercise. to be useful, they should be moderate. the extremes of indolence and bodily activity meet in a point. they both induce debility, which predisposes to a recurrence of a fit of the gout. riding in a carriage, and on horseback, are less proper as a means of preventing the disease than walking. their action upon the body is partial. the lower limbs derive no benefit from it, and on these the violent state of gout generally makes its first attack. in england, many domestic exercises have been contrived for gouty people, such as shuttle-cock, bullets, the chamber-horse, and the like, but they are all trifling in their effects, compared with labour, and exercise in the open air. the efficacy of the former of those prophylactic remedies will appear in a strong point of light, when we consider, how much the operation of the remote and exciting causes of the gout which act more or less upon persons in the humblest ranks of society, are constantly counteracted in their effects, by the daily labour which is necessary for their subsistence. 3. to prevent the recurrence of the gout, cold should be carefully avoided, more especially when it is combined with moisture. flannel should be worn next to the skin in winter, and muslin in summer, in order to keep up a steady and uniform perspiration. fleecy hosiery should be worn in cold weather upon the breast and knees, and the feet should be kept constantly warm and dry by means of socks and cork-soaled shoes. it was by wetting his feet, by standing two or three hours upon the damp ground, that colonel miles produced the gout in his stomach and bowels which had nearly destroyed him in the year 1795. 4. great moderation should be used by persons who are subject to the gout in the exercise of their understandings and passions. intense study, fear, terror, anger, and even joy, have often excited the disease into action. it has been observed, that the political and military passions act with more force upon the system, than those which are of a social and domestic nature; hence generals and statesmen are so often afflicted with the gout, and that too, as was hinted in another place, in moments the most critical and important to the welfare of a nation. the combination of the exercises of the understanding, and the passion of avarice in gaming, have often produced an attack of this disease. these facts show the necessity of gouty people subjecting their minds, with all their operations, to the government of reason and religion. the understanding should be exercised only upon light and pleasant subjects. no study should ever be pursued till it brings on fatigue; and, above all things, midnight, and even late studies should be strictly avoided. a gouty man should always be in bed at an early hour. this advice has the sanction of dr. sydenham's name, and experience proves its efficacy in all chronic diseases. 5. the venereal appetite should be indulged with moderation. and, 6. costiveness should be prevented by all persons who wish to escape a return of violent fits of the gout. sulphur is an excellent remedy for this purpose. dr. cheyne commends it in high terms. his words are, "sulphur is one of the best remedies in the intervals of the gout. in the whole extent of the materia medica, i know not a more safe and active medicine[70]." two cases have come within my knowledge, in which it has kept off fits of the gout for several years, in persons who had been accustomed to have them once or twice a year. rhubarb in small quantities chewed, or in the form of pills, may be taken to obviate costiveness, by persons who object to the habitual use of sulphur. dr. cheyne, who is lavish in his praises of that medicine as a gentle laxative, says, he "knew a noble lord of great worth and much gout, who, by taking from the hands of a quack a drachm of rhubarb, tinged with cochineal to disguise it, every morning for six weeks, lived in health, for four years after, without any symptom of it[71]." [70] essay on the nature and true method of treating the gout, p. 36. [71] page 30. i have said that abstinence should be enjoined with more strictness in the spring and autumn, than at any other time, to prevent a return of the gout. from the influence of the weather at those seasons in exciting febrile actions in the system, the loss of a pint of blood will be useful in some cases for the same purpose. it will be the more necessary if the gout has not paid its habitual visits to the system. the late dr. gregory had been accustomed to an attack of the gout every spring. two seasons passed away without his feeling any symptoms of it. he began to flatter himself with a hope that the predisposition to the disease had left him. soon afterwards he died suddenly of an apoplexy. the loss of a few ounces of blood at the usual time in which the gout affected him, would probably have protracted his life for many years. in the year 1796, in visiting a patient, i was accidentally introduced into a room where a gentleman from the delaware state had been lying on his back for near six weeks with an acute fit of the gout. he gave me a history of his sufferings. his pulse was full and tense, and his whole body was covered with sweat from the intensity of his pain. he had not had his bowels opened for ten days. i advised purging and bleeding in his case. the very names of those remedies startled him, for he had adopted the opinion of the salutary nature of a fit of the gout, and therefore hugged his chains. after explaining the reason of my prescriptions, he informed me, in support of them, that he had escaped the gout but two years in twenty, and that in one of these two years he had been bled for a fall from his horse, and, in the other, his body had been reduced by a chronic fever, previously to the time of the annual visit of his gout. as a proof of the efficacy of active, or passive depletion, in preventing the gout, it has been found that persons who sweat freely, either generally or partially, or who make a great deal of water, are rarely affected by it. an epitome of all that has been said upon the means of preventing a return of the gout, may be delivered in a few words. a man who has had one fit of it, should consider himself in the same state as a man who has received the seeds of a malignant fever into his blood. he should treat his body as if it were a florence flask. by this means he will probably prevent, during his life, the re-excitement of the disease. are _issues_ proper to prevent the return of the violent state of gout? i have heard of an instance of an issue in the leg having been effectual for this purpose; but if the remedies before-mentioned be used in the manner that has been directed, so unpleasant a remedy can seldom be necessary. are _bitters_ proper to prevent a return of this state of gout? it will be a sufficient answer to this question to mention, that the duke of portland's powder, which is composed of bitter ingredients, excited a fatal gout in many people who used it for that purpose. i should as soon expect to see gold produced by the operations of fire upon copper or lead, as expect to see the gout prevented or cured by any medicine that acted upon the system, without the aid of more or less of the remedies that have been mentioned. ii. we come now, in the last place, to mention the remedies which are proper to prevent a return of that state of gout which is attended with a _feeble_ morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera. this state of gout generally occurs in the evening of life, and in persons of delicate habits, or in such as have had their constitutions worn down by repeated attacks of the disease. the remedies to prevent it are, 1. a _gently stimulating diet_, consisting of animal food well cooked, with sound old madeira or sherry wine, or weak spirit and water. salted, and even smoked meat may be taken, in this state of the system, with advantage. it is an agreeable tonic, and is less disposed to create plethora than fresh meat. pickles and vinegar should seldom be tasted. they dispose to gouty spasms in the stomach and bowels. long intervals between meals should be carefully avoided. the stomach, when overstretched or empty, is always alike predisposed to disease. there are cases in which the evils of inanition in the stomach will be prevented, by a gouty patient eating in the middle of the night. 2. the use of _chalybeate medicines_. these are more safe when used habitually, than bitters. i have long been in the practice of giving the different preparations of iron in large doses, in chronic diseases, and in that state of debility which disposes to them. a lady of a weak constitution informed dr. cheyne, that she once asked dr. sydenham how long she might safely take steel. his answer was, that "she might take it for thirty years, and then begin again if she continued ill[72]." [72] essay on the nature, and true method of treating the gout, p. 69. water impregnated with iron, either by nature or art, may be taken instead of the solid forms of the metal. it will be more useful if it be drunken in a place where patients will have the benefit of country air. 3. the habitual use of the _volatile tincture of gum guiacum_, and of other cordial and gently stimulating medicines. a clove of garlic taken once or twice a day, has been found useful in debilitated habits predisposed to the gout. it possesses a wonderful power in bringing latent excitement into action. it moreover acts agreeably upon the nervous system. mr. small found great benefit from breakfasting upon a tea made of half a drachm of ginger cut into small slices, in preventing occasional attacks of the gout in his stomach. sir joseph banks was much relieved by a diet of milk, with ginger boiled in it. the root of the sassafras of our country might probably be used with advantage for the same purpose. aurelian speaks of certain remedies for the gout which he calls "annalia[73]." the above medicines belong to this class. to be effectual, they should be persisted in, not for one year only, but for many years. [73] morborum chronicorum. lib. v. cap. 2. 4._ warmth_, uniformly applied, by means of suitable dresses, and sitting rooms, to every part of the body. 5. the _warm bath_ in winter, and the _temperate_, or _cold bath_ in summer. 6. _exercise._ this may be in a carriage, or on horseback. the viscera being debilitated in this state of predisposition to the gout, are strengthened in a peculiar manner by the gentle motion of a horse. where this or other modes of passive exercise cannot be had, frictions to the limbs and body should be used every day. 7. _costiveness_ should be avoided by taking occasionally one or two table spoons full of dr. warner's purging tincture prepared by infusing rhubarb, orange peel, and caraway seeds, of each an ounce, for three days in a quart of madeira, or any other white wine. if this medicine be ineffectual for opening the bowels, rhubarb may be taken in the manner formerly mentioned. 8. the understanding and passions should be constantly employed in agreeable studies and pursuits. fatigue of mind and body should be carefully avoided. 9. a warm climate often protracts life in persons subject to this state of gout. the citizens of rome who had worn down their constitutions by intemperance, added many years to their lives, by migrating to naples, and enjoying there, in a warmer sun, the pure air of the mediterranean, and sir william temple says the portuguese obtain the same benefit by transporting themselves to the brazils, after medicine and diet cease to impart vigour to their constitutions in their native country. thus have i enumerated the principal remedies for curing and preventing the gout. most of them are to be met with in books of medicine, but they have been administered by physicians, or taken by patients with so little regard to the different states of the system, that they have in many instances done more harm than good. solomon places all wisdom, in the management of human affairs, in finding out the proper times for performing certain actions. skill in medicine, consists in an eminent degree in timing remedies. there is a time to bleed, and a time to withhold the lancet. there is a time to give physic, and a time to trust to the operations of nature. there is a time to eat meat, and there is a time to abstain from it. there is a time to give tonic medicines, and a time to refrain from them. in a word, the cure of the gout depends wholly upon two things, viz. _proper_ remedies, in their proper _times_, and _places_. i shall take leave of this disease, by comparing it to a deep and dreary cave in a new country, in which ferocious beasts and venomous reptiles, with numerous ghosts and hobgoblins, are said to reside. the neighbours point at the entrance of this cave with horror, and tell of the many ravages that have been committed upon their domestic animals, by the cruel tenants which inhabit it. at length a school-boy, careless of his safety, ventures to enter this subterraneous cavern, when! to his great delight, he finds nothing in it but the same kind of stones and water he left behind him upon the surface of the earth. in like manner, i have found no other principles necessary to explain the cause of the gout, and no other remedies necessary to cure it, than such as are admitted in explaining the causes, and in prescribing for the most simple and common diseases. observations upon the nature and cure of the _hydrophobia_. in entering upon the consideration of this formidable disease, i feel myself under an involuntary impression, somewhat like that which was produced by the order the king of syria gave to his captains when he was conducting them to battle: "fight not with small or great, save only with the king of israel[74]." in whatever light we contemplate the hydrophobia, it may be considered as pre-eminent in power and mortality, over all other diseases. [74] ii. chron. xviii. 30. it is now many years since the distress and horror excited by it, both in patients and their friends, led me with great solicitude to investigate its nature. i have at length satisfied myself with a theory of it, which, i hope, will lead to a rational and successful mode of treating it. for a history of the symptoms of the disease, and many interesting facts connected with it, i beg leave to refer the reader to dr. mease's learned and ingenious inaugural dissertation, published in the year 1792. the remote and exciting causes of the hydrophobia are as follow: 1. the bite of a rabid animal. wolves, foxes, cats, as well as dogs, impart the disease. it has been said that blood must be drawn in order to produce it, but i have heard of a case in lancaster county, in pennsylvania, in which a severe contusion, by the teeth of the rabid animal, without the effusion of a drop of red blood, excited the disease. happily for mankind, it cannot be communicated by blood, or saliva falling upon sound parts of the body. in maryland, the negroes eat with safety the flesh of hogs that have perished from the bite of mad dogs; and i have heard of the milk of a cow, at chestertown, in the same state, having been used without any inconvenience by a whole family, on the very day in which she was affected by this disease, and which killed her in a few hours. dr. baumgarten confirms these facts by saying, that "the flesh and milk of rabid animals have been eaten with perfect impunity[75]." [75] medical commentaries, philadelphia edition, vol. 7. p. 409. in the following observations i shall confine myself chiefly to the treatment of the hydrophobia which arises from the bite of a rabid animal, but i shall add in this place a short account of all its other causes. 2. cold night air. dr. arthaud, late president of the society of philadelphians in st. domingo, has published several cases in which it was produced in negroes by sleeping all night in the open air. 3. a wound in a tendinous part. 4. putrid and impure animal food. 5. worms. 6. eating beech nuts. 7. great thirst. 8. exposure to intense heat. 9. drinking cold water when the body was very much heated. 10. a fall. 11. fear. 12. hysteria. 13. epilepsy. 14. tetanus. 15. hydrocephalus. of the presence of hydrophobia in the hydrocephalic state of fever, there have been several instances in philadelphia. 16. an inflammation of the stomach. 17. the dysentery. 18. the typhus fever. dr. trotter mentions the hydrophobia as a symptom which frequently occurred in the typhus state of fever in the british navy[76]. [76] medicina nautica, p. 301. 19. it is taken notice of likewise in a putrid fever by dr. coste[77]; and dr. griffitts observed it in a high degree in a young lady who died of the yellow fever, in 1793. [77] medical commentaries, dobson's edition, vol. ii. p. 476. 20. the bite of an angry, but not a diseased animal. 21. an involuntary association of ideas. cases of spontaneous hydrophobia from all the above causes are to be met with in practical writers, and of most of them in m. audry's learned work, entitled, "recherches sur la rage." the dread of water, from which this disease derives its name, has five distinct grades. 1. it cannot be drunken. 2. it cannot be touched. 3. the sound of it pouring from one vessel to another, 4. the sight of it, and 5. even the naming of it, cannot be borne, without exciting convulsions. but this symptom is not a universal one. dr. mead mentions three cases in which there was no dread of water, in persons who received the disease from the bite of a rabid animal. it is unfortunate for this disease, as well as many others, that a single symptom should impose names upon them. in the present instance it has done great harm, by fixing the attention of physicians so exclusively upon the dread of water which occurs in it, that they have in a great measure overlooked every other circumstance which belongs to the disease. the theory of the hydrophobia, which an examination of its causes, symptoms, and accidental cures, with all the industry i was capable of, has led me to adopt, is, that it is a _malignant state of fever_. my reasons for this opinion are as follow: 1. the disease in all rabid animals is a fever. this is obvious in dogs who are most subject to it. it is induced in them by the usual causes of fever, such as scanty or putrid aliment[78], extreme cold, and the sudden action of heat upon their bodies. proofs of its being derived from each of the above causes are to be met with in most of the authors who have written upon it. the animal matters which are rendered morbid by the action of the above causes upon them, are determined to the saliva, in which a change seems to be induced, similar to that which takes place in the perspirable matter of the human species from the operation of similar causes upon it. this matter, it is well known, is the remote cause of the jail fever. no wonder the saliva of a dog should produce a disease of the same kind, after being vitiated by the same causes, and thereby disposed to produce the same effects. [78] "animal food, in a state of putridity, is amongst the most frequent causes of canine madness." "canine madness chiefly arises from the excessive number of ill-kept and ill-fed dogs." young's annuals, vol. xvii. p. 561. 2. the disease called canine madness, prevails occasionally among dogs at those times in which malignant fevers are epidemic. this will not surprise those persons who have been accustomed to observe the prevalence of the influenza and bilious fevers among other domestic animals at a time when they are epidemic among the human species. 3. dogs, when they are said to be mad, exhibit the usual symptoms of fever, such as a want of appetite, great heat, a dull, fierce, red, or watery eye, indisposition to motion, sleepiness, delirium, and madness. the symptom of madness is far from being universal, and hence many dogs are diseased and die with this malignant fever, that are inoffensive, and instead of biting, continue to fawn upon their masters. nor is the disposition of the fever to communicate itself by infection universal among dogs any more than the same fever in the human species, and this i suppose to be one reason why many people are bitten by what are called mad dogs, who never suffer any inconvenience from it. 4. a dissection of a dog, by dr. cooper, that died with this fever, exhibited all the usual marks of inflammation and effusion which take place in common malignant fevers. i shall in another place mention a fifth argument in favour of the disease in dogs being a malignant fever, from the efficacy of one of the most powerful remedies in that state of fever, having cured it in two instances. ii. the disease produced in the human species by the bite of a rabid animal, is a _malignant_ fever. this appears first from its symptoms. these, as recorded by aurelian, mead, fothergill, plummer, arnold, baumgarten, and morgagni, are chills, great heat, thirst, nausea, a burning sensation in the stomach, vomiting, costiveness; a small, quick, tense, irregular, intermitting, natural, or slow pulse; a cool skin, great sensibility to cold air, partial cold and clammy sweats on the hands, or sweats accompanied with a warm skin diffused all over the body, difficulty of breathing, sighing, restlessness, hiccup, giddiness, head-ach, delirium, coma, false vision, dilatation of the pupils, dulness of sight, blindness, glandular swellings, heat of urine, priapism, palpitation of the heart, and convulsions. i know that there are cases of hydrophobia upon record, in which there is said to be a total absence of fever. the same thing has been said of the plague. in both cases the supposed absence of fever is the effect of stimulus acting upon the blood-vessels with so much force as to suspend morbid action in them. by abstracting a part of this stimulus, a fever is excited, which soon discovers itself in the pulse and on the skin, and frequently in pains in every part of the body. the dread of water, and the great sensibility of the system to cold air, are said to give a specific character to the hydrophobia; but the former symptom, it has been often seen, occurs in diseases from other causes, and the latter has been frequently observed in the yellow fever. it is no more extraordinary that a fever excited by the bite of a rabid animal should excite a dread of water, than that fevers from other causes should produce aversion from certain aliments, from light, and from sounds of all kinds; nor is it any more a departure from the known laws of stimulants, that the saliva of a mad dog should affect the fauces, than that mercury should affect the salivary glands. both stimuli appear to act in a specific manner. 2. the hydrophobia partakes of the character of a malignant fever, in appearing at different intervals from the time in which the infection is received into the body. these intervals are from one day to five or six months. the small-pox shows itself in intervals from eight to twenty days, and the plague and yellow fever from the moment in which the miasmata are inhaled, to nearly the same distance of time. this latitude in the periods at which infectious and contagious matters are brought into action in the body, must be resolved into the influence which the season of the year, the habits of the patients, and the passion of fear have upon them. where the interval between the time of being bitten, and the appearance of a dread of water, exceeds five or six months, it is probable it may be occasioned by a disease derived from another cause. such a person is predisposed in common with other people to all the diseases of which the hydrophobia is a symptom. the recollection of the poisonous wound he has received, and its usual consequences, is seldom absent from his mind for months or years. a fever, or an affection of his nerves from their most common causes, cannot fail of exciting in him apprehensions of the disease which usually follows the accident to which he has been exposed. his fears are then let loose upon his system, and produce in a short time a dread of water which appears to be wholly unconnected with the bite of a rabid animal. similar instances of the effects of fear upon the human body are to be met with in books of medicine. the pains produced by fear acting upon the imagination in supposed venereal infections, are as real and severe as they are in the worst state of that disease. 3. blood drawn in the hydrophobia exhibits the same appearances which have been remarked in malignant fevers. in mr. bellamy, the gentleman whose case is so minutely related by dr. fothergill, the blood discovered with "slight traces of size, _serum_ remarkably _yellow_." it was uncommonly sizy in a boy of mr. george oakley whom i saw, and bled for the first time, on the fourth day of his disease, in the beginning of the year 1797. his pulse imparted to the fingers the same kind of quick and tense stroke which is common in an acute inflammatory fever. he died in convulsions the next day. he had been bitten by a mad dog on one of his temples, three weeks before he discovered any signs of indisposition. there are several other cases upon record, of the blood exhibiting, in this disease, the same appearances as in common malignant and inflammatory fevers. 4. the hydrophobia accords exactly with malignant fevers in its duration. it generally terminates in death, according to its violence, and the habit of the patient, in the first, second, third, fourth, or fifth day, from the time of its attack, and with the same symptoms which attend the last stage of malignant fevers. 5. the body, after death from the hydrophobia, putrifies with the same rapidity that it does after death from a malignant fever in which no depletion has been used. 6. dissections of bodies which have died of the hydrophobia, exhibit the same appearances which are observed in the bodies of persons who have perished of malignant fevers. these appearances, according to morgagni and tauvry[79], are marks of inflammation in the throat, [oe]sophagus, trachea, brain, stomach, liver, and bowels. effusions of water, and congestions of blood in the brain, large quantities of dark-coloured or black bile in the gall-bladder and stomach, mortifications in the bowels and bladder, livid spots on the surface of the body, and, above all, the arteries filled with fluid blood, and the veins nearly empty. i am aware, that two cases of death from hydrophobia are related by dr. vaughan, in which no appearance of disease was discovered by dissection in any part of the body. similar appearances have occasionally been met with in persons who have died of malignant fevers. in another place i hope to prove, that we err in placing disease in inflammation, for it is one of its primary effects only, and hence, as was before remarked, it does not take place in many instances in malignant fevers, until the arteries are so far relaxed by two or three bleedings, as to be able to relieve themselves by effusing red blood into serous vessels, and thus to produce that error loci which i shall say hereafter is essential to inflammation[80]. the existence of this grade of action in the arteries may always be known by the presence of sizy blood, and by the more obvious and common symptoms of fever. [79] bibliotheque choisie de medecine, tome xv. p. 210. [80] in the 6th volume of the medical observations and inquiries, there is an account of a dissection of a person who had been destroyed by taking opium. "no morbid appearance (says mr. whateley, the surgeon who opened the body) was found in any part of the body, except that the villous coat of the stomach was very slightly inflamed." the stimulus of the opium in this case either produced an action which transcended inflammation, or destroyed action altogether by its immense force, by which means the more common morbid appearances which follow disease in a dead body could not take place. the remedies for hydrophobia, according to the principles i have endeavoured to establish, divide themselves naturally into two kinds. i. such as are proper to prevent the disease, after the infection of the rabid animal is received into the body. ii. such as are proper to cure it when formed. the first remedy under the first general head is, abstracting or destroying the virus, by cutting or burning out the wounded part, or by long and frequent effusions of water upon it, agreeably to the advice of dr. haygarth, in order to wash the saliva from it. the small-pox has been prevented, by cutting out the part in which the puncture was made in the arm with variolous matter. there is no reason why the same practice should not succeed, if used in time, in the hydrophobia. where it has failed of success, it has probably been used after the poison has contaminated the blood. the wound should be kept open and running for several months. in this way a servant girl, who was bitten by the same cat that bit mr. bellamy, is supposed by dr. fothergill to have escaped the disease. dr. weston of jamaica believes that he prevented the disease by the same means, in two instances. perhaps an advantage would arise from exciting a good deal of inflammation in the wound. we observe after inoculation, that the more inflamed the puncture becomes, and the greater the discharge from it, the less fever and eruption follow in the small-pox. a second preventive is a low diet, such as has been often used with success to mitigate the plague and yellow fever. the system, in this case, bends beneath the stimulus of the morbid saliva, and thus obviates or lessens its effects at a future day. during the use of these means to prevent the disease, the utmost care should be taken to keep up our patient's spirits, by inspiring confidence in the remedies prescribed for him. mercury has been used in order to prevent the disease. there are many well-attested cases upon record, of persons who have been salivated after being bitten by mad animals, in whom the disease did not show itself, but there are an equal number of cases to be met with, in which a salivation did not prevent it. from this it would seem probable, that the saliva did not infect in the cases in which the disease was supposed to have been prevented by the mercury. at the time calomel was used to prepare the body for the small-pox, a salivation was often induced by it. the affection of the salivary glands in many instances lessened the number of pock, but i believe in no instance prevented the eruptive fever. i shall say nothing here of the many other medicines which have been used to prevent the disease. no one of them has, i believe, done any more good, than the boasted specifics which have been used to eradicate the gout, or to procure old age. they appear to have derived their credit from some of the following circumstances accompanying the bite of the animal. 1. the animal may have been angry, but not diseased with a malignant fever such as i have described. 2. he may have been diseased, but not to such a degree as to have rendered his saliva infectious. 3. the saliva, when infectious, may have been so washed off in passing through the patient's clothes, as not to have entered the wound made in the flesh. and 4. there may have been no predisposition in the patient to receive the fever. this is often observed in persons exposed to the plague, yellow fever, small-pox, and to the infection of the itch, and the venereal disease. the hydrophobia, like the small-pox, generally comes on with some pain, and inflammation in the part in which the infection was infused into the body, but to this remark, as in the small-pox, there are some exceptions. as soon as the disease discovers itself, whether by pain or inflammation in the wounded part, or by any of the symptoms formerly mentioned, the first remedy indicated is _blood-letting_. all the facts which have been mentioned, relative to its cause, symptoms, and the appearances of the body after death, concur to enforce the use of the lancet in this disease. its affinity to the plague and yellow fever in its force, is an additional argument in favour of that remedy. to be effectual, it should be used in the most liberal manner. the loss of 100 to 200 ounces of blood will probably be necessary in most cases to effect a cure. the pulse should govern the use of the lancet as in other states of fever, taking care not to be imposed upon by the absence of _frequency_ in it, in the supposed absence of fever, and of _tension_ in affections of the stomach, bowels, and brain. this practice, in the extent i have recommended it, is justified not only by the theory of the disease, but by its having been used with success in the following cases. dr. nugent cured a woman by two copious bleedings, and afterwards by the use of sweating and cordial medicines. mr. wrightson was encouraged by dr. nugent's success to use the same remedies with the same happy issue in a boy of 15 years of age[81]. [81] medical transactions, vol. ii. p. 192. mr. falconer cured a young woman of the name of hannah moore, by "a copious bleeding," and another depleting remedy to be mentioned hereafter[82]. [82] ditto, p. 222. mr. poupart cured a woman by bleeding until she fainted, and mr. berger gives an account of a number of persons being bitten by a rabid animal, all of whom died, except two who were saved by bleeding[83]. [83] bibliotheque choisie de medecine, tome xv. p. 212. in the 40th volume of the transactions of the royal society of london, there is an account of a man being cured of hydrophobia by dr. hartley, by the loss of 120 ounces of blood. dr. tilton cured this disease in a woman in the delaware state by very copious bleeding. the remedy was suggested to the doctor by an account taken from a london magazine of a dreadful hydrophobia being cured by an accidental and profuse hã¦morrhage from the temporal artery[84]. [84] medical essays of edinburgh, vol. i. p. 226. a case is related by dr. innes[85], of the loss of 116 ounces of blood in seven days having cured this disease. in the patient who was the subject of this cure, the bleeding was used in the most depressed, and apparently weak state of the pulse. it rose constantly with the loss of blood. [85] medical commentaries, vol. iii. p. 496. the cases related by dr. tilton and dr. innes were said to be of a spontaneous nature, but the morbid actions were exactly the same in both patients with those which are derived from the bite of a rabid animal. there is but one remote cause of disease, and that is stimulus, and it is of no consequence in the disease now under consideration, whether the dread of water be the effect of the saliva of a rabid animal acting upon the fauces, or of a morbid excitement determined to those parts by any other stimulus. the inflammation of the stomach depends upon the same kind of morbid action, whether it be produced by the miasmata of the yellow fever, or the usual remote and exciting causes of the gout. an apoplexy is the same disease when it arises from a contusion by external violence, that it is when it arises spontaneously from the congestion of blood or water in the brain. a dropsy from obstructions in the liver induced by strong drink, does not differ in its proximate cause from the dropsy brought on by the obstructions in the same viscus which are left by a neglected, or half cured bilious fever. these remarks are of extensive application, and, if duly attended to, would deliver us from a mass of error which has been accumulating for ages in medicine: i mean the nomenclature of diseases from their remote causes. it is the most offensive and injurious part of the rubbish of our science. i grant that bleeding has been used in some instances in hydrophobia without effect, but in all such cases it was probably used out of time, or in too sparing a manner. the credit of this remedy has suffered in many other diseases from the same causes. i beg it may not be tried in this disease, by any physician who has not renounced our modern systems of nosology, and adopted, in their utmost extent, the principles and practice of botallus and sydenham in the treatment of malignant fevers. before i quit the subject of blood-letting in hydrophobia, i have to add, that it has been used with success in two instances in dogs that had exhibited all the usual symptoms of what has been called madness. in one case, blood was drawn by cutting off the tail, in the other, by cutting off the ears of the diseased animal. i mention these facts with pleasure, not only because they serve to support the theory and practice which i have endeavoured to establish in this disease, but because they will render it unnecessary to destroy the life of a useful and affectionate animal in order to prevent his spreading it. by curing it in a dog by means of bleeding, we moreover beget confidence in the same remedy in persons who have been bitten by him, and thus lessen the force of the disease, by preventing the operation of fear upon the system. 2. purges and glysters have been found useful in the hydrophobia. they discharge bile which is frequently vitiated, and reduce morbid action in the stomach and blood-vessels. dr. coste ascribes the cure of a young woman in a convent wholly to glysters given five or six times every day. 3. sweating after bleeding completed the cure of the boy whose case is mentioned by mr. wrightson. dr. baumgarten speaks highly of this mode of depleting, and says further, that it has never been cured "but by evacuations of some kind." 4. all the advantages which attend a salivation in common malignant fevers, are to be expected from it in the hydrophobia. it aided blood-letting in two persons who were cured by mr. falconer and dr. le compt. there are several cases upon record in which musk and opium have afforded evident relief in this disease. a physician in virginia cured it by large doses of bark and wine. i have no doubt of the efficacy of these remedies when the disease is attended with a moderate or feeble morbid action in the system, for i take it for granted, it resembles malignant fevers from other causes in appearing in different grades of force. in its more violent and common form, stimulants of all kinds must do harm, unless they are of such a nature, and exhibited in such quantities, as to exceed in their force the stimulus of the disease; but this is not to be expected, more especially as the stomach is for the most part so irritable as sometimes to reject the mildest aliments as well as the most gentle medicines. after the morbid actions in the system have been weakened, tonic remedies would probably be useful in accelerating the cure. blisters and stimulating cataplasms, applied to the feet, might probably be used with the same advantage in the declining state of the disease, that they have been used in the same stage of other malignant fevers. the cold bath, also long immersion in cold water, have been frequently used in this disease. the former aided the lancet, in the cure of the man whose case is related by dr. hartley. there can be no objection to the cold water in either of the above forms, provided no dread is excited by it in the mind of the patient. the reader will perceive here that i have deserted an opinion which i formerly held upon the cause and cure of the tetanus. i supposed the hydrophobia to depend upon debility. this debility i have since been led to consider as partial, depending upon abstraction of excitement from some, and a morbid accumulation of it in other parts of the body. the preternatural excitement predominates so far, in most cases of hydrophobia, over debility, that depleting remedies promise more speedily and safely to equalize, and render it natural, than medicines of an opposite character. in the treatment of those cases of hydrophobia which are not derived from the bite of a rabid animal, regard should always be had to its remote and exciting causes, so as to accommodate the remedies to them. the imperfection of the present nomenclature of medicine has become the subject of general complaint. the mortality of the disease from the bite of a rabid animal, has been increased by its name. the terms hydrophobia and canine madness, convey ideas of the symptoms of the disease only, and of such of them too as are by no means universal. if the theory i have delivered, and the practice i have recommended, be just, it ought to be called the hydrophobic state of fever. this name associates it at once with all the other states of fever, and leads us to treat it with the remedies which are proper in its kindred diseases, and to vary them constantly with the varying state of the system. in reviewing what has been said of this disease, i dare not say that i have not been misled by the principles of fever which i have adopted; but if i have, i hope the reader will not be discouraged by my errors from using his reason in medicine. by contemplating those errors, he may perhaps avoid the shoals upon which i have been wrecked. in all his researches, let him ever remember that there is the same difference between the knowledge of a physician who prescribes for diseases as limited by genera and species, and of one who prescribes under the direction of just principles, that there is between the knowledge we obtain of the nature and extent of the sky, by viewing a few feet of it from the bottom of a well, and viewing from the top of a mountain the whole canopy of heaven. since the first edition of the foregoing observations, i have seen a communication to the editors of the medical repository[86], by dr. physick, which has thrown new light upon this obscure disease, and which, i hope, will aid the remedies that have been proposed, in rendering them more effectual for its cure. the doctor supposes death from hydrophobia to be the effect of a sudden and spasmodic constriction of the glottis, inducing suffocation, and that it might be prevented by creating an artificial passage for air into the lungs, whereby life might be continued long enough to admit of the disease being cured by other remedies. the following account of a dissection is intended to show the probability of the doctor's proposal being attended with success. [86] volume v. on the 13th of september, 1802, i was called, with dr. physick, to visit, in consultation with dr. griffitts, the son of william todd, esq. aged five years, who was ill with the disease called hydrophobia, brought on by the bite of a mad dog, on the 6th of the preceding month. the wound was small, and on his cheek, near his mouth, two circumstances which are said at all times to increase the danger of wounds from rabid animals. from the time he was bitten, he used the cold bath daily, and took the infusion, powder, and seeds of the anagallis, in succession, until the 9th of september, when he was seized with a fever which at first resembled the remittent of the season. bleeding, purging, blisters, and the warm bath were prescribed for him, but without success. the last named remedy appeared to afford him some relief, which he manifested by paddling and playing in the water. at the time i saw him he was much agitated, had frequent twitchings, laughed often; but, with this uncommon excitement in his muscles and nerves, his mind was unusually correct in all its operations. he discovered no dread of water, except in one instance, when he turned from it with horror. he swallowed occasionally about a spoon full of it at a time, holding the cup in his own hand, as if to prevent too great a quantity being poured at once into his throat. the quick manner of his swallowing, and the intervals between each time of doing so, were such as we sometimes observe in persons in the act of dying of acute diseases. immediately after swallowing water, he looked pale, and panted for breath. he spoke rapidly, and with much difficulty. this was more remarkably the case when he attempted to pronounce the words _carriage_, _water_, and _river_. after speaking he panted for breath in the same manner that he did after drinking. he coughed and breathed as patients do in the moderate grade of the cynanche trachealis. the dog that had bitten him, mr. todd informed me, made a similar noise in attempting to bark, a day or two before he was killed. we proposed making an opening into his windpipe. to this his parents readily consented; but while we were preparing for the operation, such a change for the worse took place, that we concluded not to perform it. a cold sweat, with a feeble and quick pulse, came on; and he died suddenly, at 12 o'clock at night, about six hours after i first saw him. he retained his reason, and a playful humour, till the last minute of his life. an instance of the latter appeared in his throwing his handkerchief at his father just before he expired. the parents consented to our united request to examine his body. dr. griffitts being obliged to go into the country, and dr. physick being indisposed, i undertook this business the next morning; and, in the presence of dr. john dorsey (to whom i gave the dissecting knife), and my pupil mr. murduck, i discovered the following appearances. all the muscles of the neck had a livid colour, such as we sometimes observe, after death, in persons who have died of the sore throat. the muscles employed in deglutition and speech were suffused with blood. the epiglottis was inflamed, and the glottis so thickened and contracted, as barely to admit a probe of the common size. the trachea below it was likewise inflamed and thickened, and contained a quantity of mucus in it, such as we observe, now and then, after death from cynanche trachealis. the [oe]sophagus exhibited no marks of disease; but the stomach had several inflamed spots upon it, and contained a matter of a brown appearance, and which emitted an offensive odour. from the history of this dissection, and of many others, in which much fewer marks appeared of violent disease, in parts whose actions are essential to life, it is highly probable death is not induced in the ordinary manner in which malignant fevers produce it, but by a sudden or gradual suffocation. it is the temporary closure of this aperture which produces the dread of swallowing liquids: hence the reason why they are swallowed suddenly, and with intervals, in the manner that has been described; for, should the glottis be closed during the time of two swallows, in the highly diseased state of the system which takes place in this disease, suffocation would be the immediate and certain consequence. the same difficulty and danger attend the swallowing saliva, and hence the symptom of spitting, which has been so often taken notice of in hydrophobia. solids are swallowed more easily than fluids, only because they descend by intervals, and because a less closure of the glottis is sufficient to favour their passage into the stomach. this remark is confirmed by the frequent occurrence of death in the very act of swallowing, and that too with the common symptoms of suffocation. to account for death from this cause, and in the manner that has been described, it will be necessary to recollect, that fresh air is more necessary to the action of the lungs in a fever than in health, and much more so in a fever of a malignant character, such as the hydrophobia appears to be, than in fevers of a milder nature. an aversion from swallowing liquids is not peculiar to this disease. it occurs occasionally in the yellow fever. it occurs likewise in the disease which has prevailed among the cats, both in europe and america, and probably, in both instances, from a dread of suffocation in consequence of the closure of the glottis, and sudden abstraction of fresh air. the seat of the disease, and the cause of death, being, i hope, thus ascertained, the means of preventing death come next under our consideration. tonic remedies, in all their forms, have been administered to no purpose. the theory of the disease would lead us to expect a remedy for it in blood-letting. but this, though now and then used with success, is not its cure, owing, as we now see, to the mortal seat of the disease being so far removed from the circulation, as not to be affected by the loss of blood in the most liberal quantity. as well might we expect the inflammation and pain of a paronychia, or what is called a felon on the finger, to be removed by the same remedy. purging and sweating, though occasionally successful, have failed in many instances; and even a salivation, when excited (which is rarely the case), has not cured it. an artificial aperture into the windpipe alone bids fair to arrest its tendency to death, by removing the symptom which generally induces it, and thereby giving time for other remedies, which have hitherto been unsuccessful, to produce their usual salutary effects in similar diseases[87]. in removing faintness, in drawing off the water in ischuria, in composing convulsions, and in stopping hã¦morrhages in malignant fever, we do not cure the disease, but we prevent death, and thereby gain time for the use of the remedies which are proper to cure it. laryngotomy, according to fourcroy's advice, in diseases of the throat which obstruct respiration, should be preferred to tracheotomy, and the incision should be made in the triangular space between the thyroid and cricoid cartilages. should this operation be adopted, in order to save life, it will not offer near so much violence to humanity as many other operations. we cut through a large mass of flesh into the bladder in extracting a stone. we cut into the cavity of the thorax in the operation for the empyema. we perforate the bones of the head in trepanning; and we cut through the uterus, in performing the cã¦sarian operation, in order to save life. the operation of laryngotomy is much less painful and dangerous than any of them; and besides permitting the patient to breathe and to swallow, it is calculated to serve the inferior purpose of lessening the disease of the glottis by means of local depletion. after an aperture has been thus made through the larynx, the remedies should be such as are indicated by the state of the system, particularly by the state of the pulse. in hot climates it is, i believe, generally a disease of feeble re-action, and requires tonic remedies; but in the middle and northern states of america it is more commonly attended with so much activity and excitement of the blood-vessels, as to require copious blood-letting and other depleting remedies. [87] the hoarse barking, or the total inability of mad dogs to bark, favours still further the idea that the mortal seat of the disease is in the glottis, and that the remedy which has been proposed is a rational one. should this new mode of attacking this furious disease be adopted, and become generally successful, the discovery will place the ingenious gentleman who suggested it in the first rank of the medical benefactors of mankind. i have only to add a fact upon this subject which may tend to increase confidence in a mode of preventing the disease which has been recommended by dr. haygarth, and used with success in several instances. the same dog which bit mr. todd's son, bit, at the same time, a cow, a pig, a dog, and a black servant of mr. todd's. the cow and pig died; the dog became mad, and was killed by his master. the black man, who was bitten on one of his fingers, exposed the wound for some time, immediately after he received it, to a stream of pump water, and washed it likewise with soap and water. he happily escaped the disease, and is now in good health. that his wound was poisoned is highly probable, from its having been made eight hours after the last of the above animals was bitten, in which time there can be but little doubt of such a fresh secretion of saliva having taken place as would have produced the hydrophobia, had it not been prevented by the above simple remedy. i am not, however, so much encouraged by its happy issue in this case as to advise it in preference to cutting out the wounded part. it should only be resorted to where the fears of a patient, or his distance from a surgeon render it impossible to use the knife. an account of _the measles_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in the spring of 1789. the weather in december, 1788, and in january, 1789, was variable, but seldom very cold. on the first of february, 1789, at six o'clock in the morning, the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer fell 5â° below 0, in the city of philadelphia. at twenty miles from the city, on the schuylkill, it fell 12â° below 0, at the same hour. on the 19th and 20th of this month, there fell a quantity of snow, the depth of which, upon an average, was supposed to be about eight or ten inches. on the 23d, 24th, 25th, and 27th, the weather was very cold. the mercury fluctuated during these days between 4â° and 10â° above 0. in the intervals between these cold days, the weather frequently moderated, so that the delaware was frozen and thawed not less than four times. it was not navigable till the 8th of march. there were in all, during the winter and month of march, sixteen distinct falls of snow. in april and may there were a few warm days; but upon the whole, it was a very cold and backward spring. the peaches failed almost universally. there were no strawberries or cherries on the 24th of may, and every other vegetable product was equally backward. a country woman of 84 years of age informed me, that it was the coldest spring she had ever known. it was uncomfortable to sit without fire till the first of june. the measles appeared first in the northern liberties, in december. they spread slowly in january, and were not universal in the city till february and march. this disease, like many others, had its _precursor_. it was either a gum-boil, or a sore on the tongue. they were both very common, but not universal. they occurred, in some instances, several days before the fever, but in general they made their appearance during the eruptive fever, and were a sure mark of the approaching eruption of the measles. i was first led to observe this fact, from having read dr. quin's accurate account of the measles in jamaica. i shall now proceed to mention the symptoms of the measles as they appeared in the different parts of the body. 1. in the _head_, they produced great pain, swelling of the eye-lids, so as to obstruct the eye-sight, tooth-ach, bleeding at the nose, tinnitus aurium, and deafness; also coma for two days, and convulsions. i saw the last symptom only in one instance. it was brought on by a stoppage of a running from the ear. 2. in the _throat_ and _lungs_, they produced a soreness and hoarseness, acute or dull pains in the breast and sides, and a painful or distressing cough. in one case, this cough continued for two hours without any intermission, attended by copious expectoration. in two cases, i saw a constant involuntary discharge of phlegm and mucus from the mouth, without any cough. one of them terminated fatally. spitting of blood occurred in several instances. the symptoms of pneumonia vera notha and typhoides were very common. i saw two fatal cases from pneumonia notha, in both of which the patients died with the trunk of the body in an erect posture. i met with two cases in which there was no cough till the eruption made its appearance on the fourth day, and one which was accompanied by all the usual symptoms of the cynanche trachealis. 3. in the _stomach_ the measles produced, in many instances, sickness and vomiting. and 4. in the _bowels_, griping, diarrh[oe]a, and, in some instances, bloody stools. the diarrh[oe]a occurred in every stage of the disease, but it was bloody and most painful in its decline. i attended a black girl who discharged a great many worms, but without the least relief of any of her symptoms. there was a great variety in this disease. 1. in the _time_ of the attack of the fever, from the _time_ of the reception of the contagion. in general the interval was fourteen days, but it frequently appeared before, and sometimes later than that period. 2. in the _time of the eruption_, from the beginning of the fever. it generally appeared on the third and fourth days. in one case, dr. waters informed me, it did not appear till the eighth day. 3. in the _abatement_ or _continuance_ of the fever after the eruption. 4. in the _colour_ and _figure_ of the eruption. in some it put on a _pale_ red, in others a _deep_, and in a few a _livid_ colour, resembling an incipient mortification. in some there appeared red blotches, in others an equally diffused redness, and in a few, eruptions like the small-pox, called by dr. cullen, rubiola varioloides. 5. in the _duration_ of the eruption on the skin. it remained in most cases only three or four days; but in one, which came under my care, it remained nine days. 6. in the _manner of its retrocession_. i saw very few cases of its leaving the branny appearance so generally spoken of by authors on the skin. 7. in _not affecting_ many persons, and even families who were exposed to it. the symptoms which continued in many after the retrocession of the measles, were cough, hoarseness, or complete aphonia, which continued in two cases for two weeks; also diarrh[oe]a, opthalmy, a bad taste in the mouth, a defect or excess of appetite, and a fever, which in some instances was of the intermitting kind, but which in more assumed the more dangerous form of the typhus mitior. two cases of internal dropsy of the brain followed them. one was evidently excited by a fall. they both ended fatally. during the prevalence of the disease i observed several persons (who had had the measles, and who were closely confined to the rooms of persons ill with them) to be affected with a slight cough, sore throat, and even sores in the mouth. i find a similar fact taken notice of by dr. quier. but i observed further, many children to be affected by a fever, cough, and all the other symptoms of the measles which have been mentioned, except a general eruption, for in some there was a trifling efflorescence about the neck and breast. i observed the same thing in 1773 and 1783. in my note book i find the following account of the appearance of this disease in children in the year 1773. "the measles appeared in march; a catarrh (for by that name i then called it) appeared at the same time, and was often mistaken for them, the symptoms being nearly the same in both. in the catarrh there was in some instances a trifling eruption. a lax often attended it, and some who had it had an extremely sore mouth." i was the more struck with this disease, from finding it was taken notice of by dr. sydenham. he calls it a morbillous fever. i likewise find an account of it in the 2d article of the 5th volume of the edinburgh medical essays. the words of the author, who is anonymous, are as follow. "during this measly season, several persons, who never had the measles, had all the symptoms of measles, which went off in a few days without any eruptions. the same persons had the measles months or years afterwards." is this disease a common fever, marked by the reigning epidemic, and produced in the same manner, and by the same causes, as the variolous fever described by dr. sydenham, which he says prevailed at the same time with the small-pox? i think it is not. my reasons for this opinion are as follow. 1. i never saw it affect any but children, in the degree that has been mentioned, and such only as had never had the measles. 2. it affected whole families at the same time. it proved fatal to one of three children whom it affected on the same day. 3. it terminated in a pulmonary consumption in a boy of ten years old, with all the symptoms which attend that disease when it follows the regular measles. 4. it affected a child in one family, on the same day that two other members of the same family were affected by the genuine measles. 5. it appeared on the usual days of the genuine measles, from the time the persons affected by it were exposed to its contagion. and, 6. it communicated the disease in one family, in the usual time in which the disease is taken from the genuine measles. the measles, then, appear to follow the analogy of the small-pox, which affects so superficially as to be taken a second time, and which produce on persons who have had them what are called the nurse pock. they follow likewise the analogy of another disease, viz. the scarlatina anginosa. in the account of the epidemic for 1773, published in the third volume of the edinburgh medical essays, we are told, that such patients as had previously had the scarlet fever without sore throats, took the sore throat, and had no eruption, while those who had previously had the sore throat had a scarlet eruption, but the throat remained free from the distemper. all other persons who were affected had both. from these facts, i have taken the liberty of calling it the _internal measles_, to distinguish it from those which are _external_. i think the discovery of this new state of this disease of some application to practice. 1. it will lead us to be cautious in declaring any disease to be the external measles, in which there is not a general eruption. from my ignorance of this, i have been led to commit several mistakes, which were dishonourable to the profession. i was called, during the prevalence of the measles in the above-named season, to visit a girl of twelve years old, with an eruption on the skin. i called it the measles. the mother told me it was impossible, for that i had in 1783 attended her for the same disease. i suspect the anonymous author before-mentioned has fallen into the same error. he adds to the account before quoted the following words. "others, who had undergone the measles formerly, had _at this time_ a fever of the erysipelatous kind, with eruptions like to which nettles cause, and all the _previous_ and concomitant symptoms of the measles, from the beginning to the end of the disease." 2. if inoculation, or any other mode of lessening the violence of the disease, should be adopted, it will be of consequence to know what persons are secure from the attacks of it, and who are still exposed to it. i shall now add a short account of my method of treating this disease. many hundred families came through the disease without the help of a physician. but in many cases it was attended with peculiar danger, and in some with death. i think it was much more fatal than in the years 1773 and 1783, probably owing to the variable weather in the winter, and the coldness and dampness of the succeeding spring. dr. huxham says, he once saw the measles attended with peculiar mortality, during a late cold and damp spring in england. it was much more fatal (cã¦teris paribus) to adults than to young people. the remedies i used were, 1. _bleeding_, in all cases where great pain and cough with a hard pulse attended. in some i found it necessary to repeat this remedy. but i met with many cases in which it was forbidden by the weakness of the pulse, and by other marks of a feeble action in the blood-vessels. 2. _vomits._ these were very useful in removing a nausea; they likewise favoured the eruption of the measles. 3. _demulcent_ and _diluting drinks_. these were barley water, bran, and flaxseed tea, dried cherry and raw apple water, also beverage, and cyder and water. the last drink i found to be the most agreeable to my patients of any that have been mentioned. 4. _blisters_ to the neck, sides, and extremities, according to the symptoms. they were useful in every stage of the disease. 5. _opiates._ these were given not only at night, but in small doses during the day, when a troublesome cough or diarrh[oe]a attended. 6. where a catarrhal fever ensued, i used bleeding and blisters. in those cases in which this fever terminated in an intermittent, or in a mild typhus fever, i gave the bark with evident advantage. in that case of measles, formerly mentioned, which was accompanied by symptoms of cynanche trachealis, i gave calomel with the happiest effects. in the admission of _fresh air_ i observed a medium as to its temperature, and accommodated it to the degrees of action in the system. in different parts of the country, in pennsylvania and new-jersey, i heard with great pleasure of the _cold air_ being used as freely and as successfully in this disease, as in the inflammatory small-pox. the same people who were so much benefited by _cool air_, i was informed, drank plentifully of cold water during every stage of the fever. one thing in favour of this country practice deserves to be mentioned, and that is, evident advantage arose in all the cases which i attended, from patients leaving their beds in the febrile state of this disease. but this was practised only by those in whom inflammatory diathesis prevailed, for these alone had strength enough to bear it. the convalescent state of this disease required particular attention. 1. _a diarrh[oe]a_ often continued to be troublesome after other symptoms had abated. i relieved it by opiates and demulcent drinks. bleeding has been recommended for it, but i did not find it necessary in a single case. 2. an _opthalmia_ which sometimes attended, yielded to astringent collyria and blisters. 3. where a cough or fever followed so slight as not to require bleeding, i advised a milk and vegetable diet, country air, and moderate warmth; for whatever might have been the relation of the lungs in the beginning of the disease to cold air, they were now evidently too much debilitated to bear it. 4. it is a common practice to prescribe purges after the measles. after the asthenic state of this disease they certainly do harm. in all cases, the effects of them may be better obviated by diet, full or low, suitable clothing, and gentle exercise, or country air. i omitted them in several cases, and no eruption or disease of any kind followed their disuse. i shall only add to this account of the measles, that in several families, i saw evident advantages from preparing the body for the reception of the contagion, by means of a vegetable diet. an account of _the influenza_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the autumn of 1789, in the spring of 1790, and in the winter of 1791. the latter end of the month of august, in the summer of 1789, was so very cool that fires became agreeable. the month of september was cool, dry, and pleasant. during the whole of this month, and for some days before it began, and after it ended, there had been no rain. in the beginning of october, a number of the members of the first congress, that had assembled in new-york, under the present national government, arrived in philadelphia, much indisposed with colds. they ascribed them to the fatigue and night air to which they had been exposed in travelling in the public stages; but from the number of persons who were affected, from the uniformity of their complaints, and from the rapidity with which it spread through our city, it soon became evident that it was the disease so well known of late years by the name of the influenza. the symptoms which ushered in the disease were generally a hoarseness, a sore throat, a sense of weariness, chills, and a fever. after the disease was formed, it affected more or less the following parts of the body. many complained of acute pains in the _head_. these pains were frequently fixed between the eye-balls, and, in three cases which came under my notice, they were terminated by abscesses in the frontal sinus, which discharged themselves through the nose. the pain, in one of these cases, before the rupture of the abscess, was so exquisite, that my patient informed me, that he felt as if he should lose his reason. many complained of a great itching in the _eye-lids_. in some, the eye-lids were swelled. in others, a copious effusion of water took place from the _eyes_; and in a few, there was a true ophthalmia. many complained of great pains in one _ear_, and some of pains in both _ears_. in some, these pains terminated in abscesses, which discharged for some days a bloody or purulent matter. in others, there was a swelling behind each ear, without a suppuration.--_sneezing_ was a universal symptom. in some, it occurred not less than fifty times in a day. the matter discharged from the nose was so acrid as to inflame the nostrils and the upper lip, in such a manner as to bring on swellings, sores, and scabs in many people. in some, the nose discharged drops, and in a few, streams of blood, to the amount, in one case, of twenty ounces. in many cases, it was so much obstructed, as to render breathing through it difficult. in some, there was a total defect of _taste_. in others, there was a bad taste in the mouth, which frequently continued through the whole course of the disease. in some, there was a want of _appetite_. in others, it was perfectly natural. some complained of a soreness in their mouths, as if they had been inflamed by holding pepper in them. some had _swelled jaws_, and many complained of the _tooth-ach_. i saw only one case in which the disease produced a _coma_. many were affected with pains in the _breast_ and _sides_. a difficulty of breathing attended in some, and a _cough_ was universal. sometimes this cough alternated with a pain in the _head_. sometimes it preceded this pain, and sometimes it followed it. it was at all times distressing. in some instances, it resembled the chin-cough. one person expired in a fit of coughing, and many persons spat blood in consequence of its violence. i saw several patients in whom the disease affected the trachea chiefly, producing great difficulty of breathing, and, in one case, a suppression of the voice, and i heard of another in which the disease, by falling on the trachea, produced a cynanche trachealis. in most of the cases which terminated fatally, the patients died of pneumonia notha. the _stomach_ was sometimes affected by nausea and vomiting; but this was far from being a universal symptom. i met with four cases in which the whole force of the disease fell upon the _bowels_, and went off in a diarrh[oe]a; but in general the bowels were regular or costive. the _limbs_ were affected with such acute pains as to be mistaken for the rheumatism, or for the break-bone-fever of 1780. the pains were most acute in the back and thighs. _profuse sweats_ appeared in many over the whole body in the beginning, but without affording any relief. it was in some instances accompanied by erysipelatous, and in four cases which came to my knowledge, it was followed by miliary eruptions. the _pulse_ was sometimes tense and quick, but seldom full. in a great majority of those whom i visited it was quick, weak, and soft. there was no appearance in the urine different from what is common in all fevers. the disease had evident remissions, and the fever seldom continued above three or four days; but the cough, and some other troublesome symptoms, sometimes continued two or three weeks. in a few persons, the fever terminated in a tedious and dangerous typhus. in several pregnant women it produced uterine hã¦morrhages and abortions. it affected adults of both sexes alike. a few old people escaped it. it passed by children under eight years old with a few exceptions. out of five and thirty maniacs in the pennsylvania hospital, but three were affected by it. no profession or occupation escaped it. the smell of tar and tobacco did not preserve the persons who worked in them from the disease, nor did the use of tobacco, in snuff, smoking, or chewing, afford a security against it.[88] [88] mr. howard informs us that the use of tobacco is not a preservative against the plague, as has formerly been supposed; of course that apology for the use of an offensive weed should not be admitted. even previous and existing diseases did not protect patients from it. it insinuated into sick chambers, and blended itself with every species of chronic complaint. it was remarkable that persons who worked in the open air, such as sailors, and 'long-shore-men, (to use a mercantile epithet) had it much worse than tradesmen who worked within doors. a body of surveyors, in the eastern woods of pennsylvania, suffered extremely from it. even the vigour of constitution which is imparted by the savage life did not mitigate its violence. mr. andrew ellicott, the geographer of the united states, informed me that he was a witness of its affecting the indians in the neighbourhood of niagara with peculiar force. the cough which attended this disease was so new and so irritating a complaint among them, that they ascribed it to witchcraft. it proved most fatal on the sea-shore of the united states. many people who had recovered, were affected a second time with all the symptoms of the disease. i met with a woman, who, after recovering from it in philadelphia, took it a second time in new-york, and a third time upon her return to philadelphia. many thousand people had the disease who were not confined to their houses, but transacted business as usual out of doors. a perpetual coughing was heard in every street of the city. buying and selling were rendered tedious by the coughing of the farmer and the citizen who met in market places. it even rendered divine service scarcely intelligible in the churches. a few persons who were exposed to the disease escaped it, and some had it so lightly as scarcely to be sensible of it. of the persons who were confined to their houses, not a fourth part of them kept their beds. it proved fatal (with few exceptions) only to old people, and to persons who had been previously debilitated by consumptive complaints. it likewise carried of several hard drinkers. it terminated in asthma in three persons whose cases came under my notice, and in pulmonary consumption, in many more. i met with an instance in a lady, who was much relieved of a chronic complaint in her liver; and i heard of another instance of a clergyman whose general health was much improved by a severe attack of this disease. it was not wholly confined to the human species. it affected two cats, two house-dogs, and one horse, within the sphere of my observations. one of the dogs disturbed his mistress so much by coughing at night, that she gave him ten drops of laudanum for several nights, which perfectly composed him. one of the cats had a vomiting with her cough. the horse breathed as if he had been affected by the cynanche trachealis. the scarlatina anginosa, which prevailed during the summer, disappeared after the first of october; but appeared again after the influenza left the city. nor was the remitting fever seen during the prevalence of the reigning epidemic. i inoculated about twenty children for the small-pox during this prevalence of the influenza, and never saw that disease exhibit a more favourable appearance. in the treatment of the influenza i was governed by the state of the system. where inflammatory diathesis discovered itself by a full or tense pulse, or where great difficulty of breathing occurred, and the pulse was low and weak in the beginning of the disease, i ordered moderate bleeding. in a few cases in which the symptoms of pneumony attended, i bled a second time with advantage. in all these instances of inflammatory affection, i gave the usual antiphlogistic medicines. i found that vomits did not terminate the disease, as they often do a common catarrh, in the course of a day, or of a few hours. in cases where no inflammatory action appeared in the system, i prescribed cordial drinks and diet, and forbad every kind of evacuation. i saw several instances of persons who had languished for a week or two with the disease, who were suddenly cured by eating a hearty meal, or by drinking half a pint of wine, or a pint of warm punch. in all these cases of weak action in the blood-vessels, liquid laudanum gave great relief, not only by suspending the cough, but by easing the pains in the bones. i met with a case of an old lady who was suddenly and perfectly cured of her cough by a fright. the duration of this epidemic in our city was about six weeks. it spread from new-york and philadelphia in all directions, and in the course of a few months pervaded every state in the union. it was carried from the united states to several of the west-india islands. it prevailed in the island of grenada in the month of november, 1789, and it was heard of in the course of the ensuing winter in the spanish settlements in south-america. the following winter was unusually mild, insomuch that the navigation of the delaware was not interrupted during the whole season, only from the 7th to the 24th of february. the weather on the 3d and 4th days of march was very cold, and on the 8th and 9th days of the same month, the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood at 4â° at 7 o'clock in the morning. on the 10th and 11th, there fell a deep snow. the weather during the remaining part of the month was cold, rainy, and variable. it continued to be variable during the month of april. about the middle of the month there fell an unusual quantity of rain. the showers which fell on the night of the 17th will long be connected in the memories of the citizens of philadelphia with the time of the death of the celebrated dr. franklin. several pleurisies appeared during this month; also a few cases of measles. in the last week of the month the influenza made its appearance. it was brought to the city from new-england, and affected, in its course, all the intermediate states. its symptoms were nearly the same as they were in the preceding autumn, but in many people it put on some new appearances. several persons who were affected by it had symptoms of madness, one of whom destroyed himself by jumping out of a window. some had no cough, but very acute pains in the back and head. it was remarked that those who had the disease chiefly in the breast the last year, complained now chiefly of their heads, while those whose heads were affected formerly, now complained chiefly of their breasts. in many it put on the type of an intermitting fever. several complained of constant chills, or constant sweats; and some were much alarmed by an uncommon blue and dark colour in their hands. i saw one case of ischuria, another of an acute pain in the rectum, a third of anasarca, and a fourth of a palsy in the tongue and arms; all of which appeared to be anomalous symptoms of the influenza. sneezing, and pains in the ears and frontal sinus, were less common now than they were in the fall; but a pain in the eye-balls was a universal symptom. some had a pain in the one eye only, and a few had sore eyes, and swellings in the face. many women who had it, were affected by an irregular appearance of the catamenia. in two persons whom i saw, the cough was incessant for three days, nor could it be composed by any other remedy than plentiful bleeding. a patient of dr. samuel duffield informed me, after his recovery, that he had had no other symptom of the disease than an efflorescence on his skin, and a large swelling in his groin, which terminated in a tedious abscess. the prisoners in the jail who had it in the autumn, escaped it this spring. during the prevalence of this disease, i saw no sign of any other epidemic. it declined sensibly about the first week in june, and after the 12th day of this month i was not called to a single patient in it. the remedies for it were the same as were used in the fall. i used bleeding in several cases on the second, third, and fourth days of the disease, where it had appeared to be improper in its first stage. the cases which required bleeding were far from being general. i saw two instances of syncope of an alarming nature, after the loss of ten ounces of blood; and i heard of one instance of a boy who died in half an hour after this evacuation. i remarked that purges of all kinds worked more violently than usual in this disease. the convalescence from it was very slow, and a general languor appeared to pervade the citizens for several weeks after it left the city. the month of december, 1790, was extremely and uniformly cold. in the beginning of the month of january, 1791, the weather moderated, and continued to be pleasant till the 17th, on which day the navigation of the delaware, which had been completely obstructed by the ice, was opened so as to admit of the arrival of several vessels. during the month of december many people complained of _colds_; but they were ascribed wholly to the weather. in january four or five persons in a family were affected by colds at the same time; which created a suspicion of a return of the influenza. this suspicion was soon confirmed by accounts of its prevailing in the neighbouring counties of chester and montgomery, in pennsylvania, and in the distant states of virginia and rhode-island. it did not affect near so generally as in the two former times of appearance. there was no difference in the method of treating it. while the common inflammatory diseases of the winter bore the lancet as usual, it was remarked that patients who were attacked by the influenza, did not bear bleeding in a greater proportion, or in a larger quantity, than in the two former times of its appearance in the city. i shall conclude this account of the influenza by the following observations: 1. it exists independently of the sensible qualities of the air, and in all kinds of weather. dr. patrick russel has proved the plague to be equally independent of the influence of the sensible qualities of the atmosphere, to a certain degree. 2. the influenza passes with the utmost rapidity through a country, and affects the greatest number of people, in a given time, of any disease in the world. 3. it appears from the histories of it which are upon record, that neither climate, nor the different states of society, have produced any _material_ change in the disease. this will appear from comparing the account i have given, with the histories of it which have lately been given by dr. grey, dr. hamilton, dr. a. fothergill, mr. chisholm, and other modern physicians. it appears further, that even time itself has not been able materially to change the type of this disease. this is evident, from comparing modern accounts of it with those which have been handed down to us by ancient physicians. i have hinted in a former essay at the _diminutives_ of certain diseases. there is a state of influenza, which is less violent and more local, than that which has been described. it generally prevails in the winter season. it seems to originate from a morbid matter, generated in crowded and heated churches, and other assemblies of the people. i have seen a cold, or influenza, frequently universal in philadelphia, which i have distinctly traced to this source. it would seem as if the same species of diseases resembled pictures, and that while some of them partook of the deep and vivid nature of mosaic work, others appeared like the feeble and transient impressions of water colours. an inquiry into the _cause of animal life_. in three lectures, delivered in the university of pennsylvania. lecture i. gentlemen, my business in this chair is to teach the institutes of medicine. they have been divided into physiology, pathology, and therapeutics. the objects of the first are, the laws of the human body in its healthy state. the second includes the history of the causes and seats of diseases. the subjects of the third are the remedies for those diseases. in entering upon the first part of our course, i am met by a remark delivered by dr. hunter in his introductory lectures to his course of anatomy. "in our branch (says the doctor) those teachers who study to captivate young minds with ingenious speculations, will not leave a reputation behind them that will outlive them half a century. when they cease from their labours, their labours will be buried along with them. there never was a man more followed and admired in physiology, than dr. boerhaave. i remember the veneration in which he was held. and now, in the space of forty years, his physiology is---it shocks me to think in what a light it appears[89]." painful as this premonition may be to the teachers of physiology, it should not deter them from speculating upon physiological subjects. simple anatomy is a mass of dead matter. it is physiology which infuses life into it. a knowledge of the structure of the human body occupies only the memory. physiology introduces it to the higher and more noble faculties of the mind. the component parts of the body may be compared to the materials of a house, lying without order in a yard. it is physiology, like a skilful architect, which connects them together, so as to form from them an elegant and useful building. the writers against physiology resemble, in one particular, the writers against luxury. they forget that the functions they know and describe belong to the science of physiology; just as the declaimers against luxury forget that all the conveniences which they enjoy beyond what are possessed in the most simple stage of society, belong to the luxuries of life. the anatomist who describes the circulation of the blood, acts the part of a physiologist, as much as he does, who attempts to explain the functions of the brain. in this respect dr. hunter did honour to our science; for few men ever explained that subject, and many others equally physiological, with more perspicuity and eloquence, than that illustrious anatomist. upon all new and difficult subjects there must be pioneers. it has been my lot to be called to this office of hazard and drudgery; and if in discharging its duties i should meet the fate of my predecessors, in this branch of medicine, i shall not perish in vain. my errors, like the bodies of those who fall in forcing a breach, will serve to compose a bridge for those who shall come after me, in our present difficult enterprise. this consideration, aided by just views of the nature and extent of moral obligation, will overbalance the evils anticipated by dr. hunter, from the loss of posthumous fame. had a prophetic voice whispered in the ear of dr. boerhaave in the evening of his life, that in the short period of forty years, the memory of his physiological works would perish from the earth, i am satisfied, from the knowledge we have of his elevated genius and piety, he would have treated the prediction with the same indifference that he would have done, had he been told, that in the same time, his name should be erased from a pane of glass, in a noisy and vulgar country tavern. [89] lect. xi. p. 198. the subjects of the lectures i am about to deliver, you will find in a syllabus which i have prepared and published, for the purpose of giving you a succinct view of the extent and connection of our course. some of these subjects will be new in lectures upon the institutes of medicine, particularly those which relate to morals, metaphysics, and theology. however thorny these questions may appear, we must approach and handle them; for they are intimately connected with the history of the faculties and operations of the human mind; and these form an essential part of the animal economy. perhaps it is because physicians have hitherto been restrained from investigating, and deciding upon these subjects, by an erroneous belief that they belong exclusively to another profession, that physiology has so long been an obscure and conjectural science. in beholding the human body, the first thing that strikes us, is its _life_. this, of course, should be the first object of our inquiries. it is a most important subject; for the end of all the studies of a physician is to preserve life; and this cannot be perfectly done, until we know in what it consists. i include in animal life, as applied to the human body, _motion_, _sensation_, and _thought_. these three, when united, compose perfect life. it may exist without thought, or sensation; but neither sensation, nor thought, can exist without motion. the lowest grade of life, probably exists in the absence of even motion, as i shall mention hereafter. i have preferred the term _motion_ to those of oscillation and vibration, which have been employed by dr. hartley in explaining the laws of animal matter; because i conceived it to be more simple, and better adapted to common apprehension. in treating upon this subject, i shall first consider animal life as it appears in the waking and sleeping states in a healthy adult, and shall afterwards inquire into the modification of its causes in the f[oe]tal, infant, youthful, and middle states of life, in certain diseases, in different states of society, in different climates, and in different animals. i shall begin by delivering three general propositions. i. every part of the human body (the nails and hair excepted) is endowed with sensibility, or excitability, or with both of them. by sensibility is meant the power of having sensation excited by the action of impressions. excitability denotes that property in the human body, by which motion is excited by means of impressions. this property has been called by several other names, such as irritability, contractility, mobility, and stimulability. i shall make use of the term excitability, for the most part, in preference to any of them. i mean by it, a capacity of imperceptible, as well as obvious motion. it is of no consequence to our present inquiries, whether this excitability be a quality of animal matter, or a substance. the latter opinion has been maintained by dr. girtanner, and has some probability in its favour. ii. the whole human body is so formed and connected, that impressions made in the healthy state upon one part, excite motion, or sensation, or both, in every other part of the body. from this view, it appears to be a unit, or a simple and indivisible quality, or substance. its capacity for receiving motion, and sensation, is variously modified by means of what are called the senses. it is external, and internal. the impressions which act upon it shall be ennumerated in order. iii. life is the _effect_ of certain stimuli acting upon the sensibility and excitability which are extended, in different degrees, over every external and internal part of the body. these stimuli are as necessary to its existence, as air is to flame. animal life is truly (to use the words of dr. brown) "a forced state." i have said the _words_ of dr. brown; for the opinion was delivered by dr. cullen in the university of edinburgh, in the year 1766, and was detailed by me in this school, many years before the name of dr. brown was known as teacher of medicine. it is true, dr. cullen afterwards deserted it; but it is equally true, i never did; and the belief of it has been the foundation of many of the principles and modes of practice in medicine which i have since adopted. in a lecture which i delivered in the year 1771, i find the following words, which are taken from a manuscript copy of lectures given by dr. cullen upon the institutes of medicine. "the human body is not an automaton, or self-moving machine; but is kept alive and in motion, by the constant action of stimuli upon it." in thus ascribing the discovery of the cause of life which i shall endeavour to establish, to dr. cullen, let it not be supposed i mean to detract from the genius and merit of dr. brown. to his intrepidity in reviving and propagating it, as well as for the many other truths contained in his system of medicine, posterity, i have no doubt, will do him ample justice, after the errors that are blended with them have been corrected, by their unsuccessful application to the cure of diseases. agreeably to our last proposition, i proceed to remark, that the action of the brain, the diastole and systole of the heart, the pulsation of the arteries, the contraction of the muscles, the peristaltic motion of the bowels, the absorbing power of the lymphatics, secretion, excretion, hearing, seeing, smelling, taste, and the sense of touch, nay more, thought itself, are all the effects of stimuli acting upon the organs of sense and motion. these stimuli have been divided into external and internal. the external are light, sound, odours, air, heat, exercise, and the pleasures of the senses. the internal stimuli are food, drinks, chyle, the blood, a certain tension of the glands, which contain secreted liquors, and the exercises of the faculties of the mind; each of which i shall treat in the order in which they have been mentioned. 1. of external stimuli. the first of these is light. it is remarkable that the progenitor of the human race was not brought into existence until all the luminaries of heaven were created. light acts chiefly through the medium of the organs of vision. its influence upon animal life is feeble, compared with some other stimuli to be mentioned hereafter; but it has its proportion of force. sleep has been said to be a tendency to death; now the absence of light we know invites to sleep, and the return of it excites the waking state. the late mr. rittenhouse informed me, that for many years he had constantly awoke with the first dawn of the morning light, both in summer and winter. its influence upon the animal spirits strongly demonstrates its connection with animal life, and hence we find a cheerful and a depressed state of mind in many people, and more especially in invalids, to be intimately connected with the presence or absence of the rays of the sun. the well-known pedestrian traveller, mr. stewart, in one of his visits to this city, informed me, that he had spent a summer in lapland, in the latitude of 69â°, during the greatest part of which time the sun was seldom out of sight. he enjoyed, he said, during this period, uncommon health and spirits, both of which he ascribed to the long duration, and invigorating influence of light. these facts will surprise us less when we attend to the effects of light upon vegetables. some of them lose their colour by being deprived of it; many of them discover a partiality to it in the direction of their flowers; and all of them discharge their pure air only while they are exposed to it[90]. [90] "organization, sensation, spontaneous motion, and life, exist only at the surface of the earth, and in places exposed to _light_. we might affirm the flame of prometheus's torch was the expression of a philosophical truth that did not escape the ancients. without light, nature was lifeless, inanimate, and dead. a benevolent god, by producing life, has spread organization, sensation, and thought over the surface of the earth."--_lavoisier._ 2. sound has an extensive influence upon human life. its numerous artificial and natural sources need not be mentioned. i shall only take notice, that the currents of winds, the passage of insects through the air, and even the growth of vegetables, are all attended with an emission of sound; and although they become imperceptible from habit, yet there is reason to believe they all act upon the body, through the medium of the ears. the existence of these sounds is established by the reports of persons who have ascended two or three miles from the earth in a balloon. they tell us that the silence which prevails in those regions of the air is so new and complete, as to produce an awful solemnity in their minds. it is not necessary that these sounds should excite sensation or perception, in order to their exerting a degree of stimulus upon the body. there are a hundred impressions daily made upon it, which from habit are not followed by sensation. the stimulus of aliment upon the stomach, and of blood upon the heart and arteries, probably cease to be felt, only from the influence of habit. the exercise of walking, which was originally the result of a deliberate act of the will, is performed from habit without the least degree of consciousness. it is unfortunate for this, and many other parts of physiology, that we forget what passed in our minds the first two or three years of our lives. could we recollect the manner in which we acquired our first ideas, and the progress of our knowledge with the evolution of our senses and faculties, it would relieve us from many difficulties and controversies upon this subject. perhaps this forgetfulness by children, of the origin and progress of their knowledge, might be remedied by our attending more closely to the first effects of impressions, sensation, and perception upon them, as discovered by their little actions; all of which probably have a meaning, as determined as any of the actions of men or women. the influence of sounds of a certain kind in producing excitement, and thereby increasing life, cannot be denied. fear produces debility, which is a tendency to death. sound obviates this debility, and thus restores the system to the natural and healthy grade of life. the school-boy and the clown invigorate their feeble and trembling limbs by whistling or singing as they pass by a country church-yard, and the soldier feels his departing life recalled in the onset of a battle by the noise of the fife, and of the poet's "spirit stirring drum." intoxication is frequently attended with a higher degree of life than is natural. now sound we know will produce this with a very moderate portion of fermented liquor; hence we find men are more easily and highly excited by it at public entertainments where there is music, loud talking, and hallooing, than in private companies where there is no auxiliary stimulus added to that of the wine. i wish these effects of sound upon animal life to be remembered; for i shall mention it hereafter as a remedy for the weak state of life in many diseases, and shall relate an instance in which a scream suddenly extorted by grief, proved the means of resuscitating a person who was supposed to be dead, and who had exhibited the usual recent marks of the extinction of life. i shall conclude this head by remarking, that persons who are destitute of hearing and seeing possess life in a more languid state than other people; and hence arise the dulness and want of spirits which they discover in their intercourse with the world. 3. odours have a sensible effect in promoting animal life. the greater healthiness of the country, than cities, is derived in part from the effluvia of odoriferous plants, which float in the atmosphere in the spring and summer months, acting upon the system, through the medium of the sense of smelling. the effects of odours upon animal life appear still more obvious in the sudden revival of it, which they produce in cases of fainting. here the smell of a few drops of hartshorn, or even of a burnt feather, has frequently in a few minutes restored the system, from a state of weakness bordering upon death, to an equable and regular degree of excitement. 4. air acts as a powerful stimulus upon the system, through the medium of the lungs. the component parts of this fluid, and its decomposition in the lungs, will be considered in another place[91]. i shall only remark here, that the circulation of the blood has been ascribed, by dr. goodwin, exclusively to the action of air upon the lungs and heart. does the external air act upon any other part of the body besides those which have been mentioned? it is probable it does, and that we lose our sensation and consciousness of it by habit. it is certain children cry, for the most part, as soon as they come into the world. may not this be the effect of the sudden impression of air upon the tender surface of their bodies? and may not the red colour of their skins be occasioned by an irritation excited on them by the stimulus of the air? it is certain it acts powerfully upon denudated animal fibres; for who has not observed a sore, and even the skin when deprived of its cuticle, to be affected, when long exposed to the air, with pain and inflammation? the stimulus of air, in promoting the natural actions of the alimentary canal, cannot be doubted. a certain portion of it seems to be necessarily present in the bowels in a healthy state. [91] it is probable, the first impulse of life was imparted to the body of adam by the decomposition of air in his lungs. i infer this from the account given by moses of his creation, in genesis, chap. ii. v. 7. "and the lord god formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life," in consequence of which, the verse adds, he became "a living soul." this explanation of the origin of life in the father of the human race, appears to accord more with reason, as well as the order of the words which describe it, than the common opinion of his having been animated by the infusion of a living soul into his body. 5. heat is a uniform and active stimulus in promoting life. it is derived, in certain seasons and countries, in part from the sun; but its principal source is from the lungs, in which it appears to be generated by the decomposition of pure air, and from whence it is conveyed, by means of the circulation, to every part of the body. the extensive influence of heat upon animal life, is evident from its decay and suspension during the winter in certain animals, and from its revival upon the approach and action of the vernal sun. it is true, life is diminished much less in man, from the distance and absence of the sun, than in other animals; but this must be ascribed to his possessing reason in so high a degree, as to enable him to supply the abstraction of heat, by the action of other stimuli upon his system. 6. exercise acts as a stimulus upon the body in various ways. its first impression is upon the muscles. these act upon the blood-vessels, and they upon the nerves and brain. the necessity of exercise to animal life is indicated, by its being kindly imposed upon man in paradise. the change which the human body underwent by the fall, rendered the same salutary stimulus necessary to its life, in the more active form of labour. but we are not to suppose, that motion is excited in the body by exercise or labour alone. it is constantly stimulated by the positions of standing, sitting, and lying upon the sides; all of which act more or less upon muscular fibres, and by their means, upon every part of the system. 7. the pleasures we derive from our senses have a powerful and extensive influence upon human life. the number of these pleasures, and their proximate cause, will form an agreeable subject for two or three future lectures. we proceed next to consider the internal stimuli which produce animal life. these are i. food. this acts in the following ways. 1. upon the tongue. such are the sensibility and excitability of this organ, and so intimate is its connection with every other part of the body, that the whole system is invigorated by aliment, as soon as it comes in contact with it. 2. by mastication. this moves a number of muscles and blood-vessels situated near the brain and heart, and of course imparts impressions to them. 3. by deglutition, which acts upon similar parts, and with the same effect. 4. by its presence in the stomach, in which it acts by its quantity and quality. food, by distending the stomach, stimulates the contiguous parts of the body. a moderate degree of distention of the stomach and bowels is essential to a healthy excitement of the system. vegetable aliment and drinks, which contain less nourishment than animal food, serve this purpose in the human body. hay acts in the same manner in a horse. sixteen pounds of this light food in a day are necessary to keep up such a degree of distension in the stomach and bowels of this animal, as to impart to him his natural grade of strength and life. the _quality_ of food, when of a stimulating nature, supplies the place of its distension from its quantity. a single onion will support a lounging highlander on the hills of scotland for four and twenty hours. a moderate quantity of salted meat, or a few ounces of sugar, have supplied the place of pounds of less stimulating food. even indigestible substances, which remain for days, or perhaps weeks in the stomach, exert a stimulus there which has an influence upon animal life. it is in this way the tops of briars, and the twigs of trees, devoid not only of nourishing matter, but of juices, support the camel in his journies through the deserts of the eastern countries. chips of cedar posts moistened with water have supported horses for two or three weeks, during a long voyage from boston to surinam; and the indigestible cover of an old bible preserved the life of a dog, accidentally confined in a room at newcastle upon tyne, for twenty days. 5. food stimulates the whole body by means of the process of digestion which goes forward in the stomach. this animal function is carried on by a process, in which there is probably an extrication of heat and air. now both these, it has been remarked, exert a stimulus in promoting animal life. drinks, when they consist of fermented or distilled liquors, stimulate from their quality; but when they consist of water, either in its simple state, or impregnated with any sapid substance, they act principally by distention. ii. the chyle acts upon the lacteals, mesenteric glands, and thoracic duct, in its passage through them; and it is highly probable, its first mixture with the blood in the subclavian vein, and its first action on the heart, are attended with considerable stimulating effects. iii. the blood is a very important internal stimulus. it has been disputed whether it acts by its quality, or only by distending the blood-vessels. it appears to act in both ways. i believe with dr. whytt, that the blood stimulates the heart and arteries by a specific action. but if this be not admitted, its influence in extending the blood-vessels in every part of the body, and thereby imparting extensive and uniform impressions to every animal fibre, cannot be denied. in support of this assertion it has been remarked, that in those persons who die of hunger, there is no diminution of the quantity of blood in the large blood-vessels. iv. a certain _tension_ of the glands, and of other parts of the body, contributes to support animal life. this is evident in the vigour which is imparted to the system, by the fulness of the seminal vesicles and gall bladder, and by the distension of the uterus in pregnancy. this distension is so great, in some instances, as to prevent sleep for many days and even weeks before delivery. it serves the valuable purpose of rendering the female system less liable to death during its continuance, than at any other time. by increasing the quantity of life in the body, it often suspends the fatal issue of pulmonary consumption, and ensures a temporary victory over the plague and other malignant fevers; for death, from those diseases, seldom takes place, until the stimulus, from the distension of the uterus, is removed by parturition. v. the exercises of the faculties of the mind have a wonderful influence in increasing the quantity of human life. they all act by _reflection_ only, after having been previously excited into action by impressions made upon the body. this view of the _re-action_ of the mind upon the body accords with the simplicity of other operations in the animal economy. it is thus the brain repays the heart for the blood it conveys to it, by re-acting upon its muscular fibres. the influence of the different faculties of the mind is felt in the pulse, in the stomach, and in the liver, and is seen in the face, and other external parts of the body. those which act most unequivocally in promoting life are the understanding, the imagination, and the passions. thinking belongs to the understanding, and is attended with an obvious influence upon the degree and duration of life. intense study has often rendered the body insensible to the debilitating effects of cold and hunger. men of great and active understandings, who blend with their studies temperance and exercise, are generally long lived. in support of this assertion, a hundred names might be added to those of newton and franklin. its truth will be more fully established by attending to the state of human life in persons of an opposite intellectual character. the cretins, a race of idiots in valais, in switzerland, travellers tell us, are all short lived. common language justifies the opinion of the stimulus of the understanding upon the brain: hence it is common to say of dull men, that they have scarcely ideas enough to keep themselves awake. the imagination acts with great force upon the body, whether its numerous associations produce pleasure or pain. but the passions pour a constant stream upon the wheels of life. they have been subdivided into emotions and passions properly so called. the former have for their objects present, the latter, future good and evil. all the objects of the passions are accompanied with desire or aversion. to the former belong chiefly, hope, love, ambition, and avarice; to the latter, fear, hatred, malice, envy, and the like. joy, anger, and terror, belong to the class of emotions. the passions and emotions have been further divided into stimulating and sedative. our business at present is to consider their first effect only upon the body. in the original constitution of human nature, we were made to be stimulated by such passions and emotions only as have moral good for their objects. man was designed to be always under the influence of hope, love, and joy. by the loss of his innocence, he has subjected himself to the dominion of passions and emotions of a malignant nature; but they possess, in common with such as are good, a stimulus which renders them subservient to the purpose of promoting animal life. it is true, they are like the stimulus of a dislocated bone in their operation upon the body, compared with the action of antagonist muscles stretched over bones, which gently move in their natural sockets. the effects of the good passions and emotions, in promoting health and longevity, have been taken notice of by many writers. they produce a flame, gentle and pleasant, like oil perfumed with frankincense in the lamp of life. there are instances likewise of persons who have derived strength and long life from the influence of the evil passions and emotions that have been mentioned. dr. darwin relates the history of a man, who used to overcome the fatigue induced by travelling, by thinking of a person whom he hated. the debility induced by disease is often removed by a sudden change in the temper. this is so common, that even nurses predict a recovery in persons as soon as they become peevish and ill-natured, after having been patient during the worst stage of their sickness. this peevishness acts as a gentle stimulus upon the system in its languid state, and thus turns the scale in favour of life and health. the famous benjamin lay, of this state, who lived to be eighty years of age, was of a very irascible temper. old elwes was a prodigy of avarice, and every court in europe furnishes instances of men who have attained to extreme old age, who have lived constantly under the dominion of ambition. in the course of a long inquiry which i instituted some years ago into the state of the body and mind in old people, i did not find a single person above eighty, who had not possessed an active understanding, or active passions. those different and opposite faculties of the mind, when in excess, happily supply the place of each other. where they unite their forces, they extinguish the flame of life, before the oil which feeds it is consumed. in another place i shall resume the influence of the faculties of the mind upon human life, as they discover themselves in the different pursuits of men. i have only to add here, that i see no occasion to admit, with the followers of dr. brown, that the mind is active in sleep, in preserving the motions of life. i hope to establish hereafter the opinion of mr. locke, that the mind is always passive in sound sleep. it is true it acts in dreams; but these depend upon a morbid state of the brain, and therefore do not belong to the present stage of our subject, for i am now considering animal life only in the healthy state of the body. i shall say presently, that dreams are intended to supply the absence of some natural stimulus, and hence we find they occur in those persons most commonly, in whom there is a want of healthy action in the system, induced by the excess or deficiency of customary stimuli. life is in a languid state in the morning. it acquires vigour by the gradual and successive application of stimuli in the forenoon. it is in its most perfect state about mid-day, and remains stationary for some hours. from the diminution of the sensibility and contractility of the system to the action of impressions, it lessens in the evening, and becomes again languid at bed-time. these facts will admit of an extensive application hereafter in our lectures upon the practice of physic. lecture ii. gentlemen, the stimuli which have been enumerated, when they act collectively, and within certain bounds, produce a healthy waking state. but they do not always act collectively, nor in the determined and regular manner that has been described. there is, in many states of the system, a deficiency of some stimuli, and, in some of its states, an apparent absence of them all. to account for the continuance of animal life under such circumstances, two things must be premised, before we proceed to take notice of the diminution or absence of the stimuli which support it. 1. the healthy actions of the body in the waking state consist in a proper degree of what has been called excitability and excitement. the former is the medium on which stimuli act in producing the latter. in an exact proportion, and a due relation of both, diffused uniformly throughout every part of the body, consists good health. disease is the reverse of this. it depends _in part_ upon a disproportion between excitement and excitability, and in a partial distribution of each of them. in thus distinguishing the different states of excitement and excitability in health and sickness, you see i dissent from dr. brown, who supposes them to be (though disproportioned to each other) equably diffused in the morbid, as well as the healthy state of the body. 2. it is a law of the system, that the absence of one natural stimulus is generally supplied by the increased action of others. this is more certainly the case where a natural stimulus is abstracted _suddenly_; for the excitability is thereby so instantly formed and accumulated, as to furnish a highly sensible and moveable surface for the remaining stimuli to act upon. many proofs might be adduced in support of this proposition. the reduction of the excitement of the blood-vessels, by means of cold, prepares the way for a full meal, or a warm bed, to excite in them the morbid actions which take place in a pleurisy or a rheumatism. a horse in a cold stable eats more than in a warm one, and thus counteracts the debility which would otherwise be induced upon his system, by the abstraction of the stimulus of warm air. these two propositions being admitted, i proceed next to inquire into the different degrees and states of animal life. the first departure from its ordinary and perfect state which strikes us, is in i. sleep. this is either natural or artificial. natural sleep is induced by a diminution of the excitement and excitability of the system, by the continued application of the stimuli which act upon the body in its waking state. when these stimuli act in a determined degree, that is, when the same number of stimuli act with the same force, and for the same time, upon the system, sleep will be brought on at the same hour every night. but when they act with uncommon force, or for an unusual time, it is brought on at an earlier hour. thus a long walk or ride, by persons accustomed to a sedentary life, unusual exercise of the understanding, the action of strong passions or emotions, and the continual application of unusual sounds seldom fail of inducing premature sleep. it is recorded of pope ganganelli, that he slept more soundly, and longer than usual, the night after he was raised to the papal chair. the effects of unusual sounds in bringing on premature sleep, is further demonstrated by that constant inclination to retire to bed at an early hour, which country people discover the first and second days they spend in a city, exposed from morning till night to the noise of hammers, files, and looms, or of drays, carts, waggons, and coaches, rattling over pavements of stone. sleep is further hastened by the absence of light, the cessation of sounds and labour, and the recumbent posture of the body on a soft bed. artificial sleep may be induced at any time by certain stimulating substances, particularly by opium. they act by carrying the system beyond the healthy grade of excitement, to a degree of indirect debility, which dr. brown has happily called the sleeping point. the same point may be induced in the system at any time by the artificial abstraction of the usual stimuli of life. for example, let a person shut himself up at mid-day in a dark room, remote from noise of all kinds, let him lie down upon his back upon a soft bed in a temperate state of the atmosphere, and let him cease to think upon interesting subjects, or let him think only upon one subject, and he will soon fall asleep. dr. boerhaave relates an instance of a dutch physician, who, having persuaded himself that waking was a violent state, and sleep the only natural one of the system, contrived, by abstracting every kind of stimulus in the manner that has been mentioned, to sleep away whole days and nights, until at length he impaired his understanding, and finally perished in a public hospital in a state of idiotism. in thus anticipating a view of the cause of sleep, i have said nothing of the effects of diseases of the brain in inducing it. these belong to another part of our course. the short explanation i have given of its cause was necessary in order to render the history of animal life, in that state of the system, more intelligible. at the usual hour of sleep there is an abstraction of the stimuli of light, sound, and muscular motion. the stimuli which remain, and act with an increased force upon the body in sleep, are 1. the heat which is discharged from the body, and confined by means of bed-clothes. it is most perceptible when exhaled from a bed-fellow. heat obtained in this way has sometimes been employed to restore declining life to the bodies of old people. witness the damsel who lay for this purpose in the bosom of the king of israel. the advantage of this external heat will appear further, when we consider how impracticable or imperfect sleep is, when we lie under too light covering in cold weather. 2. the air which is applied to the lungs during sleep probably acts with more force than in the waking state. i am disposed to believe that more air is phlogisticated in sleep than at any other time, for the smell of a close room in which a person has slept one night, we know, is much more disagreeable than that of a room, under equal circumstances, in which half a dozen people have sat for the same number of hours in the day time. the action of decomposed air on the lungs and heart was spoken of in a former lecture. an increase in its quantity must necessarily have a powerful influence upon animal life during the sleeping state. 3. respiration is performed with a greater extension and contraction of the muscles of the breast in sleep than in the waking state; and this cannot fail of increasing the impetus of the blood in its passage through the heart and blood-vessels. the increase of the fulness and force of the pulse in sleep, is probably owing in part to the action of respiration upon it. in another place i hope to elevate the rank of the blood-vessels in the animal economy, by showing that they are the fountains of power in the body. they derive this pre-eminence from the protection and support they afford to every part of the system. they are the perpetual centineals of health and life; for they never partake in the repose which is enjoyed by the muscles and nerves. during sleep, their sensibility seems to be converted into contractility, by which means their muscular fibres are more easily moved by the blood than in the waking state. the diminution of sensibility in sleep is proved by many facts to be mentioned hereafter; and the change of sensibility into contractility will appear, when we come to consider the state of animal life in infancy and old age. 4. aliment in the stomach acts more powerfully in sleep than in the waking state. this is evident from digestion going on more rapidly when we are awake than when we sleep. the more slow the digestion, the greater is the stimulus of the aliment in the stomach. of this we have many proofs in daily life. labourers object to milk as a breakfast, because it digests too soon; and often call for food in a morning, which they can feel all day in their stomachs. sausages, fat pork, and onions are generally preferred by them for this purpose. a moderate supper is favourable to easy and sound sleep; and the want of it, in persons who are accustomed to that meal, is often followed by a restless night. the absence of its stimulus is probably supplied by a full gall-bladder (which always attends an empty stomach) in persons who are not in the habit of eating suppers. 5. the stimulus of the urine, accumulated in the bladder during sleep, has a perceptible influence upon animal life. it is often so considerable as to interrupt sleep; and it is one of the causes of our waking at a regular hour in the morning. it is moreover a frequent cause of the activity of the understanding and passions in dreams; and hence we dream more in our morning slumbers, when the bladder is full, than we do in the beginning or middle of the night. 6. the fã¦ces exert a constant stimulus upon the bowels in sleep. this is so considerable as to render it less profound when they have been accumulated for two or three days, or when they have been deposited in the extremity of the alimentary canal. 7. the partial and irregular exercises of the understanding and passions in dreams have an occasional influence in promoting life. they occur only where there is a deficiency of other stimuli. such is the force with which the mind acts upon the body in dreams, that dr. brambilla, physician to the emperor of germany, informs us, that he has seen instances of wounds in soldiers being inflamed, and putting on a gangrenous appearance in consequence of the commotions excited in their bodies by irritating dreams[92]. the stimulating passions act through the medium of the will; and the exercises of this faculty of the mind sometimes extend so far as to produce actions in the muscles of the limbs, and occasionally in the whole body, as we see in persons who walk in their sleep. the stimulus of lust often awakens us with pleasure or pain, according as we are disposed to respect or disobey the precepts of our maker. the angry and revengeful passions often deliver us, in like manner, from the imaginary guilt of murder. even the debilitating passions of grief and fear produce an indirect operation upon the system that is favourable to life in sleep, for they excite that distressing disease called the night mare, which prompts us to speak, or halloo, and by thus invigorating respiration, overcomes the languid circulation of the blood in the heart and brain. do not complain then, gentlemen, when you are bestrode by this midnight hag. she is kindly sent to prevent your sudden death. persons who go to bed in good health, and are found dead the succeeding morning, are said most commonly to die of this disease. [92] a fever was excited in cinna the poet, in consequence of his dreaming that he saw cã¦sar, the night after he was assassinated, and was invited to accompany him to a dreary place, to which he pointed, in order to sup with him. convulsions and other diseases, i believe, are often excited in the night, by terrifying or distressing dreams. _plutarch's life of m. brutus._ i proceed now to inquire into the state of animal life in its different stages. i pass over for the present its history in generation. it will be sufficient only to remark in this place, that its first motion is produced by the stimulus of the male seed upon the female ovum. this opinion is not originally mine. you will find it in dr. haller[93]. the pungent taste which mr. john hunter discovered in the male seed renders it peculiarly fit for this purpose. no sooner is the female ovum thus set in motion, and the f[oe]tus formed, than its capacity of life is supported, 1. by the stimulus of the heat which it derives from its connection with its mother in the womb. 2. by the stimulus of its own circulating blood. 3. by its constant motion in the womb after the third month of pregnancy. the absence of this motion for a few days is always a sign of the indisposition or death of a f[oe]tus. considering how early a child is accustomed to it, it is strange that a cradle should ever have been denied to it after it comes into the world. [93] "novum f[oe]tum a seminis masculi _stimulo_ vitam concepisse."--_elementa physiologiã¦_, vol. viii. p. 177. ii. in infants there is an absence of many of the stimuli which support life. their excretions are in a great measure deficient in acrimony, and their mental faculties are too weak to exert much influence upon their bodies. but the absence of stimulus from those causes is amply supplied 1. by the very great excitability of their systems to those of light, sound, heat, and air. so powerfully do light and sound act upon them, that the author of nature has kindly defended their eyes and ears from an excess of their impressions by imperfect vision and hearing, for several weeks after birth. the capacity of infants to be acted upon by moderate degrees of heat is evident from their suffering less from cold than grown people. this is so much the case, that we read, in mr. umfreville's account of hudson's bay, of a child that was found alive upon the back of its mother after she was frozen to death. i before hinted at the action of the air upon the bodies of new-born infants in producing the red colour of their skins. it is highly probable (from a fact formerly mentioned) that the first impression of the atmosphere which produces this redness is accompanied with pain, and this we know is a stimulus of a very active nature. by a kind law of sensation, impressions, that were originally painful, become pleasurable by repetition or duration. this is remarkably evident in the impression now under consideration, and hence we find infants at a certain age discover signs of an increase of life by their delightful gestures, when they are carried into the open air. recollect further, gentlemen, what was said formerly of excitability predominating over sensibility in infants. we see it daily, not only in their patience of cold, but in the short time in which they cease to complain of the injuries they meet with from falls, cuts, and even severe surgical operations. 2. animal life is supported in infants by their sucking, or feeding, nearly every hour in the day and night when they are awake. i explained formerly the manner in which food stimulated the system. the action of sucking supplies, by the muscles employed in it, the stimulus of mastication. 3. laughing and crying, which are universal in infancy, have a considerable influence in promoting animal life, by their action upon respiration, and the circulation of the blood. laughing exists under all circumstances, independently of education or imitation. the child of the negro slave, born only to inherit the toils and misery of its parents, receives its master with a smile every time he enters his kitchen or a negro-quarter. but laughing exists in infancy under circumstances still more unfavourable to it; an instance of which is related by mr. bruce. after a journey of several hundred miles across the sands of nubia, he came to a spring of water shaded by a few scrubby trees. here he intended to have rested during the night, but he had not slept long before he was awakened by a noise which he perceived was made by a solitary arab, equally fatigued and half famished with himself, who was preparing to murder and plunder him. mr. bruce rushed upon him, and made him his prisoner. the next morning he was joined by a half-starved female companion, with an infant of six months old in her arms. in passing by this child, mr. bruce says, it laughed and crowed in his face, and attempted to leap upon him. from this fact it would seem as if laughing was not only characteristic of our species, but that it was early and intimately connected with human life. the child of these arabs had probably never seen a smile upon the faces of its ferocious parents, and perhaps had never (before the sight of mr. bruce) beheld any other human creature. crying has a considerable influence upon health and life in children. i have seen so many instances of its salutary effects, that i have satisfied myself it is as possible for a child to "cry and be fat," as it is to "laugh and be fat." 4. as children advance in life, the constancy of their appetites for food, and their disposition to laugh and cry, lessen, but the diminution of these stimuli is supplied by exercise. the limbs[94] and tongues of children are always in motion. they continue likewise to eat oftener than adults. a crust of bread is commonly the last thing they ask for at night, and the first thing they call for in the morning. it is now they begin to feel the energy of their mental faculties. this stimulus is assisted in its force by the disposition to prattle, which is so universal among children. this habit of converting their ideas into words as fast as they rise, follows them to their beds, where we often hear them talk themselves to sleep in a whisper, or to use less correct, but more striking terms, by _thinking aloud_. [94] niebuhr, in his travels, says the children in arabia are taught to keep themselves constantly in motion by a kind of vibratory exercise of their bodies. this motion counteracts the diminution of life produced by the heat of the climate of arabia. 5. dreams act at an early period upon the bodies of children. their smiles, startings, and occasional screams in their sleep appear to arise from them. after the third or fourth year of their lives, they sometimes confound them with things that are real. from observing the effects of this mistake upon the memory, a sensible woman whom i once knew, forbad her children to tell their dreams, lest they should contract habits of lying, by confounding imaginary with real events. 6. new objects, whether natural or artificial, are never seen by children without emotions of pleasure which act upon their capacity of life. the effects of novelty upon the tender bodies of children may easily be conceived, by its friendly influence upon the health of invalids who visit foreign countries, and who pass months or years in a constant succession of new and agreeable impressions. iii. from the combination of all the stimuli that have been enumerated, human life is generally in excess from fifteen to thirty-five. it is during this period the passions blow a perpetual storm. the most predominating of them is the love of pleasure. no sooner does the system become insensible to this stimulus, than ambition succeeds it in, iv. the middle stage of life. here we behold man in his most perfect physical state. the stimuli which now act upon him are so far regulated by prudence, that they are seldom excessive in their force. the habits of order the system acquires in this period, continue to produce good health for many years afterwards; and hence bills of mortality prove that fewer persons die between forty and fifty-seven, than in any other seventeen years of human life. v. in old age, the senses of seeing, hearing, and touch are impaired. the venereal appetite is weakened, or entirely extinguished. the pulse becomes slow, and subject to frequent intermissions, from a decay in the force of the blood-vessels. exercise becomes impracticable, or irksome, and the operations of the understanding are performed with languor and difficulty. in this shattered and declining state of the system, the absence and diminution of all the stimuli which have been mentioned are supplied, 1. by an increase in the quantity, and by the peculiar quality of the food which is taken by old people. they generally eat twice as much as persons in middle life, and they bear with pain the usual intervals between meals. they moreover prefer that kind of food which is savoury and stimulating. the stomach of the celebrated parr, who died in the one hundred and fiftieth year of his age, was found full of strong, nourishing aliment. 2. by the stimulus of the fã¦ces, which are frequently retained for five or six days in the bowels of old people. 3. by the stimulus of fluids rendered preternaturally acrid by age. the urine, sweat, and even the tears of old people, possess a peculiar acrimony. their blood likewise loses part of the mildness which is natural to that fluid; and hence the difficulty with which sores heal in old people; and hence too the reason why cancers are more common in the decline, than in any other period of human life. 4. by the uncommon activity of certain passions. these are either good or evil. to the former belong an increased vigour in the operations of those passions which have for their objects the divine being, or the whole family of mankind, or their own offspring, particularly their grand-children. to the latter passions belong malice, a hatred of the manners and fashions of the rising generation, and, above all, avarice. this passion knows no holidays. its stimulus is constant, though varied daily by the numerous means which it has discovered of increasing, securing, and perpetuating property. it has been observed that weak mental impressions produce much greater effects in old people than in persons in middle life. a trifling indisposition in a grand-child, an inadvertent act of unkindness from a friend, or the fear of losing a few shillings, have, in many instances, produced in them a degree of wakefulness that has continued for two or three nights. it is to this highly excitable state of the system that solomon probably alludes, when he describes the grasshopper as burdensome to old people. 5. by the passion for talking, which is so common, as to be one of the characteristics of old age. i mentioned formerly the influence of this stimulus upon animal life. perhaps it is more necessary in the female constitution than in the male; for it has long ago been remarked, that women who are very taciturn, are generally unhealthy. 6. by their wearing warmer clothes, and preferring warmer rooms, than in the former periods of their lives. this practice is so uniform, that it would not be difficult, in many cases, to tell a man's age by his dress, or by finding out at what degree of heat he found himself comfortable in a close room. 7. by dreams. these are universal among old people. they arise from their short and imperfect sleep. 8. it has been often said, that "we are once men, and twice children." in speaking of the state of animal life in infancy, i remarked that the contractility of the animal fibres predominated over their sensibility in that stage of life. the same thing takes place in old people, and it is in consequence of the return of this infantile state of the system, that all the stimuli which have been mentioned act upon them with much more force than in middle life. this sameness, in the predominance of excitability over sensibility in children and old people, will account for the similarity of their habits with respect to eating, sleep, exercise, and the use of fermented and distilled liquors. it is from the increase of excitability in old people, that so small a quantity of strong drink intoxicates them; and it is from an ignorance of this change in their constitutions, that many of them become drunkards, after passing the early and middle stages of life with sober characters. life is continued in a less imperfect state in old age in women than in men. the former sew, and knit, and spin, after they lose the use of their ears and eyes; whereas the latter, after losing the use of those senses, frequently pass the evening of their lives in a torpid state in a chimney corner. it is from the influence of moderate and gently stimulating employments, upon the female constitution, that more women live to be old than men, and that they rarely survive their usefulness in domestic life. hitherto the principles i am endeavouring to establish have been applied to explain the cause of life in its more common forms. let us next inquire, how far they will enable us to explain its continuance in certain morbid states of the body, in which there is a diminution of some, and an apparent abstraction of all the stimuli, which have been supposed to produce animal life. i. we observe some people to be blind, or deaf and dumb from their birth. the same defects of sight, hearing, and speech, are sometimes brought on by diseases. here animal life is deprived of all those numerous stimuli, which arise from light, colours, sounds, and speech. but the absence of these stimuli is supplied, 1. by increased sensibility and excitability in their remaining senses. the ears, the nose, and the fingers, afford a surface for impressions in blind people, which frequently overbalances the loss of their eye-sight. there are two blind young men, brothers, in this city, of the name of dutton, who can tell when they approach a post in walking across a street, by a peculiar sound which the ground under their feet emits in the neighbourhood of the post. their sense of hearing is still more exquisite to sounds of another kind. they can tell the names of a number of tame pigeons, with which they amuse themselves in a little garden, by only hearing them fly over their heads. the celebrated blind philosopher, dr. moyse, can distinguish a black dress on his friends, by its smell; and we read of many instances of blind persons who have been able to perceive colours by rubbing their fingers upon them. one of these persons, mentioned by mr. boyle, has left upon record an account of the specific quality of each colour as it affected his sense of touch. he says black imparted the most, and blue the least perceptible sense of asperity to his fingers. 2. by an increase of vigour in the exercises of the mental faculties. the poems of homer, milton, and blacklock, and the attainments of sanderson in mathematical knowledge, all discover how much the energy of the mind is increased by the absence of impressions upon the organs of vision. ii. we sometimes behold life in idiots, in whom there is not only an absence of the stimuli of the understanding and passions, but frequently, from the weakness of their bodies, a deficiency of the loco-motive powers. here an inordinate appetite for food, or venereal pleasures, or a constant habit of laughing, or talking, or playing with their hands and feet, supply the place of the stimulating operations of the mind, and of general bodily exercise. of the inordinate force of the venereal appetite in idiots we have many proofs. the cretins are much addicted to venery; and dr. michaelis tells us that the idiot whom he saw at the passaic falls in new-jersey, who had passed six and twenty years in a cradle, acknowledged that he had venereal desires, and wished to be married, for, the doctor adds, he had a sense of religion upon his fragment of mind, and of course did not wish to gratify that appetite in an unlawful manner. iii. how is animal life supported in persons who pass many days, and even weeks without food, and in some instances without drinks? long fasting is usually the effect of disease, of necessity, or of a principle of religion. when it arises from the first cause, the actions of life are kept up by the stimulus of disease[95]. the absence of food when accidental, or submitted to as a means of producing moral happiness, is supplied, 1. by the stimulus of a full gall bladder. this state of the receptacle of bile has generally been found to accompany an empty stomach. the bile is sometimes absorbed, and imparts a yellow colour to the skin of persons who suffer or die of famine. 2. by increased acrimony in all the secretions and excretions of the body. the saliva becomes so acrid by long fasting, as to excoriate the gums, and the breath acquires not only a f[oe]tor, but a pungency so active, as to draw tears from the eyes of persons who are exposed to it. 3. by increased sensibility and excitability in the sense of touch. the blind man mentioned by mr. boyle, who could distinguish colours by his fingers, possessed this talent only after fasting. even a draught of any kind of liquor deprived him of it. i have taken notice, in my account of the yellow fever in philadelphia, in the year 1793, of the effects of a diet bordering upon fasting for six weeks, in producing a quickness and correctness in my perceptions of the state of the pulse, which i had never experienced before. 4. by an increase of activity in the understanding and passions. gamesters often improve the exercises of their minds, when they are about to play for a large sum of money, by living for a day or two upon roasted apples and cold water. where the passions are excited into preternatural action, the absence of the stimulus of food is scarcely felt. i shall hereafter mention the influence of the desire of life upon its preservation, under all circumstances. it acts with peculiar force when fasting is accidental. but when it is submitted to as a religious duty, it is accompanied by sentiments and feelings which more than balance the abstraction of aliment. the body of moses was sustained, probably without a miracle, during an abstinence of forty days and forty nights, by the pleasure he derived from conversing with his maker "face to face, as a man speaking with his friend[96]." [95] the stimulus of a disease sometimes supplies the place of food in prolonging life. mr. c. s----, a gentleman well known in virginia, who was afflicted with a palsy, which had resisted the skill of several physicians, determined to destroy himself, by abstaining from food and drinks. he lived _sixty_ days without eating any thing, and the greatest part of that time without tasting even a drop of water. his disease probably protracted his life thus long beyond the usual time in which death is induced by fasting. see a particular account of this case, in the first number of the second volume of dr. coxe's medical museum. [96] exodus xxxiii, 11. xxxiv, 28. i remarked formerly, that the veins discover no deficiency of blood in persons who die of famine. death from this cause seems to be less the effect of the want of food, than of the combined and excessive operation of the stimuli, which supply its place in the system. iv. we come now to a difficult inquiry, and that is, how is life supported during the total abstraction of external and internal stimuli which takes place in asphyxia, or in apparent death, from all its numerous causes? i took notice, in a former lecture, that ordinary life consisted in the excitement and excitability of the different parts of the body, and that they were occasionally changed into each other. in apparent death from violent emotions of the mind, from the sudden impression of miasmata, or from drowning, there is a loss of excitement; but the excitability of the system remains for minutes, and, in some instances, for hours afterwards unimpaired, provided the accident which produced the loss of excitement has not been attended with such exertions as are calculated to waste it. if, for example, a person should fall suddenly into the water, without bruising his body, and sink before his fears or exertions had time to dissipate his excitability; his recovery from apparent death might be effected by the gentle action of heat or frictions upon his body, so as to convert his accumulated excitability gradually into excitement. the same condition of the system takes place when apparent death occurs from freezing, and a recovery is accomplished by the same gentle application of stimuli, provided the organization of the body be not injured, or its excitability wasted, by violent exertions previously to its freezing. this excitability is the vehicle of motion, and motion, when continued long enough, produces sensation, which is soon followed by thought; and in these, i said formerly, consists perfect life in the human body. for this explanation of the manner in which life is suspended and revived, in persons apparently dead from cold, i am indebted to mr. john hunter, who supposes, if it were possible for the body to be _suddenly_ frozen, by an instantaneous abstraction of its heat, life might be continued for many years in a suspended state, and revived at pleasure, provided the body were preserved constantly in a temperature barely sufficient to prevent re-animation, and never so great as to endanger the destruction of any organic part. the resuscitation of insects, that have been in a torpid state for months, and perhaps years, in substances that have preserved their organization, should at least defend this bold proposition from being treated as chimerical. the effusions even of the imagination of such men as mr. hunter, are entitled to respect. they often become the germs of future discoveries. in that state of suspended animation which occurs in acute diseases, and which has sometimes been denominated a _trance_, the system is nearly in the same excitable state that it is in apparent death from drowning and freezing. resuscitation, in these cases, is not the effect, as in those which have been mentioned, of artificial applications made to the body for that purpose. it appears to be spontaneous; but it is produced by impressions made upon the ears, and by the operations of the mind in dreams. of the actions of these stimuli upon the body in its apparently lifeless state, i have satisfied myself by many facts. i once attended a citizen of philadelphia, who died of a pulmonary disease, in the 80th year of his age. a few days before his death, he begged that he might not be interred until one week after the usual signs of life had left his body, and gave as a reason for this request, that he had, when a young man, died to all appearance of the yellow fever, in one of the west-india islands. in this situation he distinctly heard the persons who attended him, fix upon the time and place of burying him. the horror of being put under ground alive, produced such distressing emotions in his mind, as to diffuse motion throughout his body, and finally excited in him all the usual functions of life. in dr. creighton's essay upon mental derangement, there is a history of a case nearly of a similar nature. a young lady (says the doctor), an attendant on the princess of----, after having been confined to her bed for a great length of time, with a violent nervous disorder, was at last, to all appearance, deprived of life. her lips were quite pale, her face resembled the countenance of a dead person, and her body grew cold. she was removed from the room in which _she died_, was laid in a coffin, and the day for her funeral was fixed on. the day arrived, and according to the custom of the country, funeral songs and hymns were sung before the door. just as the people were about to nail on the lid of the coffin, a kind of perspiration was observed on the surface of her body. she recovered. the following is the account she gave of her sensations: she said, "it seemed to her as if in a dream, that she was really dead; yet she was perfectly conscious of all that happened around her. she distinctly heard her friends speaking and lamenting her death at the side of her coffin. she felt them pull on the dead clothes, and lay her in it. this feeling produced a mental anxiety which she could not describe. she tried to cry out, but her mind was without power, and could not act on her body. she had the contradictory feeling as if she were in her own body, and not in it, at the same time. it was equally impossible for her to stretch out her arm or open her eyes, as to cry, although she continually endeavoured to do so. the internal anguish of her mind was at its utmost height when the funeral hymns began to be sung, and when the lid of the coffin was about to be nailed on. the thought that she was to be buried alive was the first which gave activity to her mind, and enabled it to operate on her corporeal frame." where the ears lose their capacity of being acted upon by stimuli, the mind, by its operations in dreams, becomes a source of impressions which again sets the wheels of life in motion. there is an account published by dr. arnold, in his observations upon insanity[97], of a certain john engelbreght, a german, who was believed to be dead, and who was evidently resuscitated by the exercises of his mind upon subjects which were of a delightful or stimulating nature. this history shall be taken from mr. engelbreght's words. "it was on thursday noon (says he), about twelve o'clock, when i perceived that death was making his approaches upon me from the lower parts upwards, insomuch that my whole body became stiff. i had no feeling left in my hands and feet, neither in any other part of my whole body, nor was i at last able to speak or see, for my mouth now becoming very stiff, i was no longer able to open it, nor did i feel it any longer. my eyes also broke in my head in such a manner that i distinctly felt it. for all that, i understood what they said, when they were praying by me, and i distinctly heard them say, feel his legs, how stiff and cold they have become. this i heard distinctly, but i had no perception of their touch. i heard the watchman cry 11 o'clock, but at 12 o'clock my hearing left me." after relating his passage from the body to heaven with the velocity of an arrow shot from a cross bow, he proceeds, and says, that as he was twelve hours in dying, so he was twelve hours in returning to life. "as i died (says he) from beneath upwards, so i revived again the contrary way, from above to beneath, or from top to toe. being conveyed back from the heavenly glory, i began to hear something of what they were praying for me, in the same room with me. thus was my hearing the _first_ sense i recovered. after this i began to have a perception of my eyes, so that, by little and little, my whole body became strong and sprightly, and no sooner did i get a feeling of my legs and feet, than i arose and stood firm upon them with a firmness i had never enjoyed before. the heavenly joy i had experienced, invigorated me to such a degree, that people were astonished at my rapid, and almost instantaneous recovery." [97] vol. ii. p. 298. the explanation i have given of the cause of resuscitation in this man will serve to refute a belief in a supposed migration of the soul from the body, in cases of apparent death. the imagination, it is true, usually conducts the whole mind to the abodes of happy or miserable spirits, but it acts here in the same way that it does when it transports it, in common dreams, to numerous and distant parts of the world. there is nothing supernatural in mr. engelbreght being invigorated by his supposed flight to heaven. pleasant dreams always stimulate and strengthen the body, while dreams which are accompanied with distress or labour debilitate and fatigue it. lecture iii. gentlemen, let us next take a view of the state of animal life in the different inhabitants of our globe, as varied by the circumstances of civilization, diet, situation, and climate. i. in the indians of the northern latitudes of america there is often a defect of the stimulus of aliment, and of the understanding and passions. their vacant countenances, and their long and disgusting taciturnity, are the effects of the want of action in their brains from a deficiency of ideas; and their tranquillity under all the common circumstances of irritation, pleasure, or grief, are the result of an absence of passion; for they hold it to be disgraceful to show any outward signs of anger, joy, or even of domestic affection. this account of the indian character, i know, is contrary to that which is given of it by rousseau, and several other writers, who have attempted to prove that man may become perfect and happy without the aids of civilization and religion. this opinion is contradicted by the experience of all ages, and is rendered ridiculous by the facts which are well ascertained in the history of the customs and habits of our american savages. in a cold climate they are the most miserable beings upon the face of the earth. the greatest part of their time is spent in sleep, or under the alternate influence of hunger and gluttony. they moreover indulge in vices which are alike contrary to moral and physical happiness. it is in consequence of these habits that they discover so early the marks of old age, and that so few of them are long-lived. the absence and diminution of many of the stimuli of life in these people is supplied in part by the violent exertions with which they hunt and carry on war, and by the extravagant manner with which they afterwards celebrate their exploits, in their savage dances and songs. ii. in the inhabitants of the torrid regions of africa there is a deficiency of labour; for the earth produces spontaneously nearly all the sustenance they require. their understandings and passions are moreover in a torpid state. but the absence of bodily and mental stimuli in these people is amply supplied by the constant heat of the sun, by the profuse use of spices in their diet, and by the passion for musical sounds which so universally characterises the african nations. iii. in greenland the body is exposed during a long winter to such a degree of cold as to reduce the pulse to 40 or 50 strokes in a minute. but the effects of this cold in lessening the quantity of life are obviated in part by the heat of close stove rooms, by warm clothing, and by the peculiar nature of the aliment of the greenlanders, which consists chiefly of animal food, of dried fish, and of whale oil. they prefer the last of those articles in so rancid a state, that it imparts a f[oe]tor to their perspiration, which, mr. crantz says, renders even their churches offensive to strangers. i need hardly add, that a diet possessed of such diffusible qualities cannot fail of being highly stimulating. it is remarkable that the food of all the northern nations of europe is composed of stimulating animal or vegetable matters, and that the use of spiritous liquors is universal among them. iv. let us next turn our eyes to the miserable inhabitants of those eastern countries which compose the turkish empire. here we behold life in its most feeble state, not only from the absence of physical, but of other stimuli which operate upon the inhabitants of other parts of the world. among the poor people of turkey there is a general deficiency of aliment. mr. volney in his travels tells us, "that the diet of the bedouins seldom exceeds six ounces a day, and that it consists of six or seven dates soaked in butter-milk, and afterwards mixed with a little sweet milk, or curds." there is likewise a general deficiency among them of stimulus from the operations of the mental faculties; for such is the despotism of the government in turkey, that it weakens not only the understanding, but it annihilates all that immense source of stimuli which arises from the exercise of the domestic and public affections. a turk lives wholly to himself. in point of time he occupies only the moment in which he exists; for his futurity, as to life and property, belongs altogether to his master. fear is the reigning principle of his actions, and hope and joy seldom add a single pulsation to his heart. tyranny even imposes a restraint upon the stimulus which arises from conversation, for "they speak (says mr. volney) with a slow feeble voice, as if the lungs wanted strength to propel air enough through the glottis to form distinct articulate sounds." the same traveller adds, that "they are slow in all their motions, that their bodies are small, that they have small evacuations, and that their blood is so destitute of serosity, that nothing but the greatest heat can preserve its fluidity." the deficiency of aliment, and the absence of mental stimuli in these people is supplied, 1. by the heat of their climate. 2. by their passion for musical sounds and fine clothes. and 3. by their general use of coffee, garlic[98], and opium. [98] niebuhr's travels. the more debilitated the body is, the more forcibly these stimuli act upon it. hence, according to mr. volney, the bedouins, whose slender diet has been mentioned, enjoy good health; for this consists not in strength, but in an exact proportion being kept up between the excitability of the body, and the number and force of the stimuli which act upon it. v. many of the observations which have been made upon the inhabitants of africa, and of the turkish dominions, apply to the inhabitants of china and the east-indies. they want, in many instances, the stimulus of animal food. their minds are, moreover, in a state too languid to act with much force upon their bodies. the absence and deficiency of these stimuli are supplied by, 1. the heat of the climate in the southern parts of those countries. 2. by a vegetable diet abounding in nourishment, particularly rice and beans. 3. by the use of tea in china, and by a stimulating coffee made of the dried and toasted seeds of the datura stramonium, in the neighbourhood of the indian coast. some of these nations likewise chew stimulating substances, as too many of our citizens do tobacco. among the poor and depressed subjects of the governments of the middle and southern parts of europe, the deficiency of the stimulus of wholesome food, of clothing, of fuel, and of liberty, is supplied, in some countries, by the invigorating influence of the christian religion upon animal life, and in others by the general use of tea, coffee, garlic, onions, opium, tobacco, malt liquors, and ardent spirits. the use of each of these stimuli seems to be regulated by the circumstances of climate. in cold countries, where the earth yields its increase with reluctance, and where vegetable aliment is scarce, the want of the stimulus of distension which that species of food is principally calculated to produce is sought for in that of ardent spirits. to the southward of 40â°, a substitute for the distension from mild vegetable food is sought for in onions, garlic, and tobacco. but further, a uniform climate calls for more of these artificial stimuli than a climate that is exposed to the alternate action of heat and cold, winds and calms, and of wet and dry weather. savages and ignorant people likewise require more of them than persons of civilized manners, and cultivated understandings. it would seem from these facts that man cannot exist without _sensation_ of some kind, and that when it is not derived from natural means, it will always be sought for in such as are artificial. in no part of the human species, is animal life in a more perfect state than in the inhabitants of great britain[99], and the united states of america. with all the natural stimuli that have been mentioned, they are constantly under the invigorating influence of liberty. there is an indissoluble union between moral, political, and physical happiness; and if it be true, that elective and representative governments are most favourable to individual, as well as national prosperity, it follows of course, that they are most favourable to animal life. but this opinion does not rest upon an induction derived from the relation, which truths upon all subjects bear to each other. many facts prove animal life to exist in a larger quantity and for a longer time, in the enlightened and happy state of connecticut, in which republican liberty has existed above one hundred and fifty years, than in any other country upon the surface of the globe. [99] haller's elements physiologiã¦, vol. viii. p. 2. p. 107. it remains now to mention certain mental stimuli which act nearly alike in the production of animal life, upon the individuals of all the nations in the world. they are, 1. the desire of life. this principle, so deeply and universally implanted in human nature, acts very powerfully in supporting our existence. it has been observed to prolong life. sickly travellers by sea and land, often live under circumstances of the greatest weakness, till they reach their native country, and then expire in the bosom of their friends. this desire of life often turns the scale in favour of a recovery in acute diseases. its influence will appear, from the difference in the periods in which death was induced in two persons, who were actuated by opposite passions with respect to life. atticus, we are told, died of voluntary abstinence from food in five days. in sir william hamilton's account of the earthquake at calabria, we read of a girl who lived eleven days without food before she expired. in the former case, life was shortened by an aversion from it; in the latter, it was protracted by the desire of it. the late mr. brissot, in his visit to this city, informed me, that the application of animal magnetism (in which he was a believer) had in no instance cured a disease in a west-india slave. perhaps it was rendered inert by its not being accompanied by a strong desire of life; for this principle exists in a more feeble state in slaves than in freemen. it is possible likewise the wills and imaginations of these degraded people may have become so paralytic by slavery, as to be incapable of being excited by the impression of this fanciful remedy. 2. the love of money sets the whole animal machine in motion. hearts which are insensible to the stimuli of religion, patriotism, love, and even of the domestic affections, are excited into action by this passion. the city of philadelphia, between the 10th and 15th of august, 1791, will long be remembered by contemplative men, for having furnished the most extraordinary proofs of the stimulus of the love of money upon the human body. a new scene of speculation was produced at that time by the scrip of the bank of the united states. it excited febrile diseases in three persons who became my patients. in one of them, the acquisition of twelve thousand dollars in a few minutes by a lucky sale, brought on madness which terminated in death in a few days[100]. the whole city felt the impulse of this paroxysm of avarice. the slow and ordinary means of earning money were deserted, and men of every profession and trade were seen in all our streets hastening to the coffee-house, where the agitation of countenance, and the desultory manners, of all the persons who were interested in this species of gaming, exhibited a truer picture of a bedlam, than of a place appropriated to the transaction of mercantile business. but further, the love of money discovers its stimulus upon the body in a peculiar manner in the games of cards and dice. i have heard of a gentleman in virginia who passed two whole days and nights in succession at a card table, and it is related in the life of a noted gamester in ireland, that when he was so ill as to be unable to rise from his chair, he would suddenly revive when brought to the hazard table, by hearing the rattling of the dice. [100] dr. mead relates, upon the authority of dr. hales, that more of the successful speculators in the south-sea scheme of 1720 became insane, than of those who had been ruined by it. 3. public amusements of all kinds, such as a horse race, a cockpit, a chase, the theatre, the circus, masquerades, public dinners, and tea parties, all exert an artificial stimulus upon the system, and thus supply the defect of the rational exercises of the mind. 4. the love of dress is not confined in its stimulating operation to persons in health. it acts perceptibly in some cases upon invalids. i have heard of a gentleman in south-carolina, who always relieved himself of a fit of low spirits by changing his dress; and i believe there are few people who do not feel themselves enlivened, by putting on a new suit of clothes. 5. novelty is an immense source of agreeable stimuli. companions, studies, pleasures, modes of business, prospects, and situations, with respect to town and country, or to different countries, that are _new_, all exert an invigorating influence upon health and life. 6. the love of fame acts in various ways; but its stimulus is most sensible and durable in military life. it counteracts in many instances the debilitating effects of hunger, cold, and labour. it has sometimes done more, by removing the weakness which is connected with many diseases. in several instances it has assisted the hardships of a camp life, in curing pulmonary consumption. 7. the love of country is a deep seated principle of action in the human breast. its stimulus is sometimes so excessive, as to induce disease in persons who recently migrate, and settle in foreign countries. it appears in various forms; but exists most frequently in the solicitude, labours, attachments, and hatred of party spirit. all these act forcibly in supporting animal life. it is because newspapers are supposed to contain the measure of the happiness or misery of our country, that they are so interesting to all classes of people. those vehicles of intelligence, and of public pleasure or pain, are frequently desired with the impatience of a meal, and they often produce the same stimulating effects upon the body[101]. [101] they have been very happily called by mr. green, in his poem entitled spleen, "the manna of the day." 8. the different religions of the world, by the activity they excite in the mind, have a sensible influence upon human life. atheism is the worst of sedatives to the understanding and passions. it is the abstraction of thought from the most sublime, and of love from the most perfect of all possible objects. man is as naturally a religious, as he is a social and domestic animal; and the same violence is done to his mental faculties, by robbing him of a belief in a god, that is done by dooming him to live in a cell, deprived of the objects and pleasures of social and domestic life. the necessary and immutable connection between the texture of the human mind, and the worship of an object of some kind, has lately been demonstrated by the atheists of europe, who, after rejecting the true god, have instituted the worship of nature, of fortune, and of human reason; and, in some instances, with ceremonies of the most expensive and splendid kind. religions are friendly to animal life, in proportion as they elevate the understanding, and act upon the passions of hope and love. it will readily occur to you, that christianity, when believed and obeyed, according to its original consistency with itself, and with the divine attributes, is more calculated to produce those effects than any other religion in the world. such is the salutary operation of its doctrines and precepts upon health and life, that if its divine authority rested upon no other argument, this alone would be sufficient to recommend it to our belief. how long mankind may continue to prefer substituted pursuits and pleasures to this invigorating stimulus, is uncertain; but the time, we are assured, will come, when the understanding shall be elevated from its present inferior objects, and the luxated passions be reduced to their original order. this change in the mind of man, i believe, will be effected only by the influence of the christian religion, after all the efforts of human reason to produce it, by means of civilization, philosophy, liberty, and government, have been exhausted to no purpose. thus far, gentlemen, we have considered animal life as it respects the human species; but the principles i am endeavouring to establish require that we should take a view of it in animals of every species, in all of which we shall find it depends upon the same causes as in the human body. and here i shall begin by remarking, that if we should discover the stimuli which support life in certain animals to be fewer in number, or weaker in force than those which support it in our species, we must resolve it into that attribute of the deity which seems to have delighted in variety in all his works. the following observations apply more or less to all the animals upon our globe. 1. they all possess either hearts, lungs, brains, nerves, or muscular fibres. it is as yet a controversy among naturalists whether animal life can exist without a brain; but no one has denied muscular fibres, and of course contractility, or excitability, to belong to animal life in all its shapes. 2. they all require more or less air for their existence. even the snail inhales it for seven months under ground, through a pellicle which it weaves out of slime, as a covering for its body. if this pellicle at any time become too thick to admit the air, the snail opens a passage in it for that purpose. now air we know acts powerfully in supporting animal life. 3. many of them possess heat equal to that of the human body. birds possess several degrees beyond it. now heat, it was said formerly, acts with great force in the production of animal life. 4. they all feed upon substances more or less stimulating to their bodies. even water itself, chemistry has taught us, affords an aliment, not only stimulating, but nourishing to many animals. 5. many of them possess senses, more acute and excitable, than the same organs in the human species. these expose surfaces for the action of external impressions, that supply the absence or deficiency of mental faculties. 6. such of them as are devoid of sensibility, possess an uncommon portion of contractility, or simple excitability. this is most evident in the polypus. when cut to pieces, it appears to feel little or no pain. 7. they all possess loco-motive powers in a greater or less degree, and of course are acted upon by the stimulus of muscular motion. 8. most of them appear to feel a stimulus, from the gratification of their appetites for food, and for venereal pleasures, far more powerful than that which is felt by our species from the same causes. i shall hereafter mention some facts from spalanzani upon the subject of generation, that will prove the stimulus, from venery, to be strongest in those animals, in which other stimuli act with the least force. thus the male frog during its long connection with its female, suffers its limbs to be amputated, without discovering the least mark of pain, and without relaxing its hold of the object of its embraces. 9. in many animals we behold evident marks of understanding and passion. the elephant, the fox, and the ant exhibit strong proofs of thought; and where is the school boy that cannot bear testimony to the anger of the bee and the wasp? 10. but what shall we say of those animals, which pass long winters in a state in which there is an apparent absence of the stimuli of heat, exercise, and the motion of the blood. life in these animals is probably supported, 1. by such an accumulation of excitability, as to yield to impressions, which to us are imperceptible. 2. by the stimulus of aliment in a state of digestion in the stomach, or by the stimulus of aliment restrained from digestion by means of cold; for mr. john hunter has proved by an experiment on a frog, that cold below a certain degree, checks that animal process. 3. by the constant action of air upon their bodies. it is possible life may exist in these animals, during their hybernation, in the total absence of impression and motion of every kind. this may be the case where the torpor from cold has been _suddenly_ brought upon their bodies. excitability here is in an accumulated, but quiescent state. 11. it remains only under this head to inquire, in what manner is life supported in those animals which live in a cold element, and whose blood is sometimes but a little above the freezing point? it will be a sufficient answer to this question to remark, that heat and cold are relative terms, and that different animals, according to their organization, require very different degrees of heat for their existence. thirty-two degrees of it are probably as stimulating to some of these cold blooded animals (as they are called), as 70â° or 80â° are to the human body. it might afford additional support to the doctrine of animal life, which i have delivered, to point out the manner in which life and growth are produced in vegetables of all kinds. but this subject belongs to the professor of botany and natural history[102], who is amply qualified to do it justice. i shall only remark, that vegetable life is as much the offspring of stimuli as animal, and that skill in agriculture consists chiefly in the proper application of them. the seed of a plant, like an animal body, has no principle of life within itself. if preserved for many years in a drawer, or in earth below the stimulating influence of heat, air, and water, it discovers no sign of vegetation. it grows, like an animal, only in consequence of stimuli acting upon its _capacity_ of life. [102] dr. barton. from a review of what has been said of animal life in all its numerous forms and modifications, we see that it as much an effect of impressions upon a peculiar species of matter, as sound is of the stroke of a hammer upon a bell, or music of the motion of the bow upon the strings of a violin. i exclude therefore the intelligent principle of whytt, the medical mind of stahl, the healing powers of cullen, and the vital principal of john hunter, as much from the body, as i do an intelligent principle from air, fire, and water. it is no uncommon thing for the simplicity of causes to be lost in the magnitude of their effects. by contemplating the wonderful functions of life we have strangely overlooked the numerous and obscure circumstances which produce it. thus the humble but true origin of power in the people is often forgotten in the splendour and pride of governments. it is not necessary to be acquainted with the precise nature of that form of matter, which is capable of producing life from impressions made upon it. it is sufficient for our purpose to know the fact. it is immaterial, moreover, whether this matter derives its power of being acted upon wholly from the brain, or whether it be in part inherent in animal fibres. the inferences are the same in favour of life being the effect of stimuli, and of its being as truly mechanical as the movements of a clock from the pressure of its weights, or the passage of a ship in the water from the impulse of winds and tide. the infinity of effects from similar causes, has often been taken notice of in the works of the creator. it would seem as if they had all been made after one pattern. the late discovery of the cause of combustion has thrown great light upon our subject. wood and coal are no longer believed to contain a principle of fire. the heat and flame they emit are derived from an agent altogether external to them. they are produced by a matter which is absorbed from the air, by means of its decomposition. this matter acts upon the predisposition of the fuel to receive it, in the same way that stimuli act upon the human body. the two agents differ only in their effects. the former produces the destruction of the bodies upon which it acts, while the latter excite the more gentle and durable motions of life. common language in expressing these effects is correct, as far as it relates to their cause. we speak of a coal of fire being _alive_, and of the _flame_ of life. the causes of life which i have delivered will receive considerable support by contrasting them with the causes of death. this catastrophe of the body consists in such a change induced on it by disease or old age, as to prevent its exhibiting the phenomena of life. it is brought on, 1. by the abstraction of all the stimuli which support life. death from this cause is produced by the same mechanical means that the emission of sound from a violin is prevented by the abstraction of the bow from its strings. 2. by the excessive force of stimuli of all kinds. no more occurs here than happens from too much pressure upon the strings of a violin preventing its emitting musical tones. 3. by too much relaxation, or too weak a texture of the matter which composes the human body. no more occurs here than is observed in the extinction of sound by the total relaxation, or slender combination of the strings of a violin. 4. by an error in the place of certain fluid or solid parts of the body. no more occurs here than would happen from fixing the strings of a violin upon its body, instead of elevating them upon its bridge. 5. by the action of poisonous exhalations, or of certain fluids vitiated in the body, upon parts which emit most forcibly the motions of life. no more happens here than occurs from enveloping the strings of a violin in a piece of wax. 6. by the solution of continuity by means of wounds in solid parts of the body. no more occurs in death from this cause than takes place when the emission of sound from a violin is prevented by a rupture of its strings. 7. death is produced by a preternatural rigidity, and in some instances by an ossification of the solid parts of the body in old age, in consequence of which they are incapable of receiving and emitting the motions of life. no more occurs here, than would happen if a stick or pipe-stem were placed in the room of catgut, upon the bridges of the violin. but death may take place in old age without a change in the texture of animal matter, from the stimuli of life losing their effect by repetition, just as opium, from the same cause, ceases to produce its usual effects upon the body. should it be asked, what is that peculiar organization of matter, which enables it to emit life, when acted upon by stimuli, i answer, i do not know. the great creator has kindly established a witness of his unsearchable wisdom in every part of his works, in order to prevent our forgetting him, in the successful exercises of our reason. mohammed once said, "that he should believe himself to be a god, if he could bring down rain from the clouds, or give life to an animal." it belongs exclusively to the true god to endow matter with those singular properties, which enable it, under certain circumstances, to exhibit the appearances of life. i cannot conclude this subject, without taking notice of its extensive application to medicine, metaphysics, theology, and morals. the doctrine of animal life which has been taught, exhibits in the first place, a new view of the nervous system, by discovering its origin in the extremities of the nerves, on which impressions are made, and its termination in the brain. this idea is extended in an ingenious manner by mr. valli, in his treatise upon animal electricity. 2. it discovers to us the true means of promoting health and longevity, by proportioning the number and force of stimuli to the age, climate, situation, habits, and temperament of the human body. 3. it leads us to a knowledge of the causes of all diseases. these consist in excessive or preternatural excitement in the whole, or a part of the human body, accompanied _generally_ with irregular motions, and induced by natural or artificial stimuli. the latter have been called, very properly, by mr. hunter, _irritants_. the occasional absence of motion in acute diseases is the effect only of the excess of impetus in their remote causes. 4. it discovers to us that the cure of all diseases depends simply upon the abstraction of stimuli from the whole, or from a part of the body, when the motions excited by them are in excess; and in the increase of their number and force, when motions are of a moderate nature. for the former purpose, we employ a class of medicines known by the name of sedatives. for the latter, we make use of stimulants. under these two extensive heads, are included all the numerous articles of the materia medica. 5. it enables us to reject the doctrine of innate ideas, and to ascribe all our knowledge of sensible objects to impressions acting upon an _innate_ capacity to receive ideas. were it possible for a child to grow up to manhood without the use of any of its senses, it would not possess a single idea of a material object; and as all human knowledge is compounded of simple ideas, this person would be as destitute of knowledge of every kind, as the grossest portion of vegetable or fossil matter. 6. the account which has been given of animal life, furnishes a striking illustration of the origin of human actions, by the impression of motives upon the will. as well might we admit an inherent principle of life in animal matter, as a self-determining power in this faculty of the mind. motives are necessary, not only to constitute its _freedom_, but its _essence_; for, without them, there could be no more a will, than there could be vision without light, or hearing without sound. it is true, they are often so obscure as not to be perceived, and they sometimes become insensible from habit; but the same things have been remarked in the operation of stimuli, and yet we do not upon this account deny their agency in producing animal life. in thus deciding in favour of the necessity of motives, to produce actions, i cannot help bearing a testimony against the gloomy misapplication of this doctrine by some modern writers. when properly understood, it is calculated to produce the most comfortable views of the divine government, and the most beneficial effects upon morals and human happiness. 7. there are errors of an impious nature, which sometimes obtain a currency, from being disguised by innocent names. the doctrine of animal life that has been delivered is directly opposed to an error of this kind, which has had the most baneful influence upon morals and religion. to suppose a principle to reside necessarily and constantly in the human body, which acted independently of external circumstances, is to ascribe to it an attribute, which i shall not connect, even in language, with the creature man. self-existence belongs only to god. the best criterion of the truth of a philosophical opinion, is its tendency to produce exalted ideas of the divine being, and humble views of ourselves. the doctrine of animal life which has been delivered is calculated to produce these effects in an eminent degree, for 8. it does homage to the supreme being, as the governor of the universe, and establishes the certainty of his universal and particular providence. admit a principle of life in the human body, and we open a door for the restoration of the old epicurean or atheistical philosophy, which supposed the world to be governed by a principle called nature, and which was believed to be inherent in every kind of matter. the doctrine i have taught, cuts the sinews of this error; for by rendering the _continuance_ of animal life, no less than its commencement, the effect of the constant operation of divine power and goodness, it leads us to believe that the whole creation is supported in the same manner. 9. the view that has been given of the dependent state of man for the blessing of life, leads us to contemplate, with very opposite and inexpressible feelings, the sublime idea which is given of the deity in the scriptures, as possessing life "within himself." this divine prerogative has never been imparted but to one being, and that is the son of god. this appears from the following declaration. "for as the father hath life in himself, so hath he given to the son to have life _within himself_."[103] to this plenitude of independent life, we are to ascribe his being called the "life of the world," "the prince of life," and "life" itself, in the new testament. these divine epithets which are very properly founded upon the manner of our saviour's existence, exalt him infinitely above simple humanity, and establish his divine nature upon the basis of reason, as well as revelation. [103] john v. verse 26. 10. we have heard that some of the stimuli which produce animal life, are derived from the moral and physical evils of our world. from beholding these instruments of death thus converted by divine skill into the means of life, we are led to believe goodness to be the supreme attribute of the deity, and that it will appear finally to predominate in all his works. 11. the doctrine which has been delivered, is calculated to humble the pride of man by teaching him his constant dependence upon his maker for his existence, and that he has no pre-eminence in his tenure of it, over the meanest insect that flutters in the air, or the humblest plant that grows upon the earth. what an inspired writer says of the innumerable animals which inhabit the ocean, may with equal propriety be said of the whole human race. "thou sendest forth thy spirit, and they are created. thou takest away their breath--they die, and return to their dust." 12. melancholy indeed would have been the issue of all our inquiries, did we take a final leave of the human body in its state of decomposition in the grave. revelation furnishes us with an elevating, and comfortable assurance that this will not be the case. the precise manner of its re-organization, and the new means of its future existence, are unknown to us. it is sufficient to believe, the event will take place, and that after it, the soul and body of man will be exalted in one respect, to an equality with their creator. they will be immortal. here, gentlemen, we close the history of animal life. i feel as if i had waded across a rapid and dangerous stream. whether i have gained the opposite shore with my head clean, or covered with mud and weeds, i leave wholly to your determination. end of vol. ii. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 58861-h.htm or 58861-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58861/58861-h/58861-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58861/58861-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b21935142_0003 project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58859 volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58860 volume iv: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58862 transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). the symbol hand pointing has been marked as [hand]. medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. iii. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, 116, high-street. 1805. * * * * * contents of volume iii. _page_ _outlines of a theory of fever_ 1 _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in 1793_ 67 _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in 1794_ 355 _an account of sporadic cases of bilious yellow fever, as they appeared in philadelphia in 1795 and 1796_ 435 * * * * * outlines of a _theory of fever_. as many of the diseases which are the subjects of these volumes belong to the class of fevers, the following remarks upon their theory are intended to render the principles and language i have adopted, in the history of their causes, symptoms, and cure, intelligible to the reader. i am aware that this theory will suffer by being published in a detached state from the general view of the proximate cause of disease which i have taught in my lectures upon pathology, as well as from its being deprived of that support which it would receive from being accompanied with an account of the remedies for fever, and the times and manner of exhibiting them, all of which would have served to illustrate and establish the facts and reasonings which are to follow upon this difficult and interesting inquiry. i shall not attempt to give a definition of fever. it appears in so many different forms, that a just view of it can only be given in a minute detail of all its symptoms and states. in order to render the theory, which i am about to deliver, more simple and intelligible, it will be necessary to premise a few general propositions. i. fevers of all kinds are preceded by general debility. this debility is natural or accidental. the former is the effect of the sanguineous temperament, and exists at all times in many constitutions. the latter is induced, 1. by such preternatural or unusual stimuli, as, after first elevating the excitement of the system above its healthy grade, and thereby wasting a part of its strength, or what dr. brown calls excitability, and darwin sensorial power, afterwards reduces it down to that state which i shall call debility of action. or, 2. it is induced by such an abstraction of natural stimuli as to reduce the system _below_ its healthy grade of excitement, and thereby to induce what dr. brown calls _direct_ debility, but what i shall call debility from abstraction. this general debility is the same, whether brought on by the former or the latter causes. when induced by the latter, the system becomes more excitable than when induced by the former causes, and hence an attack of fever is more frequently invited by it, than by that state of debility which succeeds the application of an undue portion of stimulating powers. to this there is an exception, and that is, when the remote causes of fever act with so much force and rapidity as _suddenly_ to depress the system, without an intermediate elevation of it, and before sufficient time is given to expend any part of its strength or excitability, or to produce the debility of action. the system in this state, is exactly similar to that which arises from a sudden reduction of its healthy excitement, by the abstraction of stimuli. this debility from abstraction, moreover, is upon a footing with the debility from action, when it is of a _chronic_ nature. they both alike expend so much of the quality or substance of excitability, as to leave the system in a state in which irritants are seldom able to excite the commotions of fever, and when they do, it is of a feeble nature, and hence we observe persons who have been long exposed to debilitating causes of both kinds, often escape fevers, while those who are _recently_ debilitated, are affected by them, under the same circumstances of exposure to those causes. that fevers are preceded by general debility i infer from their causes, all of which act by reducing the excitement of the system, by the abstraction of stimuli, or by their excessive or unusual application. the causes which operate in the former way are, 1. cold. this is universally acknowledged to be a predisposing cause of fever. that it debilitates, i infer, 1. from the languor which is observed in the inhabitants of cold countries, and from the weakness which is felt in labour or exercise in cold weather. 2. from the effects of experiments, which prove, that cold air and cold water lessen the force and frequency of the pulse. 2. the debilitating passions of fear, grief, and despair. 3. all excessive evacuations, whether by the bowels, blood-vessels, pores, or urinary passages. 4. famine, or the abstraction of the usual quantity of nourishing food. the causes which predispose to fever by the excessive or unusual application of stimuli are, 1. heat. hence the greater frequency of fevers in warm climates, and in warm weather. 2. intemperance in eating and drinking. 3. unusual labour or exercise. 4. violent emotions, and stimulating passions of the mind. 5. certain causes which act by over-stretching a part, or the whole of the body, such as lifting heavy weights, external violence acting mechanically in wounding, bruising, or compressing particular parts, extraneous substances acting by their bulk or gravity, burning, and the like[1]. the influence of debility in predisposing to fevers is further evident from their attacking so often in the night, a time when the system is more weak than at any other, in the four and twenty hours. [1] cullen's first lines. ii. debility being thus formed in the system, by the causes which have been enumerated, a _sudden_ accumulation of excitability takes place, whereby a predisposition is created to fever. the french writers have lately called this predisposition "vibratility," by which they mean a liableness in it to be thrown into vibrations or motions, from pre-existing debility. it is not always necessary that a fever should follow this state of predisposition. many people pass days and weeks under it, without being attacked by a fever, by carefully or accidentally avoiding the application of additional stimuli or irritants to their bodies: but the space between this state of predisposition, when it is recent, and a fever, is a very small one; for, independently of additional stimuli, the common impressions which support life sometimes become irritants, and readily add another link to the chain of causes which induce fever, and that is, iii. depression of the whole system, or what dr. brown calls indirect debility. it manifests itself in weakness of the limbs, inability to stand or walk without pain, or a sense of fatigue, a dry, cool, or cold skin, chilliness, a shrinking of the hands and face, and a weak or quick pulse. these symptoms characterize what i have called in my lectures the forming state of fever. it is not necessary that a paroxysm of fever should follow this depressed state of the system, any more than the debility that has been described. many people, by rest, or by means of gentle remedies, prevent its formation; but where these are neglected, and the action of stimuli, whether morbid or natural, are continued, iv. re-action is induced, and in this re-action, according to its greater or less force and extent, consist the different degrees of fever. it is of an irregular or a _convulsive_ nature. in common cases, it is seated primarily in the blood-vessels, and particularly in the arteries. these pervade every part of the body. they terminate upon its whole surface, in which i include the lungs and alimentary canal, as well as the skin. they are the outposts of the system, in consequence of which they are most exposed to cold, heat, intemperance, and all the other external and internal, remote and exciting causes of fever, and are first roused into resistance by them. let it not be thought, from these allusions, that i admit dr. cullen's supposed vires naturæ medicatrices to have the least agency in this re-action of the blood-vessels. i believe it to be altogether the effect of their elastic and muscular texture, and that it is as simply mechanical as motion from impressions upon other kinds of matter. that the blood-vessels possess muscular fibres, and that their irritability or disposition to motion depends upon them, has been demonstrated by dr. vasschuer and mr. john hunter, by many experiments. it has since been proved by spallanzani, in an attempt to refute it. even dr. haller, who denies the muscularity and irritability of the blood-vessels, implies an assent to them in the following words: "there are nerves which descend for a long way together through the surface of the artery, and at last vanish in the cellular substance of the vessel, of which we have a specimen in the external and internal carotids, and in the arch of the aorta; and from these do not the arteries seem to derive a muscular and convulsive force very different from that of their simple elasticity? does not it show itself plainly in _fevers_, faintings, palsies, consumptions, and passions of the mind[2]?" [2] first lines, sect. 32 of the chapter on arteries. the re-action or morbid excitement of the arteries discovers itself in preternatural force, or frequency in their pulsations. in _ordinary_ fever, it is _equally_ diffused throughout the whole sanguiferous system, for the heart and arteries are so intimately connected, that, like the bells of the jewish high-priest, when one of them is touched, they all vibrate in unison with each other. to this remark there are some exceptions. 1. the arteries are sometimes affected with great morbid excitement, while the natural functions of the heart are unimpaired. this occurs in those states of fever in which patients are able to sit up, and even to walk about, as in pulmonary consumption, and in hectic fever from all its causes. 2. the heart and pulmonary artery are sometimes affected with great morbid excitement, while the pulsations of the arteries on the wrists are perfectly natural. 3. the morbid excitement of the arteries is sometimes greater on one side of the body than on the other. this is obvious in the difference in the number and force of the pulsations in the different arms, and in the different and opposite appearances of the blood drawn from their veins, under equal circumstances. 4. the arteries in the head, lungs, and abdominal viscera are sometimes excited in a high degree, while the arteries in the extremities exhibit marks of a feeble morbid action. fevers attended with these and other deviations from their common phenomena, have been called by dr. alibert, _altaxiques_. they occur most frequently in malignant fevers. while morbid excitement thus pervades generally or partially the sanguiferous system, depression and debility are increased in the alimentary canal, and in the nervous and muscular systems. in the stomach, bowels, and muscles, this debility is occasioned by their excitement being abstracted, and translated to the blood-vessels. i shall now endeavour to illustrate the propositions which have been delivered, by taking notice of the manner in which fevers are produced by some of its most obvious and common causes. has the body been debilitated by exposure to the cold air? its excitability is thereby increased, and heat acts upon it with an accumulated force: hence the frequency of catarrhs, pleurisies, and other inflammatory fevers in the spring, after a cold winter; and of bilious remittents in the autumn, when warm days succeed to cold and damp nights. these diseases are seldom felt for the first time in the open air, but generally after the body has been exposed to cold, and afterwards to the heat of a warm room or a warm bed. mild intermittents have frequently been observed to acquire an inflammatory type in the pennsylvania hospital, in the months of november and december, from the heat of the stove rooms acting upon bodies previously debilitated and rendered excitable by cold and disease. has there been an abstraction of heat by a sudden shifting of the wind from the south-west to the north-west or north-east points of the compass, or by a cold night succeeding to a warm day? a fever is thereby frequently excited. these sources of fever occur every autumn in philadelphia. the miasmata which exist in the body at that time in a harmless state, are excited into action, in a manner to be mentioned presently, by the debility from cold, aided in the latter case by the inaction of sleep, suddenly induced upon the system. again: has the body been _suddenly_ debilitated by labour or exercise? its excitement is thereby diminished, but its excitability is increased in such a manner that a full meal, or an intemperate glass of wine, if taken _immediately_ after the fatigue is induced upon the body, excites a fever: hence the frequency of fevers in persons upon their return from hunting, surveying, long rides, or from a camp life. but how shall we account for the production of fever from the measles and small-pox, which attack so uniformly, and without predisposing debility from any of its causes which have been enumerated? i answer, that the contagions of those diseases seldom act so as to produce fever, until the system is first depressed. this is obvious from their being preceded by languor, and all the other symptoms formerly mentioned, which constitute the forming state of fever. the miasmata which induce the plague and yellow fever, when they are not preceded by the usual debilitating and predisposing causes, generally induce the same depression of the system, previously to their exciting fever. even wounds, and other local irritants seldom induce fever before they have first produced the symptoms of depression formerly mentioned. i shall presently mention the exceptions to this mode of producing fever from contagious miasmata and local injuries, and show that they do not militate against the truth of the general proposition that has been delivered. it may serve still further to throw light upon this part of our subject to take notice of the difference between the action of stimuli upon the body predisposed by debility and excitability to fever, and their action upon it when there is no such predisposition to fever. in health there is a constant and just proportion between the degrees of excitement and excitability, and the force of stimuli. but this is not the case in a predisposition to a fever. the ratio between the action of stimuli and excitement, and excitability is destroyed; and hence the former act upon the latter with a force which produces irregular action, or a convulsion in the arterial system. when the body is debilitated, and its excitability increased, either by fear, darkness, or silence, a sudden noise occasions a short convulsion. we awake, in like manner, in a light convulsion, from the sudden opening of a door, or from the sprinkling of a few drops of water in the face, after the excitability of the system has been accumulated by a night's sleep. in a word, it seems to be a law of the system, that stimulus, in an over-proportion to excitability, either produces convulsion, or goes so far beyond it, as to destroy motion altogether in death. v. there is but one exciting cause of fever, and that is stimulus. heat, alternating with cold[3], marsh and human miasmata, contagions and poisons of all kinds, intemperance, passions of the mind, bruises, burns, and the like, all act by a stimulating power only, in producing fever. this proposition is of great application, inasmuch as it cuts the sinews of the division of diseases from their remote causes. thus it establishes the sameness of a pleurisy, whether it be excited by heat succeeding cold, or by the contagions of the small-pox and measles, or by the miasmata of the yellow fever. [3] perhaps there is no greater enemy to the life of man than cold. dr. sydenham ascribes nearly all fevers to it, particularly to leaving off winter clothes too soon, and to exposing the body to cold after it has been heated. these sources of fever, he adds, destroy more than the plague, sword, or famine.--_wallis's edition, vol. i. p. 357._ to this proposition there is a seeming objection. cold, sleep, immoderate evacuations, and the debilitating passions of grief and fear (all of which abstract excitement) appear to induce fever without the interposition of a stimulus. in all these cases, the _sudden_ abstraction of excitement destroys the equilibrium of the system, by which means the blood is diverted from its natural channels, and by acting with preternatural force in its new directions, becomes an irritant to the blood-vessels, and thus a stimulating and exciting cause of fever. when it is induced by cold alone, it is probable so much of the perspirable matter may be retained as to co-operate, by its irritating qualities, in exciting the fever. vi. there is but one fever. however different the predisposing, remote, or exciting causes of fever may be, whether debility from abstraction or action, whether heat or cold succeeding to each other, whether marsh or human miasmata, whether intemperance, a fright, or a fall, still i repeat, there can be but one fever. i found this proposition upon all the supposed variety of fevers having but one proximate cause. thus fire is a unit, whether it be produced by friction, percussion, electricity, fermentation, or by a piece of wood or coal in a state of inflammation. vii. all ordinary fever being seated in the blood-vessels, it follows, of course, that all those local affections we call pleurisy, angina, phrenitis, internal dropsy of the brain, pulmonary consumption, and inflammation of the liver, stomach, bowels, and limbs, are symptoms only of an original and primary disease in the sanguiferous system. the truth of this proposition is obvious from the above local affections succeeding primary fever, and from their alternating so frequently with each other. i except from this remark those cases of primary affections of the viscera which are produced by local injuries, and which, after a while, bring the whole sanguiferous system into sympathy. these cases are uncommon, amounting, probably, to not more than one in a hundred of all the cases of local affection which occur in general fever. in my 4th proposition i have called the action of the arteries _irregular_ in fever, to distinguish it from that excess of action which takes place after violent exercise, and from that quickness which accompanies fear or any other directly debilitating cause. the action of the arteries here is _regular_, and, when felt in the pulse, affords a very different sensation from that _jerking_ which we feel in the pulse of a patient labouring under a fever. this irregular action is, in other words, a _convulsion_ in the sanguiferous, but more obviously, in the arterial system. that this is the case i infer from the strict analogy between symptoms of fever, and convulsions in the nervous system. i shall briefly mention the particulars in which this analogy takes place. 1. are convulsions in the nervous system preceded by debility? so is the convulsion of the blood-vessels in fever. 2. does debility induced on the whole, or on a part only, of the nervous system, predispose to general convulsions, as in tetanus? so we observe debility, whether it be induced on the whole or on a part of the arterial system, predisposes to general fever. this is obvious in the fever which ensues alike from cold applied to every part of the body, or from a stream of cold air falling upon the neck, or from the wetting of the feet. 3. do tremors precede convulsions in the nervous system? so they do the convulsion of the blood-vessels in fever. 4. is a coldness in the extremities a precursor of convulsions in the nervous system? so it is of fever. 5. do convulsions in the nervous system impart a jerking sensation to the fingers? so does the convulsion of fever in the arteries, when felt at the wrists. 6. are convulsions in the nervous system attended with alternate action and remission? so is the convulsion of fever. 7. do convulsions in the nervous system return at regular and irregular periods? so does fever. 8. do convulsions in the nervous system, under certain circumstances, affect the functions of the brain? so do certain states of fever. 9. are there certain convulsions in the nervous system which affect the limbs, without affecting the functions of the brain, such as tetanus, and chorea sancti viti? so there are certain fevers, particularly the common hectic, which seldom produces delirium, or even head-ach, and frequently does not confine a patient to his bed. 10. are there local convulsions in the nervous system, as in the hands, feet, neck, and eye-lids? so there are local fevers. intermittents often appear in the autumn with periodical heat and pains in the eyes, ears, jaws, and back. 11. are there certain grades in the convulsions of the nervous system, as appears in the hydrophobia, tetanus, epilepsy, hysteria, and hypochondriasis? so there are grades in fevers, as in the plague, yellow fever, small-pox, rheumatism, and common remitting and intermitting fevers. 12. are nervous convulsions most apt to occur in infancy? so are fevers. 13. are persons once affected with nervous convulsions frequently subject to them through life? so are persons once affected with fever. the intermitting fever often returns with successive springs or autumns, and, in spite of the bark, sometimes continues for many years in all climates and seasons. 14. is the strength of the nervous system increased by convulsions? this is so evident that it often requires four or five persons to confine a delicate woman to her bed in a convulsive fit. in like manner the strength of the arterial system is increased in a fever. this strength is great in proportion to the weakness of every other part of the body. 15. do we observe certain nervous convulsions to affect some parts of the nervous system more than others, or, in other words, do we observe preternatural strength or excitement to exist in one part of the nervous system, while other parts of the same system exhibit marks of preternatural weakness or defect of excitement? we observe the same thing in the blood-vessels in a fever. the pulse at the wrist is often _tense_, while the force of the heart is very much diminished. a delirium often occurs in a fever from excess of excitement in the blood-vessels of the brain, while the pulse at the wrist exhibits every mark of preternatural weakness. 16. is there a rigidity of the muscles in certain nervous diseases, as in catalepsy? something like this solstice in convulsion occurs in that state of fever in which the pulse beats but sixty, or fewer strokes in a minute. 17. do convulsions go off _gradually_ from the nervous system, as in tetanus, and chorea sancti viti? so they do from the arterial blood-vessels in certain states of fever. 18. do convulsions go off _suddenly_ in any cases from the nervous system? the convulsion in the blood-vessels goes off in the same manner by a sweat, or by a hæmorrhage, frequently in the course of a night, and sometimes in a single hour. 19. does palsy in some instances succeed to convulsions in the nervous system? something like a palsy occurs in fevers of great inflammatory action in the arteries. they are often inactive in the wrists, and in other parts of the body, from the immense pressure of the remote cause of the fever upon them. from the facts and analogies which have been mentioned, i have been led to conclude that the common forms of fever are occasioned simply by irregular action, or convulsion in the blood-vessels. the history of the phenomena of fever, as delivered in the foregoing pages, resolves itself into a chain, consisting of the five following links. 1. debility from action, or the abstraction of stimuli. when this debility is induced by action, it is sometimes preceded by elevated excitement in the blood-vessels, from the first impressions of stimuli upon them. 2. an increase of their excitability. 3. stimulating powers applied to them. 4. depression. and, 5. irregular action or convulsion. the whole of the links of this chain are perceptible only when the fever comes on in a _gradual_ manner. but i wish the reader to remember, that the same remote cause is often debilitating, stimulating, and depressing, and that, in certain fevers, the remote cause sometimes excites convulsions in the blood-vessels without being preceded by preternatural debility and excitability, and with but little or no depression of the system. this has often been observed in persons who have been suddenly exposed to those marsh and human miasmata which produce malignant fevers. it sometimes takes place likewise in fevers induced by local injuries. the blood-vessels in these cases are, as it were, taken by storm, instead of regular approaches. i might digress here, and show that all diseases, whether they be seated in the arteries, muscles, nerves, brain, or alimentary canal, are all preceded by debility; and that their essence consists in irregular action, or in the absence of the natural order of motion, produced or invited by predisposing debility. i might further show, that all the moral, as well as physical evil of the world consists in predisposing weakness, and in subsequent derangement of action or motion; but these collateral subjects are foreign to our present inquiry. let us now proceed to examine how far the theory which has been delivered accords with the phenomena of fever. i shall divide these phenomena into two kinds. i. such as are transient, and more or less common to all fevers. these i shall call _symptoms_ of fever. ii. such as, being more permanent and fixed, have given rise to certain specific names. these i shall call _states_ of fever. i shall endeavour to explain and describe each of them in the order in which they have been mentioned. i. lassitude is the effect of the depression of the whole system, which precedes fever. the same cause, when it acts upon the extremities of the blood-vessels, produces coldness and chills. this is obvious to any person, under the first impression of the miasmata which bring on fevers, also under the influence of fatigue, and debilitating passions of the mind. the absence of chills indicates the sensibility of the external parts of the body to be suspended or destroyed, as well as their irritability; hence when death occurs in the fit of an intermittent, there is no chill. a chilly fit, for the same reason, seldom occurs in the most malignant cases of fever. it is sometimes excited by blood-letting, only because it weakens those fevers to such a degree, as to carry the blood-vessels back to the grade of depression. coldness and chills are likewise removed by blood-letting, only because it enables the arteries to re-act in such a manner as to overcome the depression that induced it. it has been remarked, that the chilly fit, in common fevers, seldom appears in its full force until the patient approaches a fire, or lies down on a warm bed; for in these situations sensibility is restored by the stimulus of the heat acting upon the extremities of the blood-vessels. the first impressions of the rays of the sun, in like manner, often produce coldness and chills in the torpid bodies of old and weakly people. tremors are the natural consequence of the abstraction of that support which the muscles receive from the fulness and tension of the blood-vessels. it is from this retreat of the blood towards the viscera, that the capillary arteries lose their fulness and tension; hence they contract like other soft tubes that are emptied of their contents. this contraction has been called a spasm, and has improperly been supposed to be the proximate cause of fever. from the explanation that has been given of its cause, it appears, like the coldness and chills, to be nothing but an accidental concomitant, or effect of a paroxysm of fever. the local pains in the head, breast, and bones in fever, appear to be the effects of the irregular determination of the blood to those parts, and to morbid action being thereby induced in them. the want of appetite and costiveness are the consequences of a defect of secretion of the gastric juice, and the abstraction of excitement or natural action from the stomach and bowels. the inability to rise out of bed, and to walk, is the effect of the abstraction of excitement from the muscles of the lower limbs. the dry skin or partial sweats appear to depend upon diminished or partial action in the vessels which terminate on the surface of the body. the high-coloured and pale urine are occasioned by an excess or a deficiency of excitement in the secretory vessels of the kidneys. the suppression of the urine seems to arise from what dr. clark calls an engorgement, or choaking of the vessels of the kidneys. it occurs most frequently in malignant fevers. thirst is probably the effect of a preternatural excitement of the vessels of the fauces. it is by no means a uniform symptom of fever. we sometimes observe it, in the highest degree, in the last stage of diseases, induced by the retreat of the last remains of excitement from every part of the body, to the throat. the white tongue is produced by a change in the secretion which takes place in that organ. its yellow colour is the effect of bile; its dryness is occasioned by an obstruction of secretion, or by the want of action in the absorbents; and its dark and black colour, by a tendency to mortification. it will be difficult to account for the variety in the degrees and locality of _heat_ in the body in a fever, until we know more of the cause of animal heat. from whatever cause it be derived, its excess and deficiency, as well as all its intermediate degrees, are intimately connected with more or less excitement in the arterial system. it is not necessary that this excitement should exist only in the large blood-vessels. it will be sufficient for the purpose of creating great heat, if it occur only in the cutaneous vessels; hence we find a hot skin in some cases of malignant fever in which there is an absence of pulse. eruptions seem to depend upon effusions of serum, lymph, or red blood upon the skin, with or without inflammation, in the cutaneous vessels. i decline taking notice in this place of the symptoms which are produced by the debility from action and abstraction, and by the depression of the system. they appear not only in the temperature of the body, but in all the different symptoms of fever. it is of importance to know when they originate from the former, and when from the latter causes, as they sometimes require very different and opposite remedies to remove them. it remains only to explain the cause why excess in the force or frequency of the action of the blood-vessels should succeed debility in a part, or in the whole of the body, and be connected for days and weeks with depression and preternatural debility in the nerves, brain, muscles, and alimentary canal. i shall attempt the explanation of this phenomenon by directing the attention of the reader to the operations of nature in other parts of her works. 1. a calm may be considered as a state of debility in the atmosphere. it predisposes to a current of air. but is this current proportioned to the loss of the equilibrium of the air? by no means. it is excessive in its force, and tends thereby to destroy the works both of nature and art. 2. the passions are given to man on purpose to aid the slow and uncertain operations of reason. but is their action always proportioned to the causes which excite them? an acute pneumony, brought on by the trifling injury done to the system by the fatigue and heat of an evening spent in a dancing assembly, is but a faint representation of the immense disproportion between a trifling affront, and that excess of passion which seeks for gratification in poison, assassination, or a duel. the same disproportion appears between cause and effect in public bodies. a hasty word, of no mischievous influence, has often produced convulsions, and even revolutions, in states and empires. if we return to the human body we shall find in it many other instances of the disproportion between stimulus and action, besides that which takes place in the excitement of fever. 3. a single castor oil nut, although rejected by the stomach upon its first effort in vomiting, has, in one instance that came within my knowledge, produced a vomiting that continued nearly four and twenty hours. here the duration of action was far beyond all kind of proportion to the cause which excited it. 4. a grain of sand, after being washed from the eye, is often followed by such an inflammation or excess in the action of the vessels of the eye, as to require bleeding, purging, and blistering to remove it. could we comprehend every part of the sublime and ineffable system of the divine government, i am sure we should discover nothing in it but what tended ultimately to order. but the natural, moral, and political world exhibit every where marks of disorder, and the instruments of this disorder, are the operations of nature. her influence is most obvious in the production of diseases, and in her hurtful or ineffectual efforts to remove them[4]. in again glancing at this subject i wish it to be remembered that those operations were not originally the means of injuring or seducing man, and that i believe a time will come when the exact relation, between cause and effect, or, in other words, the dominion of order shall be restored over every action of his body and mind, and health and happiness again be the result of every movement of nature. [4] see the comparative view of the diseases of the indians and of civilized nations. vol. i. from the view i have given of the state of the blood-vessels in fever, the reader will perceive the difference between my opinions and dr. brown's upon this subject. the doctor supposes a fever to consist in debility. i do not admit debility to be a disease, but place it wholly in morbid excitement, invited and fixed by previous debility. he makes a fever to consist in a change only of a _natural_ action of the blood-vessels. i maintain that it consists in a _preternatural_ and convulsive action of the blood-vessels. lastly, dr. brown supposes excitement and excitability to be _equally_ diffused over the whole body, but in unhealthy proportions to each other. my theory places fever in excitement and excitability _unequally_ diffused, manifesting themselves, at the _same time_, in morbid actions, depression, and debility from abstraction, in different parts of the body. no new excitement from without is infused into the system by the irritants which excite a fever. they only destroy its equal and natural distribution; for while the arteries are in a plus, the muscles, stomach, and bowels are in a minus state of excitement, and the business of medicine is to equalize it in the cure of fever, that is, to abstract its excess from the blood-vessels, and to restore it to the other parts of the body. ii. i come now to apply the theory which i have delivered to the explanation and description of the different phenomena or states of fever. i have said in my sixth proposition that there is but one fever. of course i do not admit of its artificial division into genera and species. a disease which so frequently changes its form and place, should never have been designated, like plants and animals, by unchangeable characters. the oak tree and the lion possess exactly the same properties which they did nearly 6000 years ago. but who can say the same thing of any one disease? the pulmonary consumption is sometimes transformed into head-ach, rheumatism, diarrh[oe]a, and mania, in the course of two or three months, or the same number of weeks. the bilious fever often appears in the same person in the form of colic, dysentery, inflammation of the liver, lungs, and brain, in the course of five or six days. the hypochondriasis and the hysteria seldom fail to exchange their symptoms twice in the four and twenty hours. again: the oak tree has not united with any of the trees of the forest, nor has the lion imparted his specific qualities to any other animal. but who can apply similar remarks to any one disease? phrenitis, gastritis, enteritis, nephritis, and rheumatism all appear at the same time in the gout and yellow fever. many observations of the same kind might be made, to show the disposition of nearly all other diseases to anastomose with each other. to describe them therefore by any fixed or specific characters is as impracticable as to measure the dimensions of a cloud on a windy day, or to fix the component parts of water by weighing it in a hydrostatic balance. much mischief has been done by nosological arrangements of diseases. they erect imaginary boundaries between things which are of a homogeneous nature. they degrade the human understanding, by substituting simple perceptions to its more dignified operations in judgment and reasoning. they gratify indolence in a physician, by fixing his attention upon the name of a disease, and thereby leading him to neglect the varying state of the system. they moreover lay a foundation for disputes among physicians, by diverting their attention from the simple, predisposing, and proximate, to the numerous, remote, and exciting causes of diseases, or to their more numerous and complicated effects. the whole materia medica is infected with the baneful consequences of the nomenclature of diseases, for every article in it is pointed only against their names, and hence the origin of the numerous contradictions among authors who describe the virtues and doses of the same medicines. by the rejection of the artificial arrangement of diseases, a revolution must follow in medicine. observation and judgment will take the place of reading and memory, and prescriptions will be conformed to existing circumstances. the road to knowledge in medicine by this means will likewise be shortened; so that a young man will be able to qualify himself to practise physic at as much less expence of time and labour than formerly, as a child would learn to read and write by the help of the roman alphabet, instead of chinese characters. in thus rejecting the nosologies of the schools, i do not wish to see them banished from the libraries of physicians. when consulted as histories of the effects of diseases only, they may still be useful. i use the term diseases, in conformity to custom, for, properly speaking, disease is much a unit as fever. it consists simply of morbid action or excitement in some part of the body. its different seats and degrees should no more be multiplied into different diseases, than the numerous and different effects of heat and light upon our globe should be multiplied into a plurality of suns. the advocates for dr. cullen's system of medicine will not, i hope, be offended by these observations. his immense stock of reputation will enable him to sustain the loss of his nosology without being impoverished by it. in my attempts to introduce a new arrangement of fevers, i shall only give a new direction to his efforts to improve the healing art. were it compatible with the subject of the present inquiry, it would be easy to show, that the same difficulties and evils are to be expected from dr. darwin's division of diseases, as they affect the organs of sensation and motion, and as they are said to be exclusively related by association and volition, that have been deprecated from their divisions and subdivisions by the nosologists. diseases, like vices, with a few exceptions, are necessarily undisciplined and irregular. even the genius of dr. darwin has not been able to compel them to move within lines. i return from this digression to remark that morbid action in the blood-vessels, whether it consist in preternatural force and frequency, or preternatural force without frequency, or frequency without force, constitutes fever. excess in the force and frequency in the pulsations of the arteries have been considered as the characteristic marks of what is called inflammatory fever. there are, however, symptoms which indicate a much greater excess of irritating impressions upon the blood-vessels. these are preternatural slowness, intermissions, and depression in the pulse, such as occur in certain malignant fevers. but there is a grade of fever, which transcends in force that which produces inflammation. it occurs frequently in hydrophobia, dysentery, colic, and, baron humboldt lately informed me, upon the authority of dr. comoto, of vera cruz, in the yellow fever of that city, when it proves fatal in a few hours after it attacks. in vain have physicians sought to discover, by dissections, the cause of fever in those cases, when followed by death, in the parts of the body in which it was supposed, from pain and other symptoms, to be principally seated. those parts have frequently exhibited no marks of inflammation, nor of the least deviation from a healthy state. i have ascribed this apparent absence of disease to the serous vessels being too highly excited, and thereby too much contracted, to admit the entrance of red blood into them. i wish these remarks to be remembered by the student of medicine. they have delivered me from the influence of several errors in pathology; and they are capable, if properly extended and applied, of leading to many important deductions in the practice of physic. i shall now briefly mention the usual effects of fever, or morbid excitement in the blood-vessels, when not removed by medicine. they are, 1. inflammation. it is produced by an effusion of red particles of blood into serous vessels, constituting what dr. boerhaave calls error loci. it is the second grade of fever, and, in fevers of great violence, does not take place until morbid excitement has continued for some time, or has been reduced by bleeding. 2. secretion, or an effusion from rupture, of the serum of the blood, constituting dropsies. 3. secretion of lymph or fibrin, forming a membrane which adheres to certain surfaces in the body. 4. secretion of pus, also of sloughs. 5. an effusion by rupture, or a congestion of all the component parts of the blood. 6. gangrene from the death of the blood-vessels. 7. rupture of blood-vessels, producing hæmorrhage. 8. redness, phlegmon, pustules, and petechiæ on the skin, and tubercles in the lungs, and on the liver and bowels. 9. schirrus. 10. calcareous and other earthy matters. both these take place only in the feeble and often imperceptible grades of morbid action in the blood-vessels. 11. death. this arises from the following causes. 1. sudden destruction of the excitability of the blood-vessels. 2. a disorganization of parts immediately necessary to life. 3. a change in the fluids, so as to render them destructive to what are called the vital organs. 4. debility, from the exhausted or suspended state of the excitability of the blood-vessels. all these effects of fever are different according to its grade. dr. blane says fevers are rarely inflammatory in the west-indies; that is, they pass rapidly from simple morbid excitement to congestion, hæmorrhage, gangrene, and death. this remark is confirmed by dr. dalzelle, who says the pneumony in the negroes, in the french west-india islands, rarely appears in any other form than that of the notha, from the arteries in the lungs being too much stimulated to produce common inflammation; but such is the force of morbid excitement in hot climates, that it sometimes passes suddenly over all its intermediate effects, and discovers itself only in death. this appears to have taken place in the cases at vera cruz, mentioned by baron humboldt. all the different states of fever may be divided, i. into such as affect the whole arterial system; but with no, or very little local disease. ii. into such as affect the whole arterial system, and are accompanied at the same time with evident local disease. iii. into such as appear to pass by the arterial system, and to fix themselves upon other parts of the body. i shall call these states of fever _misplaced_. i. to the first class of the states of fever belong, 1. the malignant. it constitutes the highest grade of morbid diathesis. it is known by attacking frequently without a chilly fit, by coma, a depressed, slow, or intermitting pulse, and sometimes by the absence of pain, and with a natural temperature or coldness of the skin. it occurs in the plague, in the yellow fever, in the gout, in the small-pox and measles, in the hydrophobia, and after taking opium and other stimulating substances. dr. quier has described a pleurisy in jamaica, in which some of those malignant symptoms took place. they are the effect of such a degree of impression as to prostrate the arterial system, and to produce a defect of action from an excess of force. such is this excess of force, in some instances, in this state of fever, that it induces general convulsions, tetanus, and palsy, and sometimes extinguishes life in a few hours, by means of apoplexy or syncope. from its being accompanied with these symptoms, it has received the name of _adynamique_ by dr. alibert. the less violent degrees of stimulus in this state of fever produce palsy in the blood-vessels. it probably begins in the veins, and extends gradually to the arteries. it seems further to begin in the extremities of the arteries, and to extend by degrees to their origin in the heart. this is evident in the total absence of pulse which sometimes takes place in malignant fevers, four and twenty, and even eight and forty hours before death. but there are cases in which this palsy affects both the veins and arteries at the same time. it is probably from this simultaneous affection of the blood-vessels, that the arteries are found to be nearly full of blood after death from malignant fevers. the depressed, and intermitting pulse which occurs in the beginning of these fevers perhaps depends upon a tendency to palsy in the arteries, independently of an affection of the heart or brain. this _prostrate_ state of fever more frequently when left to itself terminates in petechiæ, buboes, carbuncles, abscesses, and mortifications, according as serum, lymph, or red blood is effused in the viscera or external parts of the body. these morbid appearances have been ascribed to putrefaction, and the fever has received, from its supposed presence, the name of putrid. the existence of putrefaction in the blood in a fever is rendered improbable, 1. by dr. seybert's experiments[5], which prove that it does not take place in the blood in a living state. it occurs in the excretions of bile, fæces, and urine, but in this case it does not act as a ferment, but a stimulus only upon the living body. [5] inaugural dissertation, entitled, "an attempt to disprove the putrefaction of the blood in living animals." 2. by similar appearances, with those which have been ascribed to putrefaction, having been produced by lightning, by violent emotions of the mind, by extreme pain, and by every thing else which induces sudden and universal disorganization in the fluids and solids of the body. the following facts clearly prove that the symptoms which have been supposed to designate a putrid fever, are wholly the effect of mechanical action in the blood-vessels, and are unconnected with the introduction of a putrid ferment in the blood. hippocrates relates the case of a certain antiphillus, in whom a putrid bilious fever (as he calls it) was brought on by the application of a caustic to a wound[6]. [6] epidemics, book iv. an acute pain in the eye, dr. physick informed me, produced the symptoms of what is called a putrid fever, which terminated in death in five days, in st. george's hospital, in the year 1789. dr. baynard relates, upon the authority of a colonel bampfield, that a stag, which he had chased for some time, stopped at a brook of water in order to drink. soon afterwards it fell and expired. the colonel cut its throat, and was surprised to perceive the blood which issued from it had a putrid and offensive smell[7]. dr. desportes takes notice that a fish, which he calls a sucker, affected the system nearly in the same manner as the miasmata of the yellow fever. a distressing vomiting, a coldness of the extremities, and an absence of pulse, were some of the symptoms produced by it, and an inflammation and mortification of the stomach and bowels, were discovered after death to be the effects of its violent operation. even opium, in large doses, sometimes produces by its powerful stimulus the same symptoms which are produced by the stimulus of marsh miasmata. these symptoms are a slow pulse, coma, a vomiting, cold sweats, a sallow colour of the face, and a suppression of the discharges by the urinary passages and bowels. error is often perpetuated by words. a belief in the putrefaction of the blood has done great mischief in medicine. the evil is kept up, under the influence of new theories, by the epithet putrid, which is still applied to fever in all our medical books. for which reason i shall reject it altogether hereafter, and substitute in its room. [7] treatise on the cold bath. 2. the _gangrenous_ state of fever; for what appear to some physicians to be signs of putrefaction, are nothing but the issue of a violent inflammation left in the hands of nature, or accelerated by stimulating medicines. thus the sun, when viewed at mid-day, appears to the naked eye, from the excess of its splendour, to be a mass of darkness, instead of an orb of light. the same explanation of what are called putrid symptoms in fever, is very happily delivered by mr. hunter in the following words: "it is to be observed (says this acute physiologist) that when the attack upon these organs, which are principally connected with life, proves fatal, that the effects of the inflammation upon the constitution run through all the stages with more rapidity than when it happens in other parts; so that at its very beginning, it has the same effect upon the constitution which is only produced by the second stage of inflammation in other parts[8]." [8] treatise on inflammation. chap. i. 8. 3. the _synocha_, or the common inflammatory state of fever, attacks suddenly with chills, and is succeeded by a quick, frequent, and tense pulse, great heat, thirst, and pains in the bones, joints, breast, or sides. these symptoms sometimes occur in the plague, the jail and yellow fever, and the small-pox; but they are the more common characteristics of pleurisy, gout, and rheumatism. they now and then occur in the influenza, the measles, and the puerperile fever. 4. the _synochus_ state of fever is known by a full, quick, and round pulse without tension. the autumnal bilious fever and colic, also the gout, often appear in this form. 5. there is a state of fever in which the pulse is small, but tense and quick. the patient, in this state of fever, is seldom confined to his bed. we observe it sometimes in the chronic rheumatism, and in pulmonary consumption. the inflammatory state of this grade of fever is proved from the inefficacy of the volatile tincture of guaiacum and other stimulants to remove it, and from its yielding so suddenly to blood-letting. i have called it the _synochula_ state of fever. 6. there is a state of fever inclining more to the synocha, than what is called the typhus, or low chronic state of fever. i have called it the _synochoid_ state of fever. 7. the _typhus_ state of fever is generally preceded by all those circumstances which debilitate the system, both by the action and abstraction of stimuli. it is known by a weak and frequent pulse, a disposition to sleep, a torpor of the alimentary canal, tremors of the hands, a dry tongue, and, in some instances, by a diarrh[oe]a. these symptoms occur most frequently in what is called the jail, the ship, and the hospital fever. i heard of it in a few cases in the yellow fever of 1793, and all writers take notice of cases of the plague, which run on into a slow fever that continues 30 or 40 days. i have seen it succeed the common bilious fever, pleurisy, and influenza. it has been confounded with the malignant state of fever, or what is called the typhus gravior; but it differs widely from it in being accompanied by a feeble excitement in the blood-vessels, from a feeble stimulus, and by the usual signs of debility from abstraction in every other part of the body. from the accession of new stimuli, or an increase in the force of former ones, this typhus state of fever sometimes assumes, on the 11th, 14th, and even 20th days, the symptoms of the synocha state of fever. it will be useful to remember this remark, not only because it establishes the unity of fever, but because it will justify the use of a remedy, seldom prescribed after the disease has acquired that name which associates it with stimulating medicines. the common name of this state of fever, is the _nervous_ fever. this name is improper; for it invades the nervous system by pain, delirium, and convulsions much less than several other states of fever. to prevent the absurd and often fatal association of ideas upon the treatment of this state of fever, i have called it, from its duration, the _low chronic_ state of fever. i have adopted the term _low_, from dr. butter's account of the remitting fever of children, in order to distinguish it from states of fever to be mentioned hereafter, in which the patient is not confined to his bed. this new name of the typhus or nervous fever establishes its analogy with several other diseases. we have the acute and the chronic rheumatism; the acute and chronic pneumony, commonly called the pleurisy and pulmonary consumption; the acute and chronic inflammation of the brain, known unfortunately by the unrelated names of phrenitis, madness, and internal dropsy of the brain. why should we hesitate, in like manner, in admitting acute and chronic fever, in all those cases where no local inflammation attends? 8. the _typhoid_ state of fever is composed of the synocha and low chronic states of fever. it is the _slow_ nervous fever of dr. butter. the excitement of the blood-vessels is somewhat greater than in the _low_ chronic state of fever. perhaps the muscular fibres of the blood-vessels, in this state of fever, are affected by different degrees of stimulus and excitement. supposing a pulse to consist of eight cords, i think i have frequently felt more or less of them tense or relaxed, according as the fever partook more or less of the synocha, or low chronic states of fever. this state of fever occurs most frequently in what are called the hectic and puerperal fevers, and in the scarlatina. 9. the _hectic_ state of fever differs from all the other states of fever, by the want of regularity in its paroxysms, in which chills, fevers, and sweats are included; and by the brain, nerves, muscles, and alimentary canal being but little impaired in their functions by it. it appears to be an exclusive disease of the blood-vessels. it occurs in the pulmonary consumption, in some cases of lues, of scrophula, and of the gout, and after most of the states of fever which have been described. the force of the pulse is various, being occasionally synochoid, typhoid, and typhus. 10. intermissions, or the _intermitting_ and remitting states of fever, are common to all the states of fever which have been mentioned. but they occur most distinctly and universally in those which partake of the bilious diathesis. they have been ascribed to the reproduction of bile, to the recurrence of debility, and to the influence of the heavenly bodies upon the system. none of these hypotheses has explained the recurrence of fever, where the bile has not been in fault, where debility is uniform, and where the paroxysms of fever do not accord with the revolutions of any part of the solar system. i have endeavoured to account for the recurrence of the paroxysm of fever, in common with all other periodical diseases, by means of a natural or adventitious association of motions. dr. percival has glanced at this law of animal matter; and dr. darwin has explained by it, in the most ingenious manner, many natural and morbid actions in the human body. 11. there is a state of fever in which the morbid action of the blood-vessels is so feeble as scarcely to be perceptible. like the hectic state of fever, it seldom affects the brain, nerves, muscles, or alimentary canal. it is known in the southern states of america by the name of _inward_ fevers. the english physicians formerly described it by the name of febricula. these eleven states of fever may be considered as _primary_ in their nature. all the states which remain to be enumerated belong to some one of them, or they are compounds of two, three, or more of them. even these primary states of fever seldom appear in the simple form in which they have been described. they often blend their symptoms; and sometimes all the states appear at different times in the course of a fever. this departure from a uniformity in the character of fevers must be sought for in the changes of the weather, in the casual application of fresh irritants, or in the operation of the remedies which have been employed to cure them. to the first class of the states of fever belong the sweating, the fainting, the burning, and the cold and chilly states of fever. 12. the _sweating_ state of fever occurs in the plague, in the yellow fever, in the small-pox, the pleurisy, the rheumatism, and in the hectic and intermitting states of fever. profuse sweats appeared every other day in the autumnal fever of 1795 in philadelphia, without any other symptom of an intermittent. the english sweating sickness was nothing but a symptom of the plague. the sweats in all these cases are the effects of morbid and excessive action, concentrated in the capillary vessels. 13. the _fainting_ state of fever accompanies the plague, the yellow fever, the small-pox, and some states of pleurisy. it is the effect of great depression; hence it occurs most frequently in the beginning of those states of fever. 14. the _burning_ state of fever has given rise to what has been called a species of fever. it is the causus of authors. dr. mosely, who rejects the epithet of yellow, when applied to the bilious fever, because it is only one of its accidental symptoms, very improperly distinguishes the same fever by another symptom, viz. the burning heat of the skin, and which is not more universal than the yellowness which attends it. 15. the _cold_ and _chilly_ state of fever differs from a common chilly fit, by continuing four or five days, and to such a degree, that the patient frequently cannot bear his arms out of the bed. the coldness is most obstinate in the hands and feet. a _coolness_ only of the skin attends in some cases, which is frequently mistaken for an absence of fever. having mentioned those states of fever which affect the arterial system without any, or with but little local disease, i proceed next to enumerate those states of fever which belong to the ii. class of the order that was mentioned, in which there are local affections combined with general fever. they are, 16. the _intestinal_ state of fever. i have been anticipated in giving this epithet to fever, by dr. balfour[9]. it includes the cholera morbus, diarrh[oe]a, dysentery, and colic. the remitting bilious fever appears, in all the above forms, in the summer months. they all belong to the febris introversa of dr. sydenham. the jail fever appears likewise frequently in the form of diarrh[oe]a and dysentery. the dysentery is the offspring of marsh and human miasmata, but it is often induced in a weak state of the bowels, by other exciting causes. the colic occasionally occurs with states of fever to be mentioned hereafter. [9] account of the intestinal remitting fever of bengal. 17. the _pulmonary_ state of fever includes the true and bastard pneumony in their acute forms; also catarrh from cold and influenza, and the chronic form of pneumony in what is called pulmonary consumption. 18. the _eruptive_ state of fever includes the small-pox, measles, erysipelas, miliary fever, chicken-pox, and pemphigus. 19. the _anginose_ state of fever includes all those affections of the throat which are known by the names of cynanche inflammatoria, tonsillaris, parotidea, maligna, scarlatina, and trachealis. the cynanche trachealis is a febrile disease. the membrane which produces suffocation and death in the wind-pipe is the effect of inflammation. it is said to be formed, like other membranes which succeed inflammation, from the coagulable lymph of the blood. 20. the _rheumatic_ state of fever is confined chiefly to the labouring part of mankind. the topical affection is seated most commonly in the joints and muscles, which, from being exercised more than other parts of the body, become more debilitated, and are, in consequence thereof, excited into morbid and inflammatory action. 21. the _arthritic_ or _gouty_ state of fever differs from the rheumatic, in affecting, with the joints and muscles, all the nervous and lymphatic systems, the viscera, and the skin. its predisposing, exciting, and proximate causes are the same as the rheumatic and other states of fever. it bears the same ratio to rheumatism, which the yellow fever bears to the common bilious fever. it is a fever of more force than rheumatism. 22. the _cephalic_, in which are included the phrenitic, lethargic, apoplectic, paralytic, hydrocephalic, and maniacal states of fever. that madness is originally a state of fever, i infer, 1. from its causes, many of which are the same as those which induce all the other states of fever. 2. from its symptoms, particularly a full, tense, quick, and sometimes a slow pulse. 3. from the inflammatory appearances of the blood which has been drawn to relieve it. and, 4. from the phenomena exhibited by dissection in the brains of maniacs, being the same as are exhibited by other inflamed viscera after death. these are, effusions of water or blood, abscesses, and schirrus. the hardness in the brains of maniacs, taken notice of by several authors, is nothing but a schirrus (sui generis), induced by the neglect of sufficient evacuations in this state of fever. the reader will perceive by these observations, that i reject madness from its supposed primary seat in the mind or nerves. it is as much an original disease of the blood-vessels, as any other state of fever. it is to phrenitis, what pulmonary consumption is to pneumony. the derangement in the operations of the mind is the effect only of a chronic inflammation of the brain, existing without an abstraction of muscular excitement. 23. the _nephritic_ state of fever is often induced by calculi, but it frequently occurs in the gout, small-pox, and malignant states of fever. there is such an engorgement, or choaking of the vessels of the kidneys, that the secretion of the urine is sometimes totally obstructed, so that the bladder yields no water to the catheter. it is generally accompanied with a full or tense pulse, great pain, sickness, or vomiting, high coloured urine, and a pain along the thigh and leg, with occasionally a retraction of one of the testicles. it exists sometimes without any pain. of this i met with several instances in the yellow fever of 1793. i include diabetes in this state of fever. 24. the _hydropic_ state of fever, in which are included collections of water, in the lungs, cavity of the thorax, cavity of the abdomen, ovaria, scrotum, testicles, and lower extremities, and usually preceded, and generally accompanied with morbid action in the blood-vessels. that dropsy is a state of fever, i have endeavoured to prove in another place[10]. nineteen dropsies out of twenty appear to be original arterial diseases, and the water, which has been supposed to be their cause, is as much the effect of preternatural and morbid action in the blood-vessels, as pus, gangrene, and schirrus are of previous inflammation. this has been demonstrated, by the late dr. cooper, in a man who died of an ascites in the pennsylvania hospital. pus and blood, as well as water, were found in the cavity of the abdomen. it is no objection to this theory of dropsy, that we sometimes find water in the cavities of the body after death, without any marks of inflammation in the contiguous blood-vessels. we often find pus, both in the living and dead body, under the same circumstances, where we are sure it was not preceded by any of the obvious marks of inflammation. [10] on dropsies, vol. ii. 25. the _hæmorrhagic_ state of fever, in which are included discharges of blood from the nose, lungs, stomach, liver, bowels, kidneys and bladder, hæmorrhoidal vessels, uterus, and skin. hæmorrhages have been divided into active and passive. it would be more proper to divide them, like other states of general fever, into hæmorrhages of strong and feeble morbid action. there is seldom an issue of blood from a vessel in which there does not exist preternatural or accumulated excitement. we observe this hæmorrhagic state of fever most frequently in malignant fevers, in pulmonary consumption, in pregnancy, and in that period of life in which the menses cease to be regular. 26. the _amenorrhagic_ state of fever occurs more frequently than is suspected by physicians. a full and quick pulse, head-ach, thirst, and preternatural heat often accompany a chronic obstruction of the menses. the inefficacy, and even hurtful effects, of what are called emenagogue medicines, in this state of the system, without previous depletion, show the propriety of introducing it among the different states of fever. i have designedly omitted to take notice of other states of general fever accompanied with local disease, because they are most frequently combined with some one or more of those which have been mentioned. they may all be seen in dr. cullen's synopsis, with their supposed respective generic characters, under the class of pyrexiæ, and the order of fevers. we come now in the iii. and last place, to mention the _misplaced_ states of fever. the term is not a new one in medicine. the gout is said to be misplaced, when it passes from the feet to the viscera. the periodical pains in the head, eyes, ears, jaws, hips, and back, which occur in the sickly autumnal months, and which impart no fulness, force, nor frequency to the pulse, are all misplaced fevers. there are, besides these, many other local morbid affections, which are less suspected of belonging to febrile diseases. the nature of these states of fever may easily be understood, by recollecting one of the laws of sensation, that is, that certain impressions, which excite neither sensation nor motion in the part of the body to which they are applied, excite both in another part. thus worms, which are not felt in the stomach or bowels, often produce a troublesome sensation in the throat, and a stone, which is attended with no pain in the bladder, produces a troublesome itching in the glans penis. in like manner, the irritants which produce fever in ordinary cases pass through the blood-vessels, and convey their usual morbid effects into a remote part of the body which has been prepared to receive them by previous debility. that this is the case, i infer further, from fevers being called back from their misplaced or suffocated situations, by creating an artificial debility in the arteries by the abstraction of blood. this is often done in muscular convulsions, and in several diseases of the brain. under this class of fevers are included 27. the _chronic hepatic_ state of fever. the causes, symptoms, and remedies of the liver disease of the east-indies, as mentioned by dr. girdlestone, all prove that it is nothing but a bilious fever translated from the blood-vessels, and absorbed, or suffocated, as it were, in the liver. this view of the chronic hepatitis is important, inasmuch as it leads to the liberal use of all the remedies which cure bilious fever. gall stones and contusions now and then produce a hepatitis, but under no other circumstances do i believe it ever exists, but as a symptom of general or latent fever. 28. the hæmorrhoids are frequently a local disease, but they are sometimes accompanied with pain, giddiness, chills, and an active pulse. when these symptoms occur, it should be considered as a _hæmorrhoidal_ state of fever. 29. the opthalmia, when it occurs, as it frequently does in sickly seasons, with a quick and tense pulse, and pains diffused over the whole head, may properly be called an _opthalmic_ state of fever. 30. the tooth-ach, and 31. ear-ach, when they arise from colds, and are attended with great heat, a quick and tense pulse, and pains in the head, are _odontalgic_ and _otalgic_ states of fever. 32. the apthæ, from the pain and fever which attend them, are justly entitled to the name of the _apthous_ state of fever. 33. the symptoms of scrophula, as described by dr. hardy, in his treatise on the glandular disease of barbadoes, clearly prove it to be a _misplaced_ state of fever. 34. the scurvy has lately been proved by dr. claiborne, in his inaugural dissertation, published in the year 1797, to arise from so many of the causes, and to possess so many of the symptoms, of the low chronic and petechial states of fever, that i see no impropriety in considering it as a state of fever. 35. the _convulsive_ or _spasmodic_ state of fever. convulsions, it is well known, often usher in fevers, more especially in children. but the connection between spasmodic affections and fever, in adults, has been less attended to by physicians. the same causes which produced general fever and hepatitis in the east-indies, in some soldiers, produced locked jaw in others. several of the symptoms of this disease, as described by dr. girdlestone, such as coldness on the surface of the body, cold sweats on the hands and feet, intense thirst, a white tongue, incessant vomitings, and carbuncles, all belong to the malignant state of fever[11]. by means of blood-letting, and the other remedies for the violent state of bilious fever, i have seen the convulsions in this disease translated from the muscles to the blood-vessels, where they immediately produced _all_ the common symptoms of fever. [11] essay on the spasmodic affections in india, p. 53, 54, 55. 36. the _hysterical_ and _hypochondriacal_ states of fever. the former is known by a rising in the throat, which is for the most part erroneously ascribed to worms, by pale urine, and by a disposition to shed tears, or to laugh upon trifling occasions. the latter discovers itself by false opinions of the nature and danger of the disease under which the patient labours. both these states of the nervous system occur frequently in the gout and in the malignant state of fever. it is common to say, in such cases, that patients have a complication of diseases; but this is not true, for the hysterical and hypochondriacal symptoms are nothing but the effects of one remote cause, concentrating its force chiefly upon the nerves and muscles. 37. the _cutaneous_ state of fever. dr. sydenham calls a dysentery a "febris introversa." eruptions of the skin are often nothing but the reverse of this introverted fever. they are a fever translated to the skin; hence we find them most common in those countries and seasons in which fevers are epidemic. the prickly heat, the rash, and the essere of authors, are all states of misplaced fever. "agues, fevers, and even _pleurisies_ (says mr. townsend, in his journey through spain[12]), are said often to terminate in scabies, and this frequently gives place to them, returning, however, when the fever ceases. in adults it takes possession of the hands and arms, with the legs and thighs, covering them with a filthy crust." small boils are common among the children in philadelphia, at the time the cholera infantum makes its appearance. these children always escape the summer epidemic. the elephantiasis described by dr. hillary, in his account of the diseases of barbadoes, is evidently a translation of an intermittent to one of the limbs. it is remarkable, that the leprosy and malignant fevers of all kinds have appeared and declined together in the same ages and countries. but further, petechiæ sometimes appear on the skin without fever. cases of this kind, with and without hæmorrhages, are taken notice of by riverius[13], dr. duncan, and many other practical writers. they are cotemporary or subsequent to fevers of a malignant complexion. they occur likewise in the scurvy. from some of the predisposing, remote, and exciting causes of this disease, and from its symptoms and remedies, i have suspected it, like the petechiæ mentioned by riverius, to be originally a fever generated by human miasmata, in a misplaced state. the hæmorrhages which sometimes accompany the scurvy, certainly arise from a morbid state of the blood-vessels. the heat and quick pulse of fever are probably absent, only because the preternatural excitement of the whole sanguiferous system is confined to those extreme or cutaneous vessels which pour forth blood. in like manner the fever of the small-pox deserts the blood-vessels, as soon as a new action begins on the skin. or perhaps the excitability of the larger blood-vessels may be so far exhausted by the long or forcible impression of the remote and predisposing causes of the scurvy, as to be incapable of undergoing the convulsive action of general fever. [12] vol. ii. dublin edition, p. 262. [13] praxis medica, lib. xviii. cap. i. with this i close my inquiry into the cause of fever. it is imperfect from its brevity, as well as from other causes. i commit it to my pupils to be corrected and improved. "we think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. our wiser sons, _i hope_, will think us so." an account of the _bilious remitting yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1793. before i proceed to deliver the history of this fever, it will be proper to give a short account of the diseases which preceded it. the state of the weather during the first seven months of the year, and during the time in which the fever prevailed in the city, as recorded by mr. rittenhouse, will be inserted immediately after the history of the disease. the _mumps_, which made their appearance in december, 1792, continued to prevail during the month of january, 1793. besides this disease there were many cases of catarrh in the city, brought on chiefly by the inhabitants exposing themselves for several hours on the damp ground, in viewing the aërial voyage of mr. blanchard, on the 9th day of the month. the weather, which had been moderate in december and january, became cold in february. the mumps continued to prevail during this month with symptoms so inflammatory as to require, in some cases, two bleedings. many people complained this month of pains and swellings in the jaws. a few had the scarlatina anginosa. the mumps, pains in the jaws, and scarlatina continued throughout the month of march. i was called to two cases of pleurisy in this month, which terminated in a temporary mania. one of them was in a woman of ninety years of age, who recovered. the blood drawn in the other case (a gentleman from maryland) was dissolved. the continuance of a tense pulse induced me, notwithstanding, to repeat the bleeding. the blood was now sizy. a third bleeding was prescribed, and my patient recovered. several cases of obstinate erysipelas succeeded inoculation in children during this and the next month, one of which proved fatal. blossoms were universal on the fruit-trees, in the gardens of philadelphia, on the first day of april. the scarlatina anginosa continued to be the reigning epidemic in this month. there were several warm days in may, but the city was in general healthy. the birds appeared two weeks sooner this spring than usual. the register of the weather shows, that there were many warm days in june. the scarlatina continued to maintain its empire during this month. the weather was uniformly warm in july. the scarlatina continued during the beginning of this month, with symptoms of great violence. a son of james sharswood, aged seven years, had, with the common symptoms of this disease, great pains and swellings in his limbs, accompanied with a tense pulse. i attempted in vain to relieve him by vomits and purges. on the 10th day of the month, i ordered six ounces of blood to be drawn from his arm, which i observed afterwards to be very sizy. the next day he was nearly well. between the 22d and the 24th days of the month, there died three persons, whose respective ages were 80, 92, and 96-1/2. the weather at this time was extremely warm. i have elsewhere taken notice of the fatal influence of extreme heat, as well as cold, upon human life in old people. a few bilious remitting fevers appeared towards the close of this month. one of them under my care ended in a typhus or chronic fever, from which the patient was recovered with great difficulty. it was the son of dr. hutchins, of the island of barbadoes. the weather, for the first two or three weeks in august, was temperate and pleasant. the cholera morbus and remitting fevers were now common. the latter, were attended with some inflammatory action in the pulse, and a determination to the breast. several dysenteries appeared at this time, both in the city and in its neighbourhood. during the latter part of july, and the beginning of this month, a number of the distressed inhabitants of st. domingo, who had escaped the desolation of fire and sword, arrived in the city. soon after their arrival, the influenza made its appearance, and spread rapidly among our citizens. the scarlatina still kept up a feeble existence among children. the above diseases were universal, but they were not attended with much mortality. they prevailed in different parts of the city, and each seemed to appear occasionally to be the ruling epidemic. the weather continued to be warm and dry. there was a heavy rain on the 25th of the month, which was remembered by the citizens of philadelphia, as the last that fell for many weeks afterwards. there was something in the heat and drought of the summer months which was uncommon, in their influence upon the human body. labourers every where gave out (to use the country phrase) in harvest, and frequently too when the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer was under 84°. it was ascribed by the country people to the calmness of the weather, which left the sweat produced by heat and labour to dry slowly upon the body. the crops of grain and grass were impaired by the drought. the summer fruits were as plentiful as usual, particularly the melons, which were of an excellent quality. the influence of the weather upon the autumnal fruits, and upon vegetation in general, shall be mentioned hereafter. i now enter upon a detail of some solitary cases of the epidemic, which soon afterwards spread distress through our city, and terror throughout the united states. on the 5th of august, i was requested by dr. hodge to visit his child. i found it ill with a fever of the bilious kind, which terminated (with a yellow skin) in death on the 7th of the same month. on the 6th of august, i was called to mrs. bradford, the wife of mr. thomas bradford. she had all the symptoms of a bilious remittent, but they were so acute as to require two bleedings, and several successive doses of physic. the last purge she took was a dose of calomel, which operated plentifully. for several days after her recovery, her eyes and face were of a yellow colour. on the same day, i was called to the son of mrs. m'nair, who had been seized violently with all the usual symptoms of a bilious fever. i purged him plentifully with salts and cremor tartar, and took ten or twelve ounces of blood from his arm. his symptoms appeared to yield to these remedies; but on the 10th of the month a hæmorrhage from the nose came on, and on the morning of the 12th he died. on the 7th of this month i was called to visit richard palmer, a son of mrs. palmer, in chesnut-street. he had been indisposed for several days with a sick stomach, and vomiting after eating. he now complained of a fever and head-ach. i gave him the usual remedies for the bilious fever, and he recovered in a few days. on the 15th day of the same month i was sent for to visit his brother william, who was seized with all the symptoms of the same disease. on the 5th day his head-ach became extremely acute, and his pulse fell to sixty strokes in a minute. i suspected congestion to have taken place in his brain, and ordered him to lose eight ounces of blood. his pulse became more frequent, and less tense after bleeding, and he recovered in a day or two afterwards. on the 14th day of this month i was sent for to visit mrs. leaming, the wife of mr. thomas leaming. i suspected at first that she had the influenza, but in a day or two her fever put on bilious symptoms. she was affected with an uncommon disposition to faint. her pulse was languid, but _tense_. i took a few ounces of blood from her, and purged her with salts and calomel. i afterwards gave her a small dose of laudanum which disagreed with her. in my note book i find i have recorded that "she was worse for it." i was led to make this remark by its being so very uncommon for a person, who had been properly bled and purged, to take laudanum in a common bilious fever without being benefited by it. she recovered, however, slowly, and was yellow for many days afterwards. on the morning of the 18th of this month i was requested to visit peter aston, in vine-street, in consultation with dr. say. i found him on the third day of a most acute bilious fever. his eyes were inflamed, and his face flushed with a deep red colour. his pulse seemed to forbid evacuations. we prescribed the strongest cordials, but to no purpose. we found him, at 6 o'clock in the evening, sitting upon the side of his bed, perfectly sensible, but without a pulse, with cold clammy hands, and his face of a yellowish colour. he died a few hours after we left him. none of the cases which i have mentioned excited the least apprehension of the existence of a malignant or yellow fever in our city; for i had frequently seen sporadic cases in which the common bilious fever of philadelphia had put on symptoms of great malignity, and terminated fatally in a few days, and now and then with a yellow colour on the skin, before or immediately after death. on the 19th of this month i was requested to visit the wife of mr. peter le maigre, in water-street, between arch and race-streets, in consultation with dr. foulke and dr. hodge. i found her in the last stage of a highly bilious fever. she vomited constantly, and complained of great heat and burning in her stomach. the most powerful cordials and tonics were prescribed, but to no purpose. she died on the evening of the next day. upon coming out of mrs. le maigre's room i remarked to dr. foulke and dr. hodge, that i had seen an unusual number of bilious fevers, accompanied with symptoms of uncommon malignity, and that i suspected all was not right in our city. dr. hodge immediately replied, that a fever of a most malignant kind had carried off four or five persons within sight of mr. le maigre's door, and that one of them had died in twelve hours after the attack of the disease. this information satisfied me that my apprehensions were well founded. the origin of this fever was discovered to me at the same time, from the account which dr. foulke gave me of a quantity of damaged coffee which had been thrown upon mr. ball's wharf, and in the adjoining dock, on the 24th of july, nearly in a line with mr. le maigre's house, and which had putrefied there to the great annoyance of the whole neighbourhood. after this consultation i was soon able to trace all the cases of fever which i have mentioned to this source. dr. hodge lived a few doors above mr. le maigre's, where his child had been exposed to the exhalation from the coffee for several days. mrs. bradford had spent an afternoon in a house directly opposite to the wharf and dock on which the putrid coffee had emitted its noxious effluvia, a few days before her sickness, and had been much incommoded by it. her sister, mrs. leaming, had visited her during her illness at her house, which was about two hundred yards from the infected wharf. young mr. m'nair and mrs. palmer's two sons had spent whole days in a compting house near where the coffee was exposed, and each of them had complained of having been made sick by its offensive smell, and mr. aston had frequently been in water-street near the source of the exhalation. this discovery of the malignity, extent, and origin of a fever which i knew to be attended with great danger and mortality, gave me great pain. i did not hesitate to name it the _bilious remitting yellow fever_. i had once seen it epidemic in philadelphia, in the year 1762. its symptoms were among the first impressions which diseases made upon my mind. i had recorded some of these symptoms, as well as its mortality. i shall here introduce a short account of it, from a note book which i kept during my apprenticeship. "in the year 1762, in the months of august, september, october, november, and december, the bilious yellow fever prevailed in philadelphia, after a _very hot summer_, and spread like a plague, carrying off daily, for some time, upwards of twenty persons. "the patients were generally seized with rigours, which were succeeded with a violent fever, and pains in the head and back. the pulse was full, and sometimes irregular. the eyes were inflamed, and had a yellowish cast, and a vomiting almost always attended. "the 3d, 5th, and 7th days were mostly critical, and the disease generally terminated on one of them, in life or death. "an eruption on the 3d or 7th day over the body proved salutary. "an excessive heat and burning about the region of the liver, with cold extremities, portended death to be at hand." i have taken notice, in my note book, of the principal remedy which was prescribed in this fever by my preceptor in medicine, but this shall be mentioned hereafter. upon my leaving mrs le maigre's, i expressed my distress at what i had discovered, to several of my fellow-citizens. the report of a malignant and mortal fever being in town spread in every direction, but it did not gain universal credit. some of those physicians who had not seen patients in it denied that any such fever existed, and asserted (though its mortality was not denied) that it was nothing but the common annual remittent of the city. many of the citizens joined the physicians in endeavoring to discredit the account i had given of this fever, and for a while it was treated with ridicule or contempt. indignation in some instances was excited against me, and one of my friends, whom i advised in this early stage of the disease to leave the city, has since told me that for that advice "he had hated me." my lot in having thus disturbed the repose of the public mind, upon the subject of general health, was not a singular one. there are many instances upon record, of physicians who have rendered themselves unpopular, and even odious to their fellow-citizens, by giving the first notice of the existence of malignant and mortal diseases. a physician, who asserted that the plague was in messina, in the year 1743, excited so much rage in the minds of his fellow-citizens against him, as to render it necessary for him to save his life by retreating to one of the churches of that city. in spite, however, of all opposition, the report of the existence of a malignant fever in the city gained so much ground, that the governor of the state directed dr. hutchinson, the inspector of sickly vessels, to inquire into the truth of it, and into the nature of the disease. in consequence of this order, the doctor wrote letters to several of the physicians in the city, requesting information relative to the fever. to his letter to me, dated the 24th of august, i replied on the same day, and mentioned not only the existence of a malignant fever, but the streets it occupied, and my belief of its being derived from a quantity of coffee which had putrified on a wharf near arch-street. this, and other information collected by the doctor, was communicated to the health officer, in a letter dated the 27th of august, in which he mentioned the parts of the city where the disease prevailed, and the number of persons who had died of it, supposed by him to be about 40, but which subsequent inquiries proved to be more than 150. he mentioned further, in addition to the damaged coffee, some putrid hides, and other putrid animal and vegetable substances, as the supposed cause of the fever, and concluded by saying, as he had not heard of any foreigners or sailors being infected, nor of its being found in any lodging-houses, that "it was not an imported disease." in the mean while the disease continued to spread, and with a degree of mortality that had never been known from common fevers. on the 25th of the month, the college of physicians was summoned by their president to meet, in order to consult about the best methods of checking the progress of the fever in the city. after some consideration upon the nature of the disease, a committee was appointed to draw up some directions for those purposes; and the next day the following were presented to the college, and adopted unanimously by them. they were afterwards published in most of the newspapers. _philadelphia, august 26th, 1793._ the college of physicians having taking into consideration the malignant and contagious fever that now prevails in this city, have agreed to recommend to their fellow-citizens the following means of preventing its progress. 1st. that all unnecessary intercourse should be avoided with such persons as are infected by it. 2d. to place a mark upon the door or window of such houses as have any infected persons in it. 3d. to place the persons infected in the centre of large and airy rooms, in beds without curtains, and to pay the strictest regard to cleanliness, by frequently changing their body and bed linen, also by removing, as speedily as possible, all offensive matters from their rooms. 4th. to provide a large and airy hospital, in the neighbourhood of the city, for the reception of such poor persons as cannot be accommodated with the above advantages in private houses. 5th. to put a stop to the tolling of the bells. 6th. to bury such persons as die of this fever in carriages, and in as private a manner as possible. 7th. to keep the streets and wharves of the city as clean as possible. as the contagion of the disease may be taken into the body, and pass out of it without producing the fever, unless it be rendered active by some occasional cause, the following means should be attended to, to prevent the contagion being excited into action in the body. 8th. to avoid all fatigue of body and mind. 9th. to avoid _standing_ or _sitting_ in the sun; also in a current of air, or in the evening air. 10th. to accommodate the dress to the weather, and to exceed rather in warm, than in cool clothing. 11th. to avoid intemperance, but to use fermented liquors, such as wine, beer, and cyder, in moderation. the college conceive _fires_ to be very ineffectual, if not dangerous means of checking the progress of this fever. they have reason to place more dependence upon the burning of _gunpowder_. the benefits of _vinegar_ and _camphor_ are confined chiefly to infected rooms, and they cannot be used too frequently upon handkerchiefs, or in smelling-bottles, by persons whose duty calls to visit or attend the sick. signed by order of the college, william shippen, jun. _vice president_. samuel p. griffitts, _secretary_. from a conviction that the disease originated in the putrid exhalations from the damaged coffee, i published in the american daily advertiser, of august 29th, a short address to the citizens of philadelphia, with a view of directing the public attention to the spot where the coffee lay, and thereby of checking the progress of the fever as far as it was continued by the original cause. this address had no other effect than to produce fresh clamours against the author; for the citizens, as well as most of the physicians of philadelphia, had adopted a traditional opinion that the yellow fever could exist among us only by importation from the west-indies. in consequence, however, of a letter from dr. foulke to the mayor of the city, in which he had decided, in a positive manner, in favour of the generation of the fever from the putrid coffee, the mayor gave orders for the removal of the coffee, and the cleaning of the wharf and dock. it was said that measures were taken for this purpose; but dr. foulke, who visited the place where the coffee lay, repeatedly assured me, that they were so far from being effectual, that an offensive smell was exhaled from it many days afterwards. i shall pass over, for the present, the facts and arguments on which i ground my assertion of the generation of this fever in our city. they will come in more properly in the close of the history of the disease. the seeds of the fever, when received into the body, were generally excited into action in a few days. i met with several cases in which they acted so as to produce a fever on the same day in which they were received into the system, and i heard of two cases in which they excited sickness, fainting, and fever within one hour after the persons were exposed to them. i met with no instance in which there was a longer interval than sixteen days between their being received into the body and the production of the disease. this poison acted differently in different constitutions, according to previous habits, to the degrees of predisposing debility, or to the quantity and concentration of the miasmata which had been received into the body. in some constitutions, the miasmata were at once a remote, a predisposing, and an exciting cause of the disease; hence some persons were affected by them, who had not departed in any instance from their ordinary habits of living, as to diet, dress, and exercise. but it was more frequently brought on by those causes acting in succession to each other. i shall here refer the reader to the principles laid down in the outlines of the theory of fever, for an account of the manner in which the system was predisposed to this disease, by the debility induced by the reduction of its excitement, by action and abstraction, and by subsequent depression. where a predisposition was thus produced, the fever was excited by the following causes, acting directly or indirectly upon the system. where this predisposition did not exist, the exciting causes produced both the predisposition and the disease. they were, 1. _great labour_, or exercises of body or mind, in walking, riding, watching, or the like. it was labour which excited the disease so universally among the lower class of people. a long walk often induced it. few escaped it after a day, or even a few hours spent in gunning. a hard trotting horse brought it on two of my patients. perhaps riding on horseback, and in the sun, was the exciting cause of the disease in most of the citizens and strangers who were affected by it in their flight from the city. a fall excited it in a girl, and a stroke upon the head excited it in a young man who came under my care. many people were seized with the disease in consequence of their exertions on the night of the 7th of september, in extinguishing the fire which consumed mr. dobson's printing-office, and even the less violent exercise of working the fire engines, for the purpose of laying the dust in the streets, added frequently to the number of the sick. 2. _heat_, from every cause, but more especially the heat of the sun, was a very common exciting cause of the disease. the register of the weather during the latter end of august, the whole of september, and the first two weeks in october will show how much the heat of the sun must have contributed to excite the disease, more especially among labouring people. the heat of common fires likewise became a frequent cause of the activity of the miasmata where they had been received into the body; hence the greater mortality of the disease among bakers, blacksmiths, and hatters than among any other class of people. 3. _intemperance_ in eating or drinking. a plentiful meal, and a few extra glasses of wine seldom failed of exciting the fever. but where the body was strongly impregnated with the seeds of the disease, even the smallest deviation from the customary stimulus of diet, in respect to quality or quantity, roused them into action. a supper of twelve oysters in one, and of but three in another, of my patients produced the disease. half an ounce of meat excited it in a lady who had lived, by my advice, for two weeks upon milk and vegetables, and even a supper of sallad, dressed after the french fashion, excited it in one of dr. mease's patients. 4. _fear._ in many people the disease was excited by a sudden paroxysm of fear; but i saw some remarkable instances where timid people escaped the disease, although they were constantly exposed to it. perhaps a moderate degree of fear served to counteract the excessive stimulus of the miasmata, and thereby to preserve the body in a state of healthy equilibrium. i am certain that fear did no harm after the disease was formed, in those cases where great morbid excess of action had taken place. it was an early discovery of this fact which led me not to conceal from my patients the true name of this fever, when i was called to them on the _day_ of their being attacked by it. the fear co-operated with some of my remedies (to be mentioned hereafter) in reducing the morbid excitement of the arterial system. 5. _grief._ it was remarkable that the disease was not excited in many cases in the attendants upon the sick, while there was a hope of their recovery. the grief which followed the extinction of hope, by death, frequently produced it within a day or two afterwards, and that not in one person only, but often in most of the near relations of the deceased. but the disease was also produced by a change in the state of the mind directly opposite to that which has been mentioned. many persons that attended patients who recovered, were seized with the disease a day or two after they were relieved from the toils and anxiety of nursing. the collapse of the mind from the abstraction of the stimulus of hope and desire, by their ample gratification, probably produced that debility, and loss of the equilibrium in the system, which favoured the activity of the miasmata in the manner formerly mentioned[14]. [14] outlines of a theory of fever. the effects of both the states of mind which have been described, have been happily illustrated by two facts which are recorded by dr. jackson[15]. he tells us, that the garrisons of savannah and york-town were both healthy during the siege of those towns, but that the former became sickly as soon as the french and american armies retreated, from before it, and the latter, immediately after its capitulation. [15] treatise on the fevers of jamaica, p. 298. 6. _cold._ its action, in exciting the disease, depended upon the diminution of the necessary and natural heat of the body, and thereby so far destroying the equilibrium of the system, as to enable the miasmata to produce excessive or convulsive motions in the blood-vessels. the night air, even in the warm month of september, was often so cool as to excite the disease, where the dress and bed-clothes were not accommodated to it. it was excited in one case by a person's only wetting his feet, in the month of october, and neglecting afterwards to change his shoes and stockings. every change in the weather, that was short of producing frost, evidently increased the number of sick people. this was obvious after the 18th and 19th of september, when the mercury fell to 44° and 45°. the hopes of the city received a severe disappointment upon this occasion, for i well recollect there was a general expectation that this change in the weather would have checked the disease. the same increase of the number of sick was observed to follow the cool weather which succeeded the 6th and 7th of october, on which days the mercury fell to 43° and 46°. it was observed that those persons who were _habitually_ exposed to the cool air, were less liable to the disease than others. i ascribe it to the _habitual_ impression of the cool night air upon the bodies of the city watchmen, that but four or five of them, out of twenty-five, were affected by the disease. after the body had been heated by violent exercise, a breeze of cool air sometimes excited the disease in those cases where there had been no change in the temperature of the weather. 7. _sleep._ a great proportion of all who were affected by this fever, were attacked in the night. sleep induced what i have called debility from abstraction, and thereby disposed the miasmata which floated in the blood, to act with such force upon the system as to destroy its equilibrium, and thus to excite a fever. the influence of sleep as a predisposing, and exciting cause was often assisted by the want of bed-clothes, suited to the midnight or morning coolness of the air. 8. _immoderate evacuations._ the efficacy of moderate purging and bleeding in preventing the disease, led some people to use those remedies in an excess, which both predisposed to the disease, and excited it. the morbid effects of these evacuations, were much aided by fear, for it was this passion which perverted the judgment in such a manner, as to lead to the excessive use of remedies, which, to be effectual, should only be used in moderate quantities. the disease appeared with different symptoms, and in different degrees, in different people. they both varied likewise with the weather. in describing the disease, i shall take notice of the changes in the symptoms, which were produced by changes in the temperature of the air. the precursors, or premonitory signs of this fever were, costiveness, a dull pain in the right side, defect of appetite, flatulency, perverted taste, heat in the stomach, giddiness, or pain in the head, a dull, watery, brilliant, yellow, or red eye, dim and imperfect vision, a hoarseness, or slight sore throat, low spirits, or unusual vivacity, a moisture on the hands, a disposition to sweat at nights, or after moderate exercise, or a sudden suppression of night sweats. the dull eye, and the lowness of spirits, appeared to be the effects of such an excess in the stimulus of the miasmata as to induce depression, while the brilliant eye, and the unusual vivacity, seemed to have been produced by a less quantity of the miasmata acting as a cordial upon the system. more or less of these symptoms frequently continued for two or three days before the patients were confined to their beds, and in some people they continued during the whole time of its prevalence in the city, without producing the disease. i wish these symptoms to be remembered by the reader. they will form the corner stone of a system which i hope will either eradicate the disease altogether, or render it as safe as an intermitting fever, or as the small-pox when it is received by inoculation. frequent as these precursors of the fever were, they were not universal. many went to bed in good health, and awoke in the night with a chilly fit. many rose in the morning after regular and natural sleep, and were seized at their work, or after a walk, with a sudden and unexpected attack of the fever. in most of these cases the disease came on with a chilly fit, which afforded by its violence or duration a tolerable presage of the issue of the disease. upon entering a sick room where a patient was confined by this fever, the first thing that struck the eye of a physician was the countenance. it was as much unlike that which is exhibited in the common bilious fever, as the face of a wild, is unlike the face of a mild domestic animal. the eyes were sad, watery, and so inflamed, in some cases, as to resemble two balls of fire. sometimes they had a most brilliant or ferocious appearance. the face was suffused with blood, or of a dusky colour, and the whole countenance was downcast and clouded. after the 10th of september, when a determination of blood to the brain became universal, there was a preternatural dilatation of the pupil. sighing attended in almost every case. the skin was dry, and frequently of its natural temperature. these were the principal symptoms which discovered themselves to the eye and hand of a physician. the answers to the first questions proposed upon visiting a patient, were calculated to produce a belief in the mind of a physician, that the disease under which the patient laboured was not the prevailing malignant epidemic. i did not for many weeks meet with a dozen patients, who acknowledged that they had any other indisposition than a common cold, or a slight remitting or intermitting fever. i was particularly struck with this self-deception in many persons, who had nursed relations that had died with the yellow fever, and who had been exposed to it in neighbourhoods where it had prevailed for days and even weeks with great mortality. i shall hereafter trace a part of this disposition in the sick to deceive themselves to the influence of certain publications, which appeared soon after the disease became epidemic in the city. in the further history of this fever, i shall describe its symptoms as they appeared, i. in the sanguiferous system. ii. in the liver, lungs, and brain. iii. in the alimentary canal; in which i include the stomach as well as the bowels. iv. in the secretions and excretions. v. in the nervous system. vi. in the senses and appetites. vii. in the lymphatic and glandular system. viii. upon the skin. ix. in the blood. after having finished this detail, i shall mention some general characters of the disease, and afterwards subdivide it into classes, according to its degrees and duration. i. the _blood-vessels_ were affected more or less in every case of this fever. i have elsewhere said, that a fever is occasioned by a convulsion in the arterial system[16]. when the epidemic, which we are now considering, came on with a full, tense, and quick pulse, this convulsion was very perceptible; but it frequently came on with a weak pulse, often without any preternatural frequency or quickness, and sometimes so low as not to be perceived without pressing the artery at the wrists. in many cases the pulse intermitted after the fourth, in some after the fifth, and in others after the fourteenth stroke. these intermissions occurred in several persons who were infected, but who were not confined by the fever. they likewise continued in several of my patients for many days after their recovery. this was the case in particular in mrs. clymer, mrs. palmer's son william, and in a son of mr. william compton. in some, there was a preternatural slowness of the pulse. it beat 44 strokes in a minute in mr. b. w. morris, 48 in mr. thomas wharton, jun. and 64 in mr. william sansom, at a time when they were in the most imminent danger. dr. physick informed me, that in one of his patients the pulse was reduced in frequency to 30 strokes in a minute. all these different states of the pulse have been taken notice of by authors who have described pestilential fevers[17]. they have been improperly ascribed to the absence of fever: i would rather suppose that they are occasioned by the stimulus of the remote cause acting upon the arteries with too much force to admit of their being excited into quick and convulsive motions. the remedy which removed it (to be mentioned hereafter) will render this explanation of its cause still more probable. milton describes a darkness from an excess of light. in like manner we observe, in this small, intermitting, and slow pulse, a deficiency of strength from an excess of force applied to it. in nearly every case of it which came under my notice, it was likewise tense or chorded. this species of pulse occurred chiefly in the month of august, and in the first ten days in september. i had met with it formerly in a sporadic case of yellow fever. it was new to all my pupils. one of them, mr. washington, gave it the name of the "undescribable pulse." it aided in determining the character of this fever before the common bilious remittent disappeared in the city. for a while, i ascribed this peculiarity in the pulse, more especially its _slowness_, to an affection of the brain only, and suspected that it was produced by what i have taken the liberty elsewhere to call the _phrenicula_, or inflammatory state of the internal dropsy of the brain, and which i have remarked to be an occasional symptom and consequence of remitting fever. i was the more disposed to adopt this opinion, from perceiving this slow, chorded, and intermitting pulse more frequently in children than in adults. impressed with this idea, i requested mr. coxe, one of my pupils, to assist me in examining the state of the eyes. for two days we discovered no change in them, but on the third day after we began to inspect them, we both perceived a preternatural dilatation of the pupils, in different patients; and we seldom afterwards saw an eye in which it was absent. in dr. say it was attended by a squinting, a symptom which marks a high degree of a morbid affection of the brain. had this slowness or intermission in the pulse occurred only after signs of inflammation or congestion had appeared in the brain, i should have supposed that it had been derived wholly from that cause; but i well recollect having felt it several days before i could discover the least change in the pupil of the eye. i am forced therefore to call in the operation of another cause, to assist in accounting for this state of the pulse, and this i take to be a spasmodic affection, accompanied with preternatural dilatation or contraction of the heart. lieutaud mentions this species of pulse in several places, as occurring with an undue enlargement of that muscle[18]. dr. ferriar describes a case, in which a low, irregular, intermitting, and hardly perceptible pulse attended a morbid dilatation of the heart[19]. in a letter i received from mr. hugh ferguson, then a student of medicine in the college of edinburgh, written from dublin, during the time of a visit to his father, and dated september 30th, 1793, i find a fact which throws additional light upon this subject. "a case (says my young correspondent) where a remarkable intermission of pulse was observed, occurred in this city last year. a gentleman of the medical profession, middle aged, of a delicate habit of body, and who had formerly suffered phthisical attacks, was attacked with the acute rheumatism. some days after he was taken ill, he complained of uncommon fulness, and a very peculiar kind of sensation about the præcordia, which it was judged proper to relieve by copious blood-letting. this being done, the uneasiness went off. it returned, however, three or four times, and was as often relieved by bleeding. during each of his fits (if i may call them so), the patient experienced an almost total remission of his pains in his limbs; but they returned with equal or greater violence after blood-letting. during the fit there was an intermission of the pulse (the first time) of no less than thirteen strokes. it was when beating full, strong, and slow. the third intermission was of nine strokes. the gentleman soon recovered, and has enjoyed good health for ten months past. the opinion of some of his physicians was, that the heart was affected, as a muscle, by the rheumatism, and alternated with the limbs." [16] outlines of a theory of fever. [17] vergasca, sorbait, and boate in haller's bibliotheca medicinæ, vol. iii. also by dr. stubbs in the philosophical transactions, and riverius in his treatise de febre pestilenti. [18] historia anatomica medica, vol ii. obs. 405, 418, 423, 510. [19] medical histories and reflections, p. 150. i am the more inclined to believe the peculiarity in the pulse which has been mentioned in the yellow fever, arose in part from a spasmodic affection of the heart, from the frequency of an uncommon palpitation of this muscle, which i discovered in this disease, more especially in old people. the disposition, likewise, to syncope and sighing, which so often occurred, can be explained upon no other principle than inflammation, spasm, dilatation, or congestion in the heart. after the 10th of september this undescribable or _sulky_ pulse (for by the latter epithet i sometimes called it) became less observable, and, in proportion as the weather became cool, it totally disappeared. it was gradually succeeded by a pulse full, tense, quick, and as frequent as in pleurisy or rheumatism. it differed, however, from a pleuritic or rheumatic pulse, in imparting a very different sensation to the fingers. no two strokes seemed to be exactly alike. its action was of a hobbling nature. it was at this time so familiar to me that i think i could have distinguished the disease by it without seeing the patient. it was remarkable that this pulse attended the yellow fever even when it appeared in the mild form of an intermittent, and in those cases where the patients were able to walk about or go abroad. it was nearly as _tense_ in the remissions and intermissions of the fever as it was in the exacerbations. it was an alarming symptom, and when the only remedy which was effectual to remove it was neglected, such a change in the system was induced as frequently brought on death in a few days. this change of the pulse, from extreme lowness to fulness and activity, appeared to be owing to the diminution of the heat of the weather, which, by its stimulus, added to that of the remote cause, had induced those symptoms of depression of the pulse which have been mentioned. the pulse most frequently lessened in its fulness, and became gradually weak, frequent, and imperceptible before death, but i met with several cases in which it was full, active, and even tense in the last hours of life. _hæmorrhages_ belong to the symptoms of this fever as they appeared in the sanguiferous system. they occurred in the beginning of the disease, chiefly from the nose and uterus. sometimes but a few drops of blood distilled from the nose. the menses were unusual in their quantity when they appeared at their stated periods, but they often came on a week or two before the usual time of their appearance. i saw one case of a hæmorrhage from the lungs on the first day of the fever, which was supposed to be a common hæmoptysis. as the disease advanced the discharges of blood became more universal. they occurred from the gums, ears, stomach, bowels, and urinary passages. drops of blood issued from the inner canthus of the left eye of mr. josiah coates. dr. woodhouse attended a lady who bled from the holes in her ears which had been made by ear-rings. many bled from the orifices which had been made by bleeding, several days after they appeared to have been healed, and some from wounds which had been made in veins in unsuccessful attempts to draw blood. these last hæmorrhages were very troublesome, and in some cases precipitated death. ii. i come now to mention the symptoms of this fever as they appeared in the _liver_, the _lungs_, and the _brain_. from the histories which i had read of this disease, i was early led to examine the state of the _liver_, but i was surprised to find so few marks of hepatic affection. i met with but two cases in which the patient could lie only on the right side. many complained of a dull pain in the region of the liver, but very few complained, in the beginning of the disease, of that soreness to the touch, about the pit of the stomach, which is taken notice of by authors, and which was universal in the yellow fever in 1762. in proportion as the cool weather advanced, a preternatural determination of the blood took place chiefly to the lungs and brain. many were affected with pneumonic symptoms, and some appeared to die of sudden effusions of blood or serum in the lungs. it was an unexpected effusion of this kind which put an end to the life of mrs. keppele after she had exhibited hopeful signs of a recovery. i saw one person who recovered from an affection of the lungs, by means of a copious expectoration of yellow phlegm and mucus. but the _brain_ was principally affected with morbid congestion in this disease. it was indicated by the suffusion of blood in the face, by the redness of the eyes, by a dilatation of the pupils, by the pain in the head, by the hæmorrhages from the nose and ears, by the sickness or vomiting, and by an almost universal costive state of the bowels. i wish to impress the reader with these facts, for they formed one of the strongest indications for the use of the remedies which i adopted for the cure of this disease. it is difficult to determine the exact state of these viscera in every case of bilious and yellow fever. inflammation certainly takes place in some cases, and internal hæmorrhages in others; but i believe the most frequent affection of these viscera consists in a certain morbid accumulation of blood in them, which has been happily called, by dr. clark, an _engorgement_ or choaking of the blood-vessels. i believe further, with dr. clark[20] and dr. balfour[21], that death in most cases in bilious fevers is the effect of these morbid congestions, and wholly unconnected with an exhausted state of the system, or a supposed putrefaction in the fluids. it is true, the dissections of dr. physick and dr. cathrall (to be mentioned hereafter) discovered no morbid appearances in any of the viscera which have been mentioned, but it should be remembered, that these dissections were made early in the disease. dr. annan attended the dissection of a brain of a patient who died at bush-hill some days afterwards, and observed the blood-vessels to be unusually turgid. in those cases where congestion only takes place, it is as easy to conceive that all morbid appearances in the brain may cease after death, as that the suffusion of blood in the face should disappear after the retreat of the blood from the extremities of the vessels, in the last moments of life. it is no new thing for morbid excitement of the brain to leave either slender, or no marks of disease after death. this, i have said, is often the case where it exceeds that degree of action which produces an effusion of red blood into serous vessels, or what is called inflammation[22]. dr. quin has given a dissection of the brain of a child that died with all the symptoms of hydrocephalus internus, and yet nothing was discovered in the brain but a slight turgescence of its blood-vessels. dr. girdlestone says, no injury appeared in the brains of those persons who died of the symptomatic apoplexy, which occurred in a spasmodic disease which he describes in the east-indies; and mr. clark informs us, that the brain was in a natural state in every case of death from puerperile fever, notwithstanding it seemed to be affected in many cases soon after the attack of that disease[23]. [20] vol. i. p. 168. [21] treatise on the intestinal remitting fever, p. 125. [22] outlines of a theory of fever. [23] essay on the epidemic disease of lying-in women, of the years 1787 and 1788, p. 34. i wish it to be remembered here, that the yellow fever, like all other diseases, is influenced by climate and season. the determination of the fluids is seldom the same in different years, and i am sure it varied with the weather in the disease which i am now describing. dr. jackson speaks of the head being most affected in the west-india fevers in _dry_ situations. dr. hillary says, that there was an unusual determination of the blood towards the brain, after a _hot_ and _dry_ season, in the fevers of barbadoes in the year 1753; and dr. ferriar, in his account of an epidemic jail fever in manchester, in 1789, 1790, informs us, that as soon as frost set in, a delirium became a more frequent symptom of that disease, than it had been in more temperate weather. iii. the _stomach_ and _bowels_ were affected in many ways in this fever. the disease seldom appeared without nausea or vomiting. in some cases, they both occurred for several days or a week before they were accompanied by any fever. sometimes a pain, known by the name of gastrodynia, ushered in the disease. the stomach was so extremely irritable as to reject drinks of every kind. sometimes green or yellow bile was rejected on the first day of the disease by vomiting; but i much oftener saw it continue for two days without discharging any thing from the stomach, but the drinks which were taken by the patient. if the fever in any case came on without vomiting, or if it had been checked by remedies that were ineffectual to remove it altogether, it generally appeared, or returned, on the 4th or 5th day of the disease. i dreaded this symptom on those days, for although it was not always the forerunner of death, yet it generally rendered the recovery more difficult and tedious. in some cases the vomiting was more or less constant from the beginning to the end of the disease, whether it terminated in life or death. the vomiting which came on about the 4th or 5th day, was accompanied with a burning pain in the region of the stomach. it produced great anxiety, and tossing of the body from one part of the bed to another. in some cases, this painful burning occurred before any vomiting had taken place. drinks were now rejected from the stomach so suddenly, as often to be discharged over the hand that lifted them to the head of the patient. the contents of the stomach (to be mentioned hereafter) were sometimes thrown up with a convulsive motion, that propelled them in a stream to a great distance, and in some cases all over the clothes of the by-standers. flatulency was an almost universal symptom, in every stage of this disease. it was very distressing in many cases. it occurred chiefly in the stomach. the _bowels_ were generally costive, and in some patients as obstinately so as in the dry gripes. in some cases there was all the pain and distress of a bilious colic, and in others, the tenesmus, and mucous and bloody discharges of a true dysentery. a diarrh[oe]a introduced the disease in a few persons, but it was chiefly in those who had been previously indisposed with weak bowels. a painful tension of the abdomen took place in many, accompanied in some instances by a dull, and in others by an acute pain in the lower part of the belly. iv. i come now to describe the state of the _secretions_ and _excretions_ as they appeared in different stages of this fever. in some cases there was a constipation of the liver, if i may be allowed that expression, or a total obstruction of secretion and excretion of bile, but more frequently a preternatural secretion and excretion of it took place. it was discharged, in most cases, from the stomach and bowels in large quantities, and of very different qualities and colours. 1. on the first and second days of the disease many patients puked from half a pint to nearly a quart of green or yellow bile. four cases came under my notice in which black bile was discharged on the _first_ day. three of these patients recovered. 2. there was frequently, on the 4th or 5th day, a discharge of matter from the stomach, resembling coffee impregnated with its grounds. this was always an alarming symptom. i believed it at first to be a modification of vitiated bile, but subsequent dissections by dr. physick have taught me that it was the result of the first stage of those morbid actions in the stomach, which afterwards produce the black vomit. many recovered who discharged this coffee-coloured matter. 3. towards the close of this disease, there was a discharge of matter of a deep or pale black colour, from the stomach. flakey substances frequently floated in the bason or chamber-pot upon the surface of this matter. it was what is called the _black vomit_. it was formerly supposed to be vitiated bile, but it has been proved by dr. stewart, and afterwards by dr. physick, to be the effect of disease in the stomach. 4. there was frequently discharged from the stomach in the close of the disease, a large quantity of grumous blood, which exhibited a dark colour on its outside, resembling that of some of the matters which have been described, and which i believe was frequently mistaken for what is commonly known by the name of the _black vomit_. several of my patients did me the honour to say, i had cured them after that symptom of approaching dissolution had made its appearance; but i am inclined to believe, dark-coloured blood only, or the coffee-coloured matter, was mistaken for the matters which constitute the fatal black vomiting. i except here the black discharge before-mentioned, which took place in three cases on the first day of the disease. this i have no doubt was bile, but it had not acquired its greatest acrimony, and it was discharged before mortification, or even inflammation could have taken place in the stomach. several persons died without a black vomiting of any kind. along with all the discharges from the stomach which have been described, there was occasionally a large worm, and frequently large quantities of mucus and tough phlegm. the colour, quality, and quantity of the _fæces_ depended very much upon the treatment of the disease. where active purges had been given, the stools were copious, f[oe]tid, and of a black or dark colour. where they were spontaneous, or excited by weak purges, they had a more natural appearance. in both cases they were sometimes of a green, and sometimes of an olive colour. their smell was more or less f[oe]tid, according to the time in which they had been detained in the bowels. i visited a lady who had passed several days without a stool, and who had been treated with tonic remedies. i gave her a purge, which in a few hours procured a discharge of fæces so extremely f[oe]tid, that they produced fainting in an old woman who attended her. the acrimony of the fæces was such as to excoriate the rectum, and sometimes to produce an extensive inflammation all around its external termination. the quantity of the stools produced by a single purge was in many cases very great. they could be accounted for only by calling in the constant and rapid formation of them, by preternatural effusions of bile into the bowels. i attended one person, and heard of two others, in whom the stools were as white as in the jaundice. i suspected, in these cases, the liver to be so constipated or paralyzed by the disease, as to be unable to secrete or excrete bile to colour the fæces. large round worms were frequently discharged with the stools. the _urine_ was in some cases plentiful, and of a high colour. it was at times clear, and at other times turbid. about the 4th or 5th day, it sometimes assumed a dark colour, and resembled strong coffee. this colour continued, in one instance, for several days after the patient recovered. in some, the discharge was accompanied by a burning pain, resembling that which takes place in a gonorrh[oe]a. i met with one case in which this burning came on only in the evening, with the exacerbation of the fever, and went off with its remission in the morning. a total deficiency of the urine took place in many people for a day or two, without pain. dr. sydenham takes notice of the same symptom in the highly inflammatory small-pox[24]. it generally accompanied or portended great danger. i heard of one case in which there was a _suppression_ of urine, which could not be relieved without the use a the catheter. [24] wallis's edition, vol. i. p. 197. a young man was attended by mr. fisher, one of my pupils, who discharged several quarts of limpid urine just before he died. dr. arthaud informs us, in the history of a dissection of a person who died of the yellow fever, that the urine after death imparted a green colour to the tincture of radishes[25]. [25] rosier's journal for january, 1790, vol. xxxvi. p. 380. many people were relieved by copious _sweats_ on the first day of the disease. they were in some instances spontaneous, and in others they were excited by diluting drinks, or by strong purges. these sweats were often of a yellow colour, and sometimes had an offensive smell. they were in some cases cold, and attended at the same time with a full pulse. in general, the skin was dry in the beginning, as well as in the subsequent stages of the disease. i saw but few instances of its terminating like common fevers, by sweat after the third day. i wish this fact to be remembered by the reader, for it laid part of the foundation of my method of treating this fever. there was in some cases a preternatural secretion and excretion of _mucus_ from the glands of the throat. it was discharged by an almost constant hawking and spitting. all who had this symptom recovered. the _tongue_ was in every case moist, and of a white colour, on the first and second days of the fever. as the disease advanced, it assumed a red colour, and a smooth shining appearance. it was not quite dry in this state. towards the close of the fever, a dry black streak appeared in its middle, which gradually extended to every part of it. few recovered after this appearance on the tongue took place. v. in the _nervous system_ the symptoms of the fever were different, according as it affected the brain, the muscles, the nerves, or the mind. the sudden and violent action of the miasmata induced apoplexy in several people. in some, it brought on syncope, and in others, convulsions in every part of the body. the apoplectic cases generally proved fatal, for they fell chiefly upon hard drinkers. persons affected by syncope, or convulsions, sometimes fell down in the streets. two cases of this kind happened near my house. one of them came under my notice. he was supposed by the by-standers to be drunk, but his countenance and convulsive motions soon convinced me that this was not the case. a coma was observed in some people, or an obstinate wakefulness in every stage of the disease. the latter symptom most frequently attended the convalescence. many were affected with immobility, or numbness in their limbs. these symptoms were constant, or temporary, according to the nature of the remedies which were made use of to remove them. they extended to all the limbs, in some cases, and only to a part of them in others. in some, a violent cramp, both in the arms and legs, attended the first attack of the fever. i met with one case in which there was a difficulty of swallowing, from a spasmodic affection of the throat, such as occurs in the locked jaw. a hiccup attended the last stage of this disease, but i think less frequently than the last stage of the common bilious fever. i saw but five cases of recovery where this symptom took place. there was, in some instances, a deficiency of sensibility, but, in others, a degree of it extending to every part of the body, which rendered the application of common rum to the skin, and even the least motion of the limbs painful. i was surprised to observe the last stage of this fever to exhibit so few of the symptoms of the common typhus or chronic fever. tremors of the limbs and twitchings of the tendons were uncommon. they occurred only in those cases in which there was a predisposition to nervous diseases, and chiefly in the convalescent state of the disease. while the muscles and nerves in many cases exhibited so many marks of preternatural weakness, in some they appeared to be affected with preternatural excitement. hence patients in the close of the disease often rose from their beds, walked across their rooms, or came down stairs, with as much ease as if they had been in perfect health. i lost a patient in whom this state of morbid strength occurred to such a degree, that he stood up before his glass and shaved himself, on the day on which he died. the mind suffered with the morbid states of the brain and nerves. a delirium was a common symptom. it alternated in some cases with the exacerbations and remissions of the fever. in some, it continued without a remission, until a few hours before death. many, however, passed through the whole course of the disease without the least derangement in their ideas, even where there were evident signs of a morbid congestion in the brain. some were seized with maniacal symptoms. in these there was an _apparent_ absence of fever. such was the degree of this mania in one man, that he stripped off his shirt, left his bed, and ran through the streets, with no other covering than a napkin on his head, at 8 o'clock at night, to the great terror of all who met him. the symptoms of mania occurred most frequently towards the close of the disease, and sometimes continued for many days and weeks, after all other febrile symptoms had disappeared. the temper was much affected in this fever. there were few in whom it did not produce great depression of spirits. this was the case in many, in whom pious habits had subdued the fear of death. in some the temper became very irritable. two cases of this kind came under my notice, in persons who, in good health, were distinguished for uncommon sweetness of disposition and manners. i observed in several persons the operations of the understanding to be unimpaired, throughout the whole course of the fever, who retained no remembrance of any thing that passed in their sickness. my pupil, mr. fisher, furnished a remarkable example of this correctness of understanding, with a suspension of memory. he neither said nor did any thing, during his illness, that indicated the least derangement of mind, and yet he recollected nothing that passed in his room, except my visits to him. his memory awakened upon my taking him by the hand, on the morning of the 6th day of his disease, and congratulating him upon his escape from the grave. in some, there was a weakness, or total defect of memory, for several weeks after their recovery. dr. woodhouse informed me that he had met with a woman, who, after she had recovered, could not recollect her own name. perhaps it would be proper to rank that self-deception with respect to the nature and danger of the disease, which was so universal, among the instances of derangement of mind. the pain which attended the disease was different, according to the different states of the system. in those cases in which it sunk under the violence of the disease, there was little or no pain. in proportion as the system was relieved from this oppression, it recovered its sensibility. the pain in the head was acute and distressing. it affected the eye-balls in a peculiar manner. a pain extended, in some cases, from the back of the head down the neck. the ears were affected, in several persons, with a painful sensation, which they compared to a string drawing their two ears together through the brain. the sides, and the regions of the stomach, liver, and bowels, were all, in different people, the seats of either dull or acute pains. the stomach, towards the close of the disease, was affected with a burning or spasmodic pain of the most distressing nature. it produced, in some cases, great anguish of body and mind. in others it produced cries and shrieks, which were often heard on the opposite side of the streets to where the patients lay. the back suffered very much in this disease. the stoutest men complained, and even groaned under it. an acute pain extended, in some cases, from the back to one or both thighs. the arms and legs sympathized with every other part of the body. one of my patients, upon whose limbs the disease fell with its principal force, said that his legs felt as if they had been scraped with a sharp instrument. the sympathy of friends with the distresses of the sick extended to a small part of their misery, when it did not include their sufferings from pain. one of the dearest friends i ever lost by death declared, in the height of her illness, that "no one knew the pains of a yellow fever, but those who felt them." vi. the _senses_ and _appetites_ exhibited several marks of the universal ravages of this fever upon the body. a deafness attended in many cases, but it was not often, as in the nervous fever, a favourable symptom. a dimness of sight was very common in the beginning of the disease. many were affected with temporary blindness. in some there was a loss of sight in consequence of gutta serena, or a total destruction of the substance of the eye. there was in many persons a soreness to the touch which extended all over the body. i have often observed this symptom to be the forerunner of a favourable issue of a nervous fever, but it was less frequently the case in this disease. the _thirst_ was moderate or absent in some cases, but it occurred in the greatest number of persons whom i saw in this fever. sometimes it was very intense. one of my patients, who suffered by an excessive draught of cold water, declared, just before he died, that "he could drink up the delaware." it was always an alarming symptom when this thirst came on in this extravagant degree in the last stage of the disease. in the beginning of the fever it generally abated upon the appearance of a moist skin. water was preferred to all other drinks. the _appetite_ for food was impaired in this, as in all other fevers, but it returned much sooner than is common after the patient began to recover. coffee was relished in the remissions of the fever, in every stage of the disease. so keen was the appetite for solid, and more especially for animal food, after the solution of the fever, that many suffered from eating aliment that was improper from its quality or quantity. there was a general disrelish for wine, but malt liquors were frequently grateful to the taste. many people retained a relish for tobacco much longer after they were attacked by this fever, and acquired a relish for it much sooner after they began to recover, than are common in any other febrile disease. i met with one case in which a man, who was so ill as to require two bleedings, continued to chew tobacco through every stage of his fever. the convalescence from this disease was marked, in some instances, by a sudden revival of the venereal appetite. several weddings took place in the city between persons who had recovered from the fever. twelve took place among the convalescents in the hospital at bush-hill. i wish i could add that the passion of the sexes for each other, among those subjects of public charity, was always gratified only in a lawful way. delicacy forbids a detail of the scenes of debauchery which were practised near the hospital, in some of the tents which had been appropriated for the reception of convalescents. it was not peculiar to this fever to produce this morbid excitability of the venereal appetite. it was produced in a much higher degree by the plague which raged in messina in the year 1743. vii. the _lymphatic_ and _glandular system_ did not escape without some signs of this disease. i met with three cases of swellings in the inguinal, two in the parotid, and one in the cervical glands: all these patients recovered without a suppuration of their swellings. they were extremely painful in one case in which no redness or inflammation appeared. in the others there was considerable inflammation and but little pain. in one of the cases of inguinal buboes, the whole force of the disease seemed to be collected into the lymphatic system. the patient walked about, and had no fever nor pain in any part of his body, except in his groin. in another case which came under my care, a swelling and pain extended from the groin along the spermatic cord into one of the testicles. these glandular swellings were not peculiar to this epidemic. they occurred in the yellow fever of jamaica, as described by dr. williams, and always with a happy issue of the disease[26]. a similar concentration of the contagion of the plague in the lymphatic glands is taken notice of by dr. patrick russel. [26] essay on the bilious or yellow fever, p. 35. viii. the _skin_ exhibited many marks of this fever. it was preternaturally warm in some cases, but it was often preternaturally cool. in some there was a distressing coldness in the limbs for two or three days. the yellow colour from which this fever has derived its name, was not universal. it seldom appeared where purges had been given in sufficient doses. the yellowness rarely appeared before the third, and generally about the fifth or seventh day of the fever. its early appearance always denoted great danger. it sometimes appeared first on the neck and breast, instead of the eyes. in one of my patients it discovered itself first behind one of his ears, and on the crown of his head, which had been bald for several years. the remissions and exacerbations of the fever seemed to have an influence upon this colour, for it appeared and disappeared altogether, or with fainter or deeper shades of yellow, two or three times in the course of the disease. the eyes seldom escaped a yellow tinge; and yet i saw a number of cases in which the disease appeared with uncommon malignity and danger, without the presence of this symptom. there was a clay-coloured appearance in the face, in some cases, which was very different from the yellow colour which has been described. it occurred in the last stage of the fever, and in no instance did i see a recovery after it. there were eruptions of various kinds on the skin, each of which i shall briefly describe. 1. i met with two cases of an eruption on the skin, resembling that which occurs in the scarlet fever. dr. hume says, pimples often appear on the pit of the stomach, in the yellow fever of jamaica. i examined the external region of the stomach in many of my patients, without discovering them. 2. i met with one case in which there was an eruption of watery blisters, which, after bursting, ended in deep, black sores. 3. there was an eruption about the mouth in many people, which ended in scabs, similar to those which take place in the common bilious fever. they always afforded a prospect of a favourable issue of the disease. 4. many persons had eruptions which resembled moscheto bites. they were red and circumscribed. they appeared chiefly on the arms, but they sometimes extended to the breast. like the yellow colour of the skin, they appeared and disappeared two or three times in the course of the disease. 5. petechiæ were common in the latter stage of the fever. they sometimes came on in large, and at other times in small red blotches; but they soon acquired a dark colour. in most cases they were the harbingers of death. 6. several cases of carbuncles, such as occur in the plague, came under my notice. they were large and hard swellings on the limbs, with a black apex, which, upon being opened, discharged a thin, dark-coloured, bloody matter. from one of these malignant sores a hæmorrhage took place, which precipitated the death of the amiable widow of dr. john morris. 7. a large and painful anthrax on the back succeeded a favourable issue of the fever in the rev. dr. blackwell. 8. i met with a woman who showed me the marks of a number of small boils on her face and neck, which accompanied her fever. notwithstanding this disposition to cutaneous eruptions in this disease, it was remarkable that blisters were much less disposed to mortify than in the common nervous fever. i met with only one case in which a deep-seated ulcer followed the application of blisters to the legs. such was the insensibility of the skin in some people, that blisters made no impression upon it. ix. the _blood_ in this fever has been supposed to undergo a change from a healthy to a putrid state, and many of its symptoms which have been described, particularly the hæmorrhages and eruptions on the skin, have been ascribed to this supposed putrefaction of the blood. it would be easy to multiply arguments, in addition to those mentioned in another place[27], to prove that no such thing as putrefaction can take place in the blood, and that the symptoms which have been supposed to prove its existence are all effects of a sudden, violent, and rapid inflammatory action or pressure upon the blood-vessels, and hence the external and internal hæmorrhages. the petechiæ on the surface of the skin depend upon the same cause. they are nothing but effusions of serum or red blood, from a rupture or preternatural dilatation of the capillary vessels[28]. the smell emitted from persons affected by this disease was far from being of a putrid nature; and if this had been the case, it would not have proved the existence of putrefaction in the blood, for a putrid smell is often discharged from the lungs, and from the pores in sweat, which is wholly unconnected with a putrid, or perhaps any other morbid state of the blood. there are plants which discharge an odour which conveys to the nose a sensation like that of putrefaction; and yet these plants exist, at the same time, in a state of the most healthy vegetation: nor does the early putrid smell of a body which perishes with this fever prove a putrid change to have taken place in the blood before death. all animals which die suddenly, and without loss of blood, are disposed to a speedy putrefaction. this has long been remarked in animals that have been killed after a chase, or by lightning. the poisonous air called _samiel_, which is described by chardin, produces, when it destroys life, instant putrefaction. the bodies of men who die of violent passions, or after strong convulsions, or even after great muscular exertion, putrify in a few hours after death. the healthy state of the body depends upon a certain state of arrangement in the fluids. a derangement of these fluids is the natural consequence of the violent and rapid motions, or of the undue pressure upon the solids, which have been mentioned. it occurs in cases of death which are induced by the excessive force of stimulus, whether it be from miasmata, or the volatile vitriolic acid which is supposed to constitute the destructive samiel wind, or from violent commotions excited in the body by external or internal causes. the practice among fishermen, in some countries, of breaking the heads of their fish as soon as they are taken out of the water, in order to retard their putrefaction, proves the truth of the explanation i have given of its cause, soon after death. the sudden extinction of life in the fish prevents those convulsive or violent motions, which induce sudden _disorganization_ in their bodies. it was observed that putrefaction took place most speedily after death from the yellow fever, where the commotions of the system were not relieved by evacuations. in those cases where purges and bleeding had been used, putrefaction did not take place sooner after death than is common in any other febrile disease, under equal circumstances of heat and air. [27] outlines of a theory of fever. [28] see wallis's edition of sydenham, vol. i. p. 165. vol. ii. p. 52, 94, 98, 350; de haen's ratio medendi, vol. ii. p. 162. vol. iv. p. 172; gaubii pathologia, sect. 498; and dr. seybert's inaugural dissertation, entitled "an attempt to disprove the doctrine of putrefaction of the blood in living animals," published in philadelphia in 1793. thus have i described the symptoms of this fever. from the history i have given, it appears that it counterfeited nearly all the acute and chronic forms of disease to which the human body is subject. an epitome, both of its symptoms and its theory, is happily delivered by dr. sydenham, in the following words. after describing the epidemic cough, pleurisy, and peripneumony of 1675, he adds, "but in other epidemics, the symptoms are so slight from the disturbance raised in the blood by the morbific particles contained in the mass, that nature being in a manner _oppressed_, is rendered unable to produce _regular_ symptoms that are suitable to the disease; and almost all the phenomena that happen are _irregular_, by reason of the entire _subversion_ of the animal economy; in which case the fever is often _depressed_, which, of its own nature, would be very high. sometimes also fewer signs of a fever appear than the nature of the disease requires, from a translation of the malignant cause, either to the nervous system, or to some other parts of the body, or to some of the juices not contained in the blood; whilst the morbific matter is yet turgid[29]." [29] wallis's edition, vol. i. p. 344. the disease ended in death in various ways. in some it was sudden; in others it came on by gradual approaches. in some the last hours of life were marked with great pain, and strong convulsions; but in many more, death seemed to insinuate itself into the system, with all the gentleness of natural sleep. mr. powell expired with a smile on his countenance. dr. griffitts informed me that dr. johnson exhibited the same symptom in the last hours of his life. this placid appearance of the countenance, in the act of dying, was not new to me. it frequently occurs in diseases which affect the brain and nerves. i lost a patient, in the year 1791, with the gout, who not only smiled, but laughed, a few minutes before he expired. i proceed now to mention some peculiarities of the fever, which could not be brought in under any of the foregoing heads. in every case of this disease which came under my notice, there were evident remissions, or intermissions of the fever, or of such symptoms as were substituted for fever. i have long considered, with mr. senac, a _tertian_ as the only original type of all fevers. the bilious yellow fever indicated its descent from this parent disease. i met with many cases of regular tertians, in which the patients were so well on the intermediate days as to go abroad. it appeared in this form in mr. van berkel, the minister of the united netherlands. nor was this mild form of the fever devoid of danger. many died who neglected it, or who took the common remedies for intermittents to cure it. it generally ended in a remittent before it destroyed the patient. the tertian type discovered itself in some people after the more violent symptoms of the fever had been subdued, and continued in them for several weeks. it changed from a tertian to a quartan type in mr. thomas willing, nearly a month after his recovery from the more acute and inflammatory symptoms of the disease. it is nothing new for a malignant fever to appear in the form of a tertian. it is frequently the garb of the plague. riverius describes a tertian fever which proved fatal on the third day, which was evidently derived from the same exhalation which produced a continual malignant fever[30]. [30] de febre pestilenti, vol. xi. p. 93. the remissions were more evident in this, than in the common bilious fever. they generally occurred in the forenoon. it was my misfortune to be deprived, by the great number of my patients, of that command of time which was necessary to watch the exacerbations of this fever under all their various changes, as to time, force, and duration. from all the observations that were suggested by visits, at hours that were seldom left to my choice, i was led to conclude, that the fever exhibited in different people all that variety of forms which has been described by dr. cleghorn, in his account of the tertian fever of minorca. a violent exacerbation on even days was evidently attended with more danger than on odd days. the same thing was observed by dr. mitchell in the yellow fever of virginia, in the year 1741. "if (says he) the exacerbations were on equal days, they generally died in the third paroxysm, or the sixth day; but if on unequal days, they recovered on the seventh." the deaths which occurred on the 3d, 5th, and 7th days, appeared frequently to be the effects of the commotions or depression, produced in the system on the 2d, 4th, and 6th days. the remission on the third day was frequently such as to beget a belief that the disease had run its course, and that all danger was over. a violent attack of the fever on the 4th day removed this deception, and, if a relaxation had taken place in the use of proper remedies on the 3d day, death frequently occurred on the 5th or the 7th. the termination of this fever in life and death was much more frequent on the 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, and 11th days, than is common in the mild remitting fever. where death occurred on the even days, it seemed to be the effect of a violent paroxysm of the fever, or of great vigour of constitution, or of the force of medicines which protracted some of the motions of life beyond the close of the odd days which have been mentioned. i think i observed the fever to terminate on the third day more frequently in august, and during the first ten days in september, than it did after the weather became cool. in this it resembled the common bilious remittents of our city, also the simple tertians described by dr. cleghorn[31]. the danger seemed to be in proportion to the tendency of the disease to a speedy crisis, hence more died in august in proportion to the number who were affected than in september or october, when the disease was left to itself. but, however strange after this remark it may appear, the disease yielded to the remedies which finally subdued it more speedily and certainly upon its first appearance in the city, than it did two or three weeks afterwards. [31] diseases of minorca, p. 185. the disease continued for fifteen, twenty, and even thirty days in some people. its duration was much influenced by the weather, and by the use or neglect of certain remedies (to be mentioned hereafter) in the first stage of the disease. it has been common with authors to divide the symptoms of this fever into three different stages. the order i have pursued in the history of those symptoms will render this division unnecessary. it will i hope be more useful to divide the patients affected with the disease into three classes. the _first_ includes those in whom the stimulus of the miasmata produced coma, languor, sighing, a disposition to syncope, and a weak or slow pulse. the _second_ includes those in whom the miasmata acted with less force, producing great pain in the head, and other parts of the body; delirium, vomiting, heat, thirst, and a quick, tense, or full pulse, with obvious remissions or intermissions of the fever. the _third_ class includes all those persons in whom the miasmata acted so feebly as not to confine them to their beds or houses. this class of persons affected by the yellow fever was very numerous. many of them recovered without medical aid, or by the use of domestic prescriptions; many of them recovered in consequence of a spontaneous diarrh[oe]a, or plentiful sweats; many were saved by moderate bleeding and purging; while some died, who conceived their complaints to be occasioned by a common cold, and neglected to take proper care of themselves, or to use the necessary means for their recovery. it is not peculiar to the yellow fever to produce this feeble operation upon the system, it has been observed in the southern states of america, that in those seasons in which the common bilious fever is epidemic "no body is quite well," and that what are called in those states "inward fevers" are universal. the small-pox, even in the natural way, does not always confine the patient; and thousands pass through the plague without being confined to their beds or houses. dr. hodges prescribed for this class of patients in his parlour in london, in the year 1665, and dr. patrick russel did the same from a chamber window fifteen feet above the level of the street at aleppo. notwithstanding the mild form the plague put on in these cases, it often proved fatal according to dr. russel. i have introduced these facts chiefly with a view of preparing the reader to reject the opinion that we had two species of fever in the city at the same time; and to show that the yellow fever appears in a more simple form than with "strongly marked" characters; or, in other words, with a yellow skin and a black vomiting. it was remarkable that this fever always found out the weak part of every constitution it attacked. the head, the lungs, the stomach, the bowels, and the limbs, suffered more or less, according as they were more or less debilitated by previous inflammatory or nervous diseases, or by a mixture of both, as in the gout. i have before remarked, that the influenza, the scarlatina, and a mild bilious remittent, prevailed in the city, before the yellow fever made its appearance. in the course of a few weeks they all disappeared, or appeared with symptoms of the yellow fever; so that, after the first week of september, it was the solitary epidemic of the city. the only case like influenza which i saw after the 5th of september, was in a girl of 14 years of age, on the 13th of the month. it came on with a sneezing and cough. i was called to her on the third day of her disease. the instant i felt her pulse, i pronounced her disease to be the yellow fever. her father was offended with this opinion, although he lived in a highly infected neighbourhood, and objected to the remedies i prescribed for her. in a few days she died. in the course of ten days, her father and sister were infected, and both died, i was informed, with the usual symptoms of the yellow fever. it has been an axiom in medicine, time immemorial, that no two fevers of unequal force can exist long together in the same place. as this axiom seems to have been forgotten by many of the physicians of philadelphia, and as the ignorance or neglect of it led to that contrariety of opinion and practice, which unhappily took place in the treatment of the disease, i hope i shall be excused by those physicians to whom this fact is as familiar as the most simple law of nature, if i fill a few pages with proofs of it, from practical writers. thucydides long ago remarked, that the plague chased all other diseases from athens, or obliged them to change their nature, by assuming some of its symptoms. dr. sydenham makes the same remark upon the plague in london, in 1665. dr. hodges, in his account of the same plague, says, that "at the rise of the plague all other distempers went into it, but that, at its declension, it degenerated into others, as inflammations, head-ach, quinsies, dysenteries, small-pox, measles, fevers, and hectics, wherein the plague yet predominated[32]." [32] dr. hodge's account of the plague in london, p. 26. during the prevalence of the plague in grand cairo, no sporadic disease of any kind makes its appearance. the same observation is made by sauvage, in his account of the plague at alais, in the province of languedoc[33]. [33] sed hoc observatu dignum fuit, omnes alios morbos acutos, durante peste siluisse, et omnes morbos acutos e pestis genere suisse. nosologia methodica, vol. i. p. 416. the small-pox, though a disease of less force than the plague, has often chased it from constantinople, probably from its being in a declining state. but this exclusive prevalence of a single epidemic is not confined to the plague and small-pox. dr. sydenham's writings are full of proofs of the dominion of febrile diseases over each other. hence, after treating upon a symptomatic pleurisy which sometimes accompanied a slow fever, in the year 1675, and which had probably been injudiciously treated by some of those physicians who prescribe for the name of a disease, he delivers the following aphorism: "whoever, in the cure of fevers, hath not always in view the constitution of the year, inasmuch as it tends to produce some particular epidemic disease, and likewise to reduce all the cotemporary diseases to its own form and likeness, proceeds in an uncertain and fallacious way[34]." it appears further, from the writings of this excellent physician, that where the monarchy of a single disease was not immediately acknowledged, by a sudden retreat of all cotemporary diseases, they were forced to do homage to it, by wearing its livery. it would be easy to multiply proofs of this assertion, from the numerous histories of epidemics which are to be found in his works. i shall mention only one or two of them. a continual fever, accompanied by a dry skin, had prevailed for some time in the city of london. during the continuance of this fever, the regular small-pox made its appearance. it is peculiar to the small-pox, when of a distinct nature, to be attended by irregular sweats before the eruption of the pock. the continual fever now put on a new symptom. it was attended by sweats in its first stage, exactly like those which attended the eruptive fever of the small-pox[35]. this despotism of a powerful epidemic extended itself to the most trifling indispositions. it even blended itself, dr. sydenham tells us, with the commotions excited in the system by the suppression of the lochia, as well as with the common puerperile fever[36]. dr. morton has left testimonies behind him, in different parts of his works, which establish, in the most ample manner, the truth of dr. sydenham's observations. dr. huxham describes the small-pox as blending some of its symptoms with those of a slow fever, at plymouth, in the year 1729[37]. dr. cleghorn mentions a constitution of the air at minorca, so highly inflammatory, "that not only tertian fevers, but even a common hurt or bruise required more plentiful evacuations than ordinary[38]." riverius informs us, in his history of a pestilential fever that prevailed in france, that "it united itself with phrenitis, angina, pleurisy, peripneumony, hepatitis, dysentery, and many other diseases[39]." [34] vol. i. p. 340. [35] vol. i. p. 352. [36] vol. ii. p. 164. see also p. 1, 109, 122, 204, 212, 233, 274, 355, 358-9, and 436. [37] de aere et morb. epidem. p. 33, 34. [38] page 285. [39] de febre pestilenti, vol. ii. p. 95. the bilious remitting fever which prevailed in philadelphia, in 1780, chased away every other febrile disease; and the scarlatina anginosa which prevailed in our city, in 1783 and 1784, furnished a striking proof of the influence of epidemics over each other. in the account which i published of this disease, in the year 1789, there are the following remarks. "the intermitting fever which made its appearance in august was not lost during the month of september. it continued to prevail, but with several peculiar symptoms. in many persons it was accompanied by an eruption on the skin, and a swelling of the hands and feet. in some it was attended with sore throat, and pains behind the ears. indeed such was the prevalence of the contagion which produced the scarlatina anginosa, that many hundred people complained of sore throats, without any other symptom of indisposition. the slightest exciting cause, and particularly cold, seldom failed of producing the disease[40]." [40] vol. i. i shall mention only one more authority in favour of the influence of a single epidemic upon diseases. it is taken from mr. clark's essay on the epidemic disease of lying-in women, of the years 1787 and 1788. "there does not appear to be any thing in a parturient state which can prevent women from being affected by the general causes of disease at that time; and should they become ill, their complaints will probably partake of the nature of the reigning epidemic[41]." i have said that the fever sometimes put on the symptoms of dysentery, pleurisy, rheumatism, colic, palsy, and even of the locked jaw. that these were not original diseases, but symptomatic affections only of the reigning epidemic, will appear from other histories of bilious fevers. dr. balfour tells us, in his account of the intestinal remitting fever of bengal[42], that it often appeared with symptoms of dysentery, rheumatism, and pleurisy. dr. cleghorn and dr. lind mention many cases of the bilious fever appearing in the form of a dysentery. dr. clark ascribes the dysentery, the diarrh[oe]a, the colic, and even the palsy, to the same cause which produced the bilious fever in the east-indies[43]; and dr. hunter, in his treatise upon the diseases of jamaica, mentions the locked jaw as one of its occasional symptoms. even the different grades of this fever, from the mildest intermittent to the most acute continual fever, have been distinctly traced by lancissi to the same marsh exhalation[44]. [41] page 28. [42] page 132. [43] observations on the diseases in long voyages to the east-indies, vol. i. p. 13, 14, 48, 151. vol. ii. p. 99, 318, and 320. [44] lib. ii. cap. v. however irrefragably these numerous facts and authorities establish the assertion of the prevalence of but one powerful epidemic at a time, the proposition will receive fresh support, from attending to the effects of two impressions of unequal force made upon the system at the same time: only one of them is felt; hence the gout is said to cure all other diseases. by its superior pain it destroys sensations of a less painful nature. the small-pox and measles have sometimes existed together in the body; but this has, i believe, seldom occurred, where one of them has not been the predominating disease[45]. in this respect, this combination of epidemics only conforms to the general law which has been mentioned. [45] hunter on the venereal disease, introduction, p. 3. i beg pardon for the length of this digression. i did not introduce it to expose the mistakes of those physicians, who found as many diseases in our city as the yellow fever had symptoms, but to vindicate myself from the charge of innovation, in having uniformly and unequivocally asserted, after the first week in september, that the yellow fever was the only febrile disease which prevailed in the city. science has much to deplore from the multiplication of diseases. it is as repugnant to truth in medicine, as polytheism is to truth in religion. the physician who considers every different affection of the different systems in the body, or every affection of different parts of the same system, as distinct diseases, when they arise from one cause, resembles the indian or african savage, who considers water, dew, ice, frost, and snow, as distinct essences; while the physician who considers the morbid affections of every part of the body (however diversified they may be in their form or degrees) as derived from one cause, resembles the philosopher who considers dew, ice, frost, and snow, as different modifications of water, and as derived simply from the absence of heat. humanity has likewise much to deplore from this paganism in medicine. the sword will probably be sheathed for ever, as an instrument of death, before physicians will cease to add to the mortality of mankind, by prescribing for the names of diseases. the facts i have delivered upon this subject will admit of a very important application to the cure, not only of the yellow fever, but of all other acute and dangerous epidemics. i shall hereafter assign a final cause for the law of epidemics which has been mentioned, which will discover a union of the goodness of the supreme being with one of the greatest calamities of human life. all ages were affected by this fever, but persons between fourteen and forty years of age were most subject to it. many old people had it, but it was not so fatal to them as to robust persons in middle life. it affected children of all ages. i met with a violent case of the disease, in a child of four months, and a moderate case of it, in a child of but ten weeks old. the latter had a deep yellow skin. both these children recovered. the proportion of children who suffered by this fever may be conceived from a single fact. seventy-five persons were buried in the grave-yard of the swedish church in the months of august, september, and october, twenty-four of whom were children. they were buried chiefly in september and october; months in which children generally enjoy good health in our city. men were more subject to the disease than women. pregnancy seemed to expose women to it. the refugees from the french west-indies universally escaped it. this was not the case with the natives of france, who had been settled in the city. it is nothing new for epidemics to affect persons of one nation, and to pass by persons of other nations, in the same city or country. at nimeguen, in the year 1736, deigner informs us, that the french people (two old men excepted), and the jews, escaped a dysentery which was universal among persons of all other nations. ramazini tells us, that the jews at modena escaped a tertian fever which affected nearly all the other inhabitants of the town. shenkius says, that the dutch and italians escaped a plague, which prevailed for two years in one of the towns of switzerland; and dr. bell, in an inaugural dissertation, published at edinburgh, in 1779, remarks, that the jail fever, which attacked the soldiers of the duke of buccleugh's regiment, spared the french prisoners who were guarded by them. it is difficult to account for these facts. however numerous their causes may be, a difference in diet, which is as much a distinguishing mark of nations as dress or manners, will probably be found to be one of them. from the accounts of the yellow fever which had been published by many writers, i was led to believe that the negroes in our city would escape it. in consequence of this belief, i published the following extract in the american daily advertiser, from dr. lining's history of the yellow fever, as it had four times appeared in charleston, in south-carolina. "there is something very singular (says the doctor) in the constitution of the negroes, which renders them not liable to this fever; for though many of them were as much exposed as the nurses to the infection, yet i never knew of one instance of this fever among them, though they are equally subject with the white people to the bilious fever[46]." [46] essays and observations, physical and literary, vol. xi. page 409. a day or two after this publication the following letter from the mayor of the city, to mr. claypoole, the printer of the mail, appeared in his paper. "sir, "it is with peculiar satisfaction that i communicate to the public, through your paper, that the african society, touched with the distresses which arise from the present dangerous disorder, have voluntarily undertaken to furnish nurses to attend the afflicted; and that, by applying to absalom jones and william gray, both members of that society, they may be supplied. matth. clarkson, _september 6th, 1793._ _mayor_." it was not long after these worthy africans undertook the execution of their humane offer of services to the sick before i was convinced i had been mistaken. they took the disease in common with the white people, and many of them died with it. i think i observed the greatest number of them to sicken after the mornings and evenings became cool. a large number of them were my patients. the disease was lighter in them than in white people. i met with no case of hæmorrhage in a black patient. the tobacconists and persons who used tobacco did not escape the disease. i observed snuff-takers to be more devoted to their boxes than usual, during the prevalence of the fever. i have remarked, formerly, that servant maids suffered much by the disease. they were the only patients i lost in several large families. i ascribe their deaths to the following causes: _1st._ to the great and unusual debility induced upon their systems by labour in attending their masters and mistresses, or their children. debility, according to its degrees and duration, seems to have had the same effect upon the mortality of this fever that it has upon the mortality of an inflammation of the lungs. when it is moderate and of short duration it predisposes only to a common pneumony, but when it is violent and protracted, in its degrees and duration, it predisposes to a pulmonary consumption. _2dly._ to their receiving large quantities of impure air into their bodies, and in a most concentrated state, by being obliged to perform the most menial offices for the sick, and by washing, as well as removing foul linen, and the like. _3dly._ to their being left more alone in confined or distant rooms, and thereby suffering from depression of spirits, or the want of a punctual supply of food and medicines. there did not appear to be any advantage from smelling vinegar, tar, camphor, or volatile salts, in preventing the disease. bark and wine were equally ineffectual for that purpose. i was called to many hundred people who were infected after using one or more of them. nor did the white washing of walls secure families from the disease. i am disposed to believe garlic was the only substance that was in any degree useful in preventing it. i met with several persons who chewed it constantly, and who were much exposed to the miasmata, without being infected. all other substances seemed to do harm by begetting a false confidence in the mind, to the exclusion of more rational preservatives. i have suspected further, that such of them as were of a volatile nature helped to spread the disease by affording a vehicle for miasmata through the air. there was great mortality in all those families who lived in wooden houses. whether this arose from the small size of these houses, or from the want of cleanliness of the people who occupied them, or from the miasmata becoming more accumulated, by adhering to the wood, i am unable to determine. perhaps it was the effect of the co-operation of all three of those causes. i have said, formerly, that intemperance in drinking predisposed to the disease; but there were several instances of persons having escaped it who were constantly under the influence of strong drink. the stimulus of ardent spirits probably predominated over the stimulus of the miasmata, and thus excited an artificial fever which defended the system from that which was epidemic. i heard of some sea-faring people who lived on board their vessels who escaped the disease. the smell of the tar was supposed to have preserved them; but, from its being ineffectual in other cases, i am disposed to ascribe their escape to the infected air of the city being destroyed by a mixture with the water of the delaware. many people who were infected in the city were attacked by the disease in the country, but they did not propagate it, even to persons who slept in the same room with them. dr. lind informs us that many persons escaped the yellow fever which prevailed in pensacola in the year 1765, by retiring to the ships which lay in the harbour, and that when the disease had been taken, the pure air of the water changed it into an intermitting fever[47]. the same changes have frequently been produced in malignant fevers, by sending patients infected with them from the foul air of a city, into the pure air of the country. [47] diseases of warm climates, p. 169. persons confined in the house of employment, in the hospital, and in the jail, escaped the fever. the airy and remote situation of those buildings was probably the chief means of their preservation. perhaps they derived additional security from their simple diet, their exemption from hard labour, and from being constantly sheltered from heat and cold. several families, who shut up their front and back doors and windows, and avoided going out of their houses except to procure provisions, escaped the disease. i have taken some pains to ascertain, whether any class of tradesmen escaped the fever, or whether there was any species of labour which protected from it. the result of my inquiries is as follows: three butchers only, out of nearly one hundred who remained in the city, died with the disease. many of them attended the markets every day. two painters, who worked at their business during the whole time of the prevalence of the fever, and in exposed situations, escaped it. out of forty scavengers who were employed in collecting and carrying away the dirt of the streets, only one was affected by the fever and died. very few grave-diggers, compared with the number who were employed in that business, were infected; and it is well known, that scarcely an instance was heard of persons taking the disease, who were constantly employed in digging cellars. the fact is not new that grave-diggers escape malignant fevers. it is taken notice of by dr. clark. it was said by some physicians in the public papers, that the neighbourhood of the grave-yards was more infected than other parts of the city. the reverse of this assertion was true in several cases, owing probably to the miasmata being diluted and weakened by its mixture with the air of the grave-yards: for this air was pure, compared with that which stagnated in the streets. it was said further, that the disease was propagated by the inhabitants assembling on sundays for public worship; and, as a proof of this assertion, it was reported, that the deaths were more numerous on sundays than on other days; occasioned by the infection received on one sunday producing death on the succeeding first day of the week. the register of the deaths shows that this was not the case. i am disposed to believe that fewer people sickened on sundays, than on any other day of the week; owing to the general rest from labour, which i have before said was one of the exciting causes of the disease. from some facts to be mentioned presently, it will appear probable, that places of public worship, in consequence of their size, as well as of their being shut up during the greatest part of the week, were the freest from miasmata of any houses in the city. it is agreeable to discover in this, as well as in all other cases of public and private duty, that the means of health and moral happiness are in no one instance opposed to each other. the disease, which was at first confined to water-street, soon spread through the whole city. after the 15th of september, the atmosphere of every street in the city was charged with miasmata; and there were few citizens in apparent good health, who did not exhibit one or more of the following marks of their presence in their bodies. 1. a yellowness in the eyes, and a sallow colour upon their skin. 2. a preternatural quickness in the pulse. i found but two exceptions to this remark, out of a great number of persons whose pulses i examined. in one of them it discovered several preternatural intermissions in the course of a minute. this quickness of pulse occurred in the negroes, as well as in the white people. i met with it in a woman who had had the yellow fever in 1762. in two women, and in one man above 70, the pulse beat upwards of 90 strokes in a minute. this preternatural state of the pulse during the prevalence of a pestilential fever, in persons in health, is taken notice of by riverius[48]. [48] "pulsus sanorum pulsibus similes admodum, periculosi."--_de febre pestilenti, p. 114._ 3. frequent and copious discharges by the skin of yellow sweats. in some persons these sweats sometimes had an offensive smell, resembling that of the washings of a gun. 4. a scanty discharge of high coloured or turbid urine. 5. a deficiency of appetite, or a greater degree of it than was natural. 6. costiveness. 7. wakefulness. 8. head-ach. 9. a preternatural dilatation of the pupils. this was universal. i was much struck in observing the pupil in one of the eyes of a young man who called upon me for advice, to be of an oblong figure. whether it was natural, or the effect of the miasmata acting on his brain, i could not determine. it will be thought less strange that the miasmata should produce these changes in the systems of persons who resided constantly in the city, when i add, that many country people who spent but a few hours in the streets in the day, in attending the markets, were infected by the disease, and sickened and died after they returned home; and that others, whom business compelled to spend a day or two in the city during the prevalence of the fever, but who escaped an attack of it, declared that they were indisposed, during the whole time, with languor or head-ach. i was led to observe and record the above effects of the miasmata upon persons in apparent good health, by a fact i met with in dr. mitchell's history of the yellow fever in virginia, in the year 1741. in that fever, blood drawn from a vein was always dissolved. the same state of the blood was observed in many persons who had been exposed to the miasmata, who discovered no other symptom of the disease. a woman whom i had formerly cured of a mania, who lived in an infected neighbourhood, had a fresh attack of that disease, accompanied by an unusual menstrual flux. i ascribed both these complaints to the action of the miasmata upon her system. the smell emitted from a patient, in a clean room, was like that of the small-pox, but in most cases of a less disagreeable nature. putrid smells in sick rooms were the effects of the excretions, or of some other filthy matters. in small rooms, crowded in some instances with four or five sick people, there was an effluvia that produced giddiness, sickness at stomach, a weakness of the limbs, faintness, and in some cases a diarrh[oe]a. i met with a f[oe]tid breath in one patient, which was not the effect of that medicine which sometimes produces it. the state of the atmosphere, during the whole month of september, and the first two weeks in october, favoured the accumulation of the miasmata in the city. the register of the weather shows how little the air was agitated by winds during the above time. in vain were changes in the moon expected to alter the state of the air. the light of the morning mocked the hopes that were raised by a cloudy sky in the evening. the sun ceased to be viewed with pleasure. hundreds sickened every day beneath the influence of his rays: and even where they did not excite the disease, they produced a languor in the body unknown to the oldest inhabitant of the city, at the same season of the year. a meteor was seen at two o'clock in the morning, on or about the twelfth of september. it fell between third-street and the hospital, nearly in a line with pine-street. moschetoes (the usual attendants of a sickly autumn) were uncommonly numerous. here and there a dead cat added to the impurity of the air of the streets. it was supposed those animals perished with hunger in the city, in consequence of so many houses being deserted by the inhabitants who had fled into the country, but the observations of subsequent years made it more probable they were destroyed by the same morbid state of the atmosphere which produced the reigning epidemic. it appears further, from the register of the weather, that there was no rain between the 25th of august and the 15th of october, except a few drops, hardly enough to lay the dust of the streets, on the 9th of september, and the 12th of october. in consequence of this drought, the springs and wells failed in many parts of the country. the dust in some places extended two feet below the surface of the ground. the pastures were deficient, or burnt up. there was a scarcity of autumnal fruits in the neighbourhood of the city. but while vegetation drooped or died from the want of moisture in some places, it revived with preternatural vigour from unusual heat in others. cherry-trees blossomed, and apple, pear, and plum-trees bore young fruit in several gardens in trenton, thirty miles from philadelphia, in the month of october. however inoffensive uniform heat, when agitated by gentle breezes, may be, there is, i believe, no record of a dry, warm, and stagnating air, having existed for any length of time without producing diseases. hippocrates, in describing a pestilential fever, says the year in which it prevailed was without a breeze of wind[49]. the same state of the atmosphere, for six weeks, is mentioned in many of the histories of the plague which prevailed in london, in 1665[50]. even the sea air itself becomes unwholesome by stagnating; hence dr. clark informs us, that sailors become sickly after long calms in east-india voyages[51]. sir john pringle delivers the following aphorism from a number of similar observations upon this subject: "when the heats come on soon, and continue throughout autumn, not moderated by winds or rains, the season proves sickly, distempers appear early, and are dangerous[52]." [49] "sine aura, usque annus fuit."--_epid. 3._ [50] letter from sir john bernard to dr. floyer, p. 233. [51] vol. i. p. 5. [52] diseases of the army, p. 5. of the 7th london edition. who can review this account of the universal diffusion of the miasmata which produced this disease, its universal effects upon persons apparently in good health, and its accumulation and concentration, in consequence of the calmness of the air, and believe that it was possible for a febrile disease to exist at that time in our city that was not derived from that source? the west-india writers upon the yellow fever have said that it is seldom taken twice, except by persons who have spent some years in europe or america in the interval between its first and second attack. i directed my inquiries to this question, and i now proceed to mention the result of them. i met with five persons, during the prevalence of the disease, who had had it formerly, two of them in the year 1741, and three in 1762, who escaped it in 1793, although they were all more or less exposed to the infection. one of them felt a constant pain in her head while the disease was in her family. four of them were aged, and of course less liable to be acted upon by the miasmata than persons in early or middle life. mr. thomas shields furnished an unequivocal proof that the disease could be taken after an interval of many years. he had it in the year 1762, and narrowly escaped from a violent attack of it this year. cases of reinfection were very common during the prevalence of this fever. they occurred most frequently where the first attack had been light. but they succeeded attacks that were severe in dr. griffitts, dr. mease, my pupil mr. coxe, and several others, whose cases came under my notice. i have before remarked that the miasmata sometimes excited a fever as soon as they were taken into the body, but that they often lay there from one to sixteen days before they produced the disease. how long they existed in the body after a recovery from the fever i could not tell, for persons who recovered were, in most cases, exposed to their action from external sources. the preternatural dilatation of the pupils was a certain mark of the continuance of some portion of them in the system. in one person who was attacked with the fever on the night of the 9th of october, the pupils did not contract to their natural dimensions until the 7th of november. having described the effects of the miasmata upon the body, i proceed now to mention the changes induced upon it by death. let us first take a view of it as it appeared soon after death. some new light may perhaps be thrown upon the proximate cause of the disease by this mode of examining the body. my information upon this subject was derived from the attendants upon the sick, and from the two african citizens who were employed in burying the dead, viz. richard allen and absalom jones. the coincidence of the information received from different persons satisfied me that all that i shall here relate is both accurate and just. a deep yellow colour appeared in many cases within a few minutes after death. in some the skin became purple, and in others black. i heard of one case in which the body was yellow above, and black below its middle. in some the skin was as pale as it is in persons who die of common fevers. a placid countenance was observed in many, resembling that which occurs in an easy and healthful sleep. some were stiff within one hour after death. others were not so for six hours afterwards. this sudden stiffness after death, dr. valli informs us, occurred in persons who died of the plague in smyrna, in the year 1784[53]. [53] experiments on animal electricity, p. 90. some grew cold soon after death, while others retained a considerable degree of heat for six hours, more especially on their backs. a stream of tears appeared on the cheeks of a young woman, which seemed to have flowed after her death. some putrified in a short time after their dissolution, but others had no smell for twelve, eighteen, and twenty hours afterwards. this absence of smell occurred in those cases in which evacuations had been used without success in the treatment of the disease. many discharged large quantities of black matter from the bowels, and others blood from the nose, mouth, and bowels after death. the frequency of these discharges gave rise to the practice of pitching the joints of the coffins which were used to bury the dead. the morbid appearances of the internal parts of the body, as they appear by dissection after death from the yellow fever, are different in different countries, and in the same countries in different years. i consider them all as effects only of a stimulus acting upon the whole system, and determined more or less by accidental circumstances to particular viscera. perhaps the stimulus of the miasmata determines the fluids more violently in most cases to the liver, stomach, and bowels, and thereby disposes them more than other parts to inflammation and mortification, and to similar effusions and eruptions with those which take place on the skin. there can be no doubt of the miasmata acting upon the liver, and thereby altering the qualities of the bile. i transcribe, with great pleasure, the following account of the state of the bile in a female slave of forty years of age, from dr. mitchell's history of the yellow fever, as it prevailed in virginia, in the years 1737 and 1741, inasmuch as it was part of that clue which led me to adopt one of the remedies on which much of the success of my practice depended. "the gall bladder (says the doctor) appeared outwardly of a deep yellow, but within was full of a black ropy coagulated atrabilis, which sort of substance obstructed the pori biliarii, and ductus choledochus. this atrabilis was hardly fluid, but upon opening the gall bladder, it retained its form and shape, without being evacuated, being of the consistence of a thin extract, and, within, glutinous and ropy, like soap when boiling. this black matter seemed so much unlike bile, that i doubted if there were any bile in the gall bladder. it more resembled bruised or mortified blood, evacuated from the mortified parts of the liver, surrounding it, although it would stain a knife or probe thrust into it of a yellow colour, which, with its ropy consistence, seemed more peculiar to a bilious humour." the same appearance of the bile was discovered in several other subjects dissected by dr. mitchell. the liver, in the above-mentioned slave, was turgid and plump on its outside, but on its concave surface, two thirds of it were of a deep black colour, and round the gall bladder it seemed to be mortified and corrupted. the duodenum was lined on its inside, near the gall bladder, with a viscid ropy bile, like that which has been described. its villous coat was lined with a thick fur or slime, which, when scraped or pealed off, the other vascular and muscular coats of the gut appeared red and inflamed. the omentum was so much wasted, that nothing but its blood-vessels could be perceived. the stomach was inflamed, both on its outside and inside. it contained a quantity of bile of the same consistence, but of a blacker colour than that which was found in the gall bladder. its villous coat, like that of the duodenum, was covered with fuzzy and slimy matter. it moreover appeared to be distended or swelled. this peculiarity in the inner coat of the stomach was universal in all the bodies that were opened, of persons who died of this disease. the lungs, instead of being collapsed, were inflated as in inspiration. they were all over full of black or livid spots. on these spots were to be seen small vesicles or blisters, like those of an erysipelas or gangrene, containing a yellow humour. the blood-vessels in general seemed empty of blood, even the vena cava and its branches; but the vena portarum was full and distended as usual. the blood seemed _collected_ in the _viscera_; for upon cutting the lungs or sound liver or spleen, they bled freely. the brain was not opened in this body, but it was not affected in three others whose brains were examined. dr. mackittrick, in his inaugural dissertation, published at edinburgh in the year 1766, "de febre indiæ occidentalis, maligna flava," or upon the yellow fever of the west-indies, says, that in some of the patients who died of it, he found the liver sphacelated, the gall bladder full of black bile, and the veins turgid with black fluid blood. in others he found the liver no ways enlarged, and its "texture only vitiated." the stomach, the duodenum, and ilium, were remarkably inflamed in all cases. the pericardium contained a viscid yellow serum, and in a larger quantity than common. the urinary bladder was a little inflamed. the lungs were sound. dr. hume, in describing the yellow fever of jamaica, informs us, that in several dead bodies which he opened, he found the liver enlarged and turgid with bile, and of a pale yellow colour. in some he found the stomach and duodenum inflamed. in one case he discovered black spots in the stomach, of the size of a crown piece. to this account he adds, "that he had seen some subjects opened, on whose stomachs _no marks of inflammation_ could be discovered; and yet these had excessive vomiting." dr. lind has furnished us with an account of the state of the body after death, in his short history of the yellow fever, which prevailed at cadiz, in the year 1764. "the stomach (he says), mesentery, and intestines, were covered with gangrenous spots; there were ulcers on the orifice of the stomach, and the liver and lungs were of a putrid colour and texture[54]." [54] diseases of warm climates, p. 125. to these accounts of the morbid appearances of the body after death from the yellow fever i shall only add the account of several dissections, which was given to the public in mr. brown's gazette, during the prevalence of this epidemic, by dr. physick and dr. cathrall. "being well assured of the great importance of dissections of morbid bodies in the investigation of the nature of diseases, we have thought it of consequence that some of those dead of the present prevailing malignant fever should be examined; and, without enlarging on our observations, it appears at present sufficient to state the following facts. "1st. that the brain in all its parts has been found in a natural condition. "2d. that the viscera of the thorax are perfectly sound. the blood, however, in the heart and veins is fluid, similar, in its consistence, to the blood of persons who have been hanged, or destroyed by electricity. "3d. that the stomach, and beginning of the duodenum, are the parts that appear most diseased. in two persons who died of the disease on the 5th day, the villous membrane of the stomach, especially about its smaller end, was found highly inflamed; and this inflammation extended through the pylorus into the duodenum, some way. the inflammation here was exactly similar to that induced in the stomach by acrid poisons, as by arsenic, which we have once had an opportunity of seeing in a person destroyed by it. "the bile in the gall-bladder was quite of its natural colour, though very viscid. "in another person, who died on the 8th day of the disease, several spots of extravasation were discovered between the membranes, particularly about the smaller end of the stomach, the inflammation of which had considerably abated. pus was seen in the beginning of the duodenum, and the villous membrane at this part was thickened. "in two other persons, who died at a more advanced period of the disease, the stomach appeared spotted in many places with extravasations, and the inflammation disappeared. it contained, as did also the intestines, a black liquor, which had been vomited and purged before death. this black liquor appears clearly to be an altered secretion from the liver; for a fluid in all respects of the same qualities was found in the gall bladder. this liquor was so acrid, that it induced considerable inflammation and swelling on the operator's hands, which remained some days. the villous membrane of the intestines, in these last two bodies, was found inflamed in several places. "the liver was of its natural appearance, excepting in one of the last persons, on the surface of which a very few distended veins were seen: all the other abdominal viscera were of a healthy appearance. "the external surface of the stomach, as well as of the intestines, was quite free from inflammation; the veins being distended with blood, which appeared through the transparent peritonium, gave them a dark colour. "the stomach of those who died early in the disease was always contracted; but in those who died at a more advanced period of it, where extravasations appeared, it was distended with air. "p. s. physick, "j. cathrall." i have before remarked, that these dissections were made early in the disease, and that dr. annan attended a dissection of a body at bush-hill, some time afterwards, in which an unusual turgescence appeared in the vessels of the brain. thus far have i delivered the history of the yellow fever, as it affected the human body with sickness and death. i shall now mention a few of those circumstances of public and private distress which attended it. i have before remarked, that the first reports of the existence of this fever were treated with neglect or contempt. a strange apathy pervaded all classes of people. while i bore my share of reproach for "terrifying our citizens with imaginary danger," i answered it by lamenting "that they were not terrified enough." the publication from the college of physicians soon dissipated this indifference and incredulity. fear or terror now sat upon every countenance. the disease appeared in many parts of the town, remote from the spot where it originated; although, for a while, in every instance, it was easily traced to it. this set the city in motion. the streets and roads leading from the city were crowded with families flying in every direction for safety to the country. business began to languish. water-street, between market and race-streets, became a desert. the poor were the first victims of the fever. from the sudden interruption of business they suffered for a while from poverty as well as from disease. a large and airy house at bush-hill, about a mile from the city, was opened for their reception. this house, after it became the charge of a committee appointed by the citizens on the 14th of september, was regulated and governed with the order and cleanliness of an old and established hospital. an american and french physician had the exclusive medical care of it after the 22d of september. the disease, after the second week in september, spared no rank of citizens. whole families were confined by it. there was a deficiency of nurses for the sick, and many of those who were employed were unqualified for their business. there was likewise a great deficiency of physicians, from the desertion of some, and the sickness and death of others. at one time there were but three physicians who were able to do business out of their houses, and at this time there were probably not less than 6000 persons ill with the fever. during the first three or four weeks of the prevalence of the disease i seldom went into a house the first time, without meeting the parents or children of the sick in tears. many wept aloud in my entry, or parlour, who came to ask for advice for their relations. grief after a while descended below weeping, and i was much struck in observing that many persons submitted to the loss of relations and friends without shedding a tear, or manifesting any other of the common signs of grief. a cheerful countenance was scarcely to be seen in the city for six weeks. i recollect once, in entering the house of a poor man, to have met a child of two years old that smiled in my face. i was strangely affected with this sight (so discordant to my feelings and the state of the city) before i recollected the age and ignorance of the child. i was confined the next day by an attack of the fever, and was sorry to hear, upon my recovery, that the father and mother of this little creature died a few days after my last visit to them. the streets every where discovered marks of the distress that pervaded the city. more than one half the houses were shut up, although not more than one third of the inhabitants had fled into the country. in walking for many hundred yards, few persons were met, except such as were in quest of a physician, a nurse, a bleeder, or the men who buried the dead. the hearse alone kept up the remembrance of the noise of carriages or carts in the streets. funeral processions were laid aside. a black man, leading or driving a horse, with a corpse on a pair of chair wheels, with now and then half a dozen relations or friends following at a distance from it, met the eye in most of the streets of the city, at every hour of the day, while the noise of the same wheels passing slowly over the pavements, kept alive anguish and fear in the sick and well, every hour of the night[55]. [55] in the life of thomas story, a celebrated preacher among the friends, there is an account of the distress of the city, in its infant state, from the prevalence of the yellow fever, in the autumn of 1699, nearly like that which has been described. i shall insert the account in his own words. "great was the fear that fell on all flesh. i saw no lofty or airy countenance, nor heard any vain jesting to move men to laughter. every face gathered paleness, and many hearts were humbled, and countenances fallen and sunk, as such that waited every moment to be summoned to the bar, and numbered to the grave." the same author adds, that six, seven, and sometimes eight, died of this fever in a day, for several weeks. his fellow-traveller, and companion in the ministry, roger gill, discovered upon this occasion an extraordinary degree of christian philanthropy. he publicly offered himself, in one of the meetings of the society, as a sacrifice for the people, and prayed that "god would please to accept of his life for them, that a stop might be put to the contagion." he died of the fever a few days afterwards. but a more serious source of the distress of the city arose from the dissentions of the physicians, about the nature and treatment of the fever. it was considered by some as a modification of the influenza, and by others as the jail fever. its various grades and symptoms were considered as so many different diseases, all originating from different causes. there was the same contrariety in the practice of the physicians that there was in their principles. the newspapers conveyed accounts of both to the public, every day. the minds of the citizens were distracted by them, and hundreds suffered and died from the delays which were produced by an erroneous opinion of a plurality of diseases in the city, or by indecision in the choice, or a want of confidence in the remedies of their physician. the science of medicine is related to every thing, and the philosopher as well as the christian will be gratified by knowing the effects of a great and mortal epidemic upon the morals of a people. it was some alleviation of the distress produced by it, to observe its influence upon the obligations of morality and religion. it was remarked during this time, by many people, that the name of the supreme being was seldom profaned, either in the streets, or in the intercourse of the citizens with each other. but two robberies, and those of a trifling nature, occurred in nearly two months, although many hundred houses were exposed to plunder, every hour of the day and night. many of the religious societies met two or three times a week, and some of them every evening, to implore the interposition of heaven to save the city from desolation. humanity and charity kept pace with devotion. the public have already seen accounts of their benevolent exercises in other publications. it was my lot to witness the uncommon activity of those virtues upon a smaller scale. i saw little to blame, but much to admire and praise in persons of different professions, both sexes, and of all colours. it would be foreign to the design of this work to draw from the obscurity which they sought, the many acts of humanity and charity, of fortitude, patience, and perseverance, which came under my notice. they will be made public and applauded elsewhere. but the virtues which were excited by our calamity were not confined to the city of philadelphia. the united states wept for the distresses of their capital. in several of the states, and in many cities and villages, days of humiliation and prayer were set apart to supplicate the father of mercies in behalf of our afflicted city. nor was this all. from nearly every state in the union the most liberal contributions of money, provisions, and fuel were poured in for the relief and support of such as had been reduced to want by the suspension of business, as well as by sickness and the death of friends. the number of deaths between the 1st of august and the 9th of november amounted to four thousand and forty-four. i shall here insert a register of the number which occurred on each day, beginning on the 1st of august, and ending on the 9th of november. by comparing it with the register of the weather it will show the influence of the latter on the disease. several of the deaths in august were from other acute diseases, and a few in the succeeding months were from such as were of a chronic nature. died. | august 1 9 | 2 8 | 3 9 | 4 10 | 5 10 | 6 3 | 7 12 | 8 5 | 9 11 | 10 6 | 11 7 | 12 5 | 13 11 | 14 4 | 15 9 | 16 7 | 17 6 | 18 5 | 19 9 | 20 7 | 21 8 | 22 13 | 23 10 | 24 17 | 25 12 | 26 17 | 27 12 | 28 22 | 29 24 | 30 20 | 31 17 | september 1 17 | 2 18 | 3 11 | 4 23 | 5 20 | 6 24 | 7 18 | 8 42 | 9 32 | 10 29 | 11 23 | 12 33 | 13 37 | 14 48 | 15 56 | 16 67 | 17 81 | 18 68 | 19 61 | 20 67 | 21 57 | 22 76 | 23 68 | 24 96 | 25 87 | 26 52 | 27 60 | 28 51 | 29 57 | 30 63 | october 1 74 | 2 66 | 3 78 | 4 58 | 5 71 | 6 76 | 7 82 | 8 90 | 9 102 | 10 93 | 11 119 | 12 111 | 13 104 | 14 81 | 15 80 | 16 70 | 17 80 | 18 59 | 19 65 | 20 55 | 21 59 | 22 82 | 23 54 | 24 38 | 25 35 | 26 23 | 27 13 | 28 24 | 29 17 | 30 16 | 31 21 | november 1 13 | 2 21 | 3 15 | 4 15 | 5 14 | 6 11 | 7 15 | 8 8 | 9 6 | --- | total[56] 3881 | [56] in the above accounts there is a deficiency of returns from several grave-yards of 163. from this table it appears that the principal mortality was in the second week of october. a general expectation had obtained, that cold weather was as fatal to this fever as heavy rains. the usual time for its arrival had come, but the weather was still not only moderate, but warm. in this awful situation, the stoutest hearts began to fail. hope sickened, and despair succeeded distress in almost every countenance. on the _fifteenth_ of october, it pleased god to alter the state of the air. the clouds at last dropped health in showers of rain, which continued during the whole day, and which were succeeded for several nights afterwards by cold and frost. the effects of this change in the weather appeared first in the sudden diminution of the sick, for the deaths continued for a week afterwards to be numerous, but they were of persons who had been confined before, or on the day in which the change had taken place in the weather. the appearance of this rain was like a dove with an olive branch in its mouth to the whole city. public notice was given of its beneficial effects, in a letter subscribed by the mayor of philadelphia, who acted as president of the committee, to the mayor of new-york. i shall insert the whole of this letter. it contains, besides the above information, a record of the liberality of that city to the distressed inhabitants of philadelphia. "sir, "i am favoured with your letter of the 12th instant, which i have communicated to the committee for the relief of the poor and afflicted of this city. "it is with peculiar satisfaction that i execute their request, by making, in their name, on behalf of our suffering fellow-citizens, the most grateful acknowledgements for the seasonable benevolence of the common council of the city of new-york. their sympathy is balm to our wounds. "we acknowledge the divine interposition, whereby the hearts of so many around us have been touched with our distress, and have united in our relief. "may the almighty disposer of all events be graciously pleased to protect your citizens from the dreadful calamity with which we are now visited; whilst we humbly kiss the rod, and improve by the dispensation. "the part, sir, which you personally take in our afflictions, and which you have so pathetically expressed in your letter, excites in the breasts of the committee the warmest sensations of fraternal affection. "the refreshing rain which fell the day before yesterday, though light, and the cool weather which hath succeeded, appear to have given a check to the prevalence of the disorder: of this we have satisfactory proofs, as well in the decrease of the funerals, as in the applications for removal to the hospital. "i have, at your request, this day drawn upon you, at sight, in favour of the president and directors of the bank of north america, for the sum of five thousand dollars, the benevolent donations of the common council of the city of new-york. "with sentiments of the greatest esteem and regard, "i am, sir, "your most obedient humble servant, "matth. clarkson. _"philadelphia, oct. 17, 1793._ _"richard varick, mayor of the city of new-york."_ it is no new thing for bilious fevers, of every description, to be checked or subdued by _wet_ and _cold_ weather. the yellow fever which raged in philadelphia in 1699, and which is taken notice of by thomas story in his journal, ceased about the latter end of october, or the beginning of november. of this there are satisfactory proofs, in the register of the interments in the friends' burying-ground, and in a letter, dated november 9th, old style, 1699, from isaac norris to one of his correspondents, which his grandson, mr. joseph p. norris, politely put into my hands, with several others, which mention the disease, and all written in that memorable year in philadelphia. the letter says, "it has pleased god to put a stop to our sore visitation, and town and country are now generally healthy." the same disease was checked by wet and cold weather in the year 1741. of this there is a proof in a letter from dr. franklin to one of his brothers, who stopped at burlington, on his way from boston to philadelphia, on account of the fever, until he was assured by the doctor, that a thunder gust, which had cooled the air, had rendered it safe for him to come into the city[57]. mr. lynford lardner, in a letter to one of his english friends, dated september 24, 1747, old style, after mentioning the prevalence of the fever in the city, says, "the weather is now much cooler, and those under the disorder revive. the symptoms are less violent, and the fever gradually abates." [57] from a short note in the register of the interments in the friends' burying-ground, it appears that the fever this year made its first appearance in the month of june. the following is a copy of that note: "12th of the 6th month (o. s.), 1741, a malignant yellow fever now spreads much." besides that note, there is the following: "25th of the 7th month (o. s.), 1741, many who died of the above distemper were persons lively, and strong, and in the prime of their time." i have in vain attempted to procure an account of the time of the commencement of cold weather in the autumn of 1762. in the short history of the fever of that year, which i have inserted from my note book, i have said that it continued to prevail in the months of november and december. the register of the interments in the friends' burying-ground in those months confirms that account. they were nearly as numerous in november and december as in september and october, viz. in september 22, in october 27, in november 19, and in december 26. the bilious remitting fever of 1780 yielded to cool weather, accompanied by rain and an easterly wind[58]. [58] vol. i. sir john pringle will furnish ample satisfaction to such of my readers as wish for more proofs of the efficacy of heavy rains, and cold weather, in checking the progress and violence of autumnal remitting fevers[59]. [59] p. 5, 56, 180, and 323. from the 15th of october the disease not only declined, but assumed more obvious inflammatory symptoms. it was, as in the beginning, more necessarily fatal where left to itself, but it yielded more certainly to art than it did a few weeks before. the duration of it was now more tedious than in the warmer weather. there were a few cases of yellow fever in november and december, after the citizens who had retired to the country returned to the city. i heard of but three persons who returned to the city being infected with the disease; so completely was its cause destroyed in the course of a few weeks. in consequence of a proclamation by the governor, and a recommendation by the clergy of philadelphia, the 12th of december was observed as a day of thanksgiving throughout the state, for the extinction of the disease in the city. it was easy to distinguish, in walking the streets, the persons who had returned from the country to the city, from those who had remained in it during the prevalence of the fever. the former appeared ruddy and healthy, while the latter appeared of a pale or sallow colour. it afforded a subject of equal surprise and joy to behold the suddenness with which the city recovered its former habits of business. in the course of six weeks after the disease had ceased, nothing but fresh graves, and the black dresses of many of the citizens, afforded a public trace of the distress which had so lately prevailed in the city. the month of november, and all the winter months which followed the autumnal epidemic, were in general healthy. a catarrh affected a number of people in november. i suspected it to be the influenza which had revived from a dormant state, and which had not spent itself, when it yielded to the predominance of the yellow fever. this opinion derives some support from a curious fact related by the late mr. hunter of the revival of the small-pox in a patient, in whom it had been suspended for some time by the measles[60]. the few fevers which prevailed in the winter were highly inflammatory. the small-pox in the natural way was in several instances confluent; and in one or two fatal. i was prepared to expect this inflammatory diathesis in the fevers of the winter; for i had been taught by dr. sydenham, that the diseases which follow a great and mortal epidemic partake more or less of its general character. but the diseases of the winter had a peculiarity still more extraordinary; and that was, many of them had several of the symptoms of the yellow fever, particularly a puking of bile, dark-coloured stools, and a yellow eye. mr. samuel d. alexander, a student of medicine from south-carolina, who was seized with a pneumony about christmas, had, with a yellow eye, a dilated pupil and a hard pulse, which beat only fifty strokes in a minute. his blood was such as i had frequently observed in the yellow fever. dr. griffitts informed me that he attended a patient on the 9th of january, in a pneumony, who had a universal yellowness on his skin. i met with a case of pneumony on the 20th of the same month, in which i observed the same degrees of redness in the eyes that were common in the yellow fever. my pupil, mr. coxe, lost blood in an inflammatory fever, on the 18th of february, which was dissolved. mr. innes, the brewer, had a deep yellow colour in his eyes, on the fourth day of a pneumony, on the 27th of the same month; and mr. magnus miller had the same symptom of a similar disease on the 16th of march. none of these bilious and anomalous symptoms of the inflammatory fevers of the winter and spring surprised me. i had been early taught, by dr. sydenham, that the epidemics of autumn often insinuate some of their symptoms into the winter diseases which follow them. dr. cleghorn informs us, that "the pleurisies which succeeded the autumnal tertians in minorca, were accompanied by a vomiting and purging of green or yellow bilious matters[61]." [60] introduction to a treatise on the venereal disease, p. 3. of the american edition. [61] page 273. it belongs to powerful epidemics to be followed by similar diseases after they disappear, as well as to run into others at their first appearance. in the former case it is occasioned by a peculiar state of the body, created by the epidemic constitution of the air, not having been changed by the weather which succeeded it. the weather in march resembled that of may; while the weather in april resembled that of march in common years. a rash prevailed in many families, in april, accompanied in a few cases by a sore throat. it was attended with an itching, a redness of the eyes, and a slight fever in a few instances. the small-pox by inoculation in this month was more mortal than in former years. however unimportant these facts may appear at this time, future observations may perhaps connect them with a similar constitution of the air which produced the previous autumnal epidemic. the appearance of bilious symptoms in the diseases of the winter, excited apprehensions in several instances of the revival of the yellow fever. the alarms, though false, served to produce vigilance and industry in the corporation, in airing and purifying such houses and articles of furniture as belonged to the poor; and which had been neglected in the autumn, after the ceasing of the disease. the modes of purifying houses, beds, and clothes were various. fumigations of nitre and aromatic substances were used by some people. burying infected articles of furniture under ground, and baking them in ovens, were used by others. some destroyed all their beds and clothing that had been infected, or threw them into the delaware. many white-washed their walls, and painted the wood-work of their house. i did not conceive the seeds of the disease required all, or any of those means to destroy it. i believed _cold_ and _water_ to be sufficient for that purpose. i therefore advised keeping the windows of infected rooms open night and day, for a few days; to have the floors and walls of houses well washed; and to expose beds and such articles of household furniture as might be injured by washing, upon the bare earth for a week or two, taking care to turn them every day. i used no other methods of destroying the accumulated miasmata in my house and furniture, and experience showed that they were sufficient. it is possible a portion of the excretions of the sick may be retained in clothes or beds, so as to afford an exhalation that may in the course of a succeeding summer and autumn, or from accidental warmth at any time, create a solitary case of fever, but it cannot render it epidemic. a trunk full of clothes, the property of mr. james bingham, who died of the yellow fever in one of the west-india islands about 50 years ago, was opened, some months after they were received by his friends, by a young man who lived in his brother's family. this young man took the disease, and died; but without infecting any of the family; nor did the disease spread afterwards in the city. the father of mr. joseph paschall was infected with the yellow fever of 1741, by the smell of a foul bed in passing through norris's alley, in the latter end of december, after the disease had left the city. he died on the 25th of the month, but without reviving the fever in the city, or even infecting his family. the matter which produced the fever in both these cases, had nothing specific in it. it acted in the same manner that the exhalation from any other putrid matters would have done in a highly concentrated state. in a letter from dr. senter of newport, dated january 7th, 1794, i find the following fact, which i shall communicate in his own words. it is introduced to support the principle, that the yellow fever does not spread by contagion. "this place (says the doctor) has traded formerly very much to the west-india islands, and more or less of our people have died there every season, when the disease prevails in those parts. clothes of these unfortunate people have been repeatedly brought home to their friends, without any accident happening to them." i feel with my reader the fatigue of this long detail of facts, and equal impatience with him to proceed to the history of the treatment of the fever; but i must beg leave to detain him a little longer from that part of the work, while i resume the subject of the origin of the fever. it is an interesting question, as it involves in it the means of preventing the return of the disease, and thereby of saving the lives of thousands of our citizens. soon after the fever left the city, the governor of the state addressed a letter to the college of physicians, requesting to know their opinion of its origin; if imported, from what _place_, at what _time_, and in what _manner_. the design of this inquiry was to procure such information as was proper to lay before the legislature, in order to improve the laws for preventing the importation or generation of infectious diseases, or to enact new ones, if necessary for that purpose. to the governor's letter the college of physicians sent the following answer: "sir, "it has not been from a want of respect to yourself, nor from inattention to the subject, that your letter of the 30th ult. was not sooner answered; but the importance of the questions proposed has made it necessary for us to devote a considerable portion of time and attention to the subject, in order to arrive at a safe and just conclusion. "no instance has ever occurred of the disease called the _yellow fever_ having been generated in this city, or in any other parts of the united states, as far as we know; but there have been frequent instances of its having been imported, not only into this, but into other parts of north-america, and prevailing there for a certain period of time; and from the rise, progress, and nature of the malignant fever, which began to prevail here about the beginning of last august, and extended itself gradually over a great part of the city, we are of opinion that this disease was imported into philadelphia, by some of the vessels which arrived in the port after the middle of july. this opinion we are further confirmed in by various accounts we have received from unquestionable authorities. "signed, by order of the college of physicians, "john redman, _president_. "_november 26th, 1793._ "_to the governor of pennsylvania._" dr. redman, the president of the college, dr. foulke, and dr. leib, dissented from the report contained in this letter. i have been necessarily led to continue it in the present edition of this work, not only because all the other members of that body still retain their belief of the importation of the fever, but as a reason for republishing the facts and arguments in support of its domestic origin. i have asserted, in the introduction to the history of this fever, that i believed it to have been generated in our city; i shall now deliver my reasons for that belief. 1. the yellow fever in the west-indies, and in all other countries where it is endemic, is the offspring of vegetable putrefaction. heat, exercise, and intemperance in drinking (says dr. lind) _dispose_ to this fever in hot climates, but they do not produce it without the concurrence of a remote cause. this remote cause exists at all times, in some spots of the islands, but in other parts even of the same islands, where there are no marsh exhalations, the disease is unknown. i shall not waste a moment in inquiring into the truth of dr. warren's account of the origin of this fever. it is fully refuted by dr. hillary, and it is treated as chimerical by dr. lind. they have very limited ideas of the history of this fever who suppose it to be peculiar to the east or west-indies. it was admitted to have been generated in cadiz after a hot and dry summer in 1764, and in pensacola in 1765[62]. the tertian fever of minorca, when it attacked englishmen, put on the usual symptoms of the yellow fever[63]. in short, this disease appears, according to dr. lind, in all the southern parts of europe, after hot and dry weather[64]. [62] lind on the diseases of hot climates, p. 36 and 124. [63] cleghorn, p. 176. [64] diseases of hot climates, p. 123. 2. the same causes (under like circumstances) must always produce the same effects. there is nothing in the air of the west-indies, above other hot countries, which disposes it to produce a yellow fever. similar degrees of heat, acting upon dead and moist vegetable matters, are capable of producing it, together with all its various modifications, in every part of the world. in support of this opinion, i shall transcribe part of a letter from dr. miller, formerly of the delaware state, and now of new-york. "_dover, nov. 5, 1793._ "dear sir, "since the middle of last july we have had a bilious colic epidemic in this neighbourhood, which exhibits phænomena very singular in this climate; and, so far as i am informed, unprecedented in the medical records, or popular traditions of this country. to avoid unnecessary details it will suffice at present to observe, that the disease, on this occasion, has assumed, not only all the essential characters, but likewise all the violence, obstinacy, and malignity described by the east and west-indian practitioners. if any difference can be observed it seems here to manifest higher degrees of stubbornness and malignity than we usually meet in the histories of tropical writers. in the course of the disease, not only extreme constipation, frequent vomiting, and the most excruciating pains of the bowels and limbs, harass the unhappy patient; but to these succeed paralysis, convulsions, &c. and almost always uncommon muscular debility, oppression of the præcordia, &c. are the consequence of a severe attack. bile discharged in enormous quantities constantly assumes the most corrupted and acrimonious appearances, commonly æruginous in a very high degree, and sometimes quite atrabilious. "the inference i mean to draw from the phænomena of this disease, as it appears in this neighbourhood, and which i presume will also apply to your epidemic, is _this_, that from the uncommon protraction and intenseness of our summer and autumnal heats, but principally from the unusual drought, we have had, since the middle of july, a near approach to a _tropical_ season, and that of consequence we ought not to be surprised if tropical diseases, even of the most malignant nature, are _engendered_ amongst us." to the above information it may be added, that the dysentery which prevailed during the autumn of 1793, in several of the villages of pennsylvania, was attended with a malignity and mortality unknown before in any part of the state. i need not pause to remark that this dysentery arose from putrid exhalation, and that it is, like the bilious colic, only a modification of bilious fever. but further, a malignant fever, resembling that which was epidemic in our city, prevailed during the autumn in many parts of the united states, viz. at lynn in massachusetts, at weatherfield and coventry in connecticut, at new-galloway in the state of new-york, on walkill and on pensocken creeks in new-jersey, at harrisburgh and hummelstown in pennsylvania, in caroline county in maryland, on the south branch of the potowmac in hardie county, also in lynchburgh and in alexandria in virginia, and in several counties in north-carolina. in none of these places was there a suspicion of the disease being imported from abroad, or conveyed by an intercourse with the city of philadelphia. it is no objection to the inference which follows from these facts, that the common remitting fever was not known during the above period in the neighbourhood of this city, and in many other parts of the state, where it had usually appeared in the autumnal months. there is a certain combination of moisture with heat, which is essential to the production of the remote cause of a bilious fever. where the heat is so intense, or of such long duration, as wholly to dissipate moisture, or when the rains are so great as totally to overflow the marshy ground, or to wash away putrid masses of matter, no fever can be produced. dr. dazilles, in his treatise upon the diseases of the negroes in the west-indies, informs us, that the _rainy_ season is the most healthy at cayenne, owing to the neighbouring morasses being _deeply_ overflowed; whereas, at st. domingo, a _dry_ season is most productive of diseases, owing to its favouring those degrees of moisture which produce morbid exhalations. these facts will explain the reason why, in certain seasons, places which are naturally healthy in our country become sickly, while those places which are naturally sickly escape the prevailing epidemic. previously to the dissipation of the moisture from the putrid masses of vegetable matters in our streets, and in the neighbourhood of the city, there were (as several practitioners can testify) many cases of mild remittents, but they all disappeared about the first week in september. it is worthy of notice, that the yellow fever prevailed in virginia in the year 1741, and in charleston, in south-carolina, in the year 1699, in both which years it prevailed in philadelphia. its prevalence in charleston is taken notice of in a letter, dated november 18th, o. s. 1699, from isaac norris to one of his correspondents. the letter says, that "150 persons had died in charleston in a few days," that "the survivors fled into the country," and that "the town was thinned to a very few people." is it not probable, from the prevalence of this fever twice in two places in the same years, that it was produced (as in 1793) by a general constitution of air, co-operating with miasmata, which favoured its generation in different parts of the continent? but again, such was the state of the air in the summer of 1793, that it predisposed other animals to diseases, besides the human species. in some parts of new-jersey, a disease prevailed with great mortality among the horses, and in virginia among the cows, during the autumn. the urine in both was yellow.--large abscesses appeared in different parts of the body in the latter animals, which, when opened, discharged a yellow serous fluid. from the colour of these discharges, and of the urine, the disease got the name of the _yellow water_. 3. i have before remarked, that a quantity of damaged coffee was exposed at a time (july the 24th) and in a situation (on a wharf and in a dock) which favoured its putrefaction and exhalation. its smell was highly putrid and offensive, insomuch that the inhabitants of the houses in water and front-streets, who were near it, were obliged, in the hottest weather, to exclude it by shutting their doors and windows. even persons, who only walked along those streets, complained of an intolerable f[oe]tor, which, upon inquiring, was constantly traced to the putrid coffee. it should not surprise us, that this seed, so inoffensive in its natural state, should produce, after its putrefaction, a violent fever. the records of medicine (to be mentioned hereafter) furnish instances of similar fevers being produced, by the putrefaction of many other vegetable substances. 4. the rapid progress of the fever from water-street, and the courses through which it travelled into other parts of the city, afford a strong evidence that it was at first propagated by exhalation from the putrid coffee. it was observed that it passed first through those alleys and streets which were in the course of the winds that blew across the dock and wharf, where the coffee had been thrown in a state of putrefaction. 5. many persons who had worked, or even visited, in the neighbourhood of the exhalation from the coffee, early in the month of august, were indisposed afterwards with sickness, puking, and yellow sweats, long before the air of water-street was so much impregnated with the exhalation, as to produce such effects; and several patients, whom i attended in the yellow fever, declared to me, or to their friends, that their indispositions began exactly at the time they inhaled the offensive effluvia of the coffee. 6. the first cases of the yellow fever have been clearly traced to the sailors of the vessel who were first exposed to the effluvia of the coffee. their sickness commenced with the day on which the coffee began to emit its putrid smell. the disease spread with the increase of the poisonous exhalation. a journeyman of mr. peter brown's, who worked near the corner of race and water-streets, caught the disease on the 27th of july. elizabeth hill, the wife of a fisherman, was infected by only sailing near the pestilential wharf, about the 1st of august, and died at kensington on the 14th of the same month. many other names might be mentioned of persons who sickened during the last week in july or the first week in august, who ascribed their illnesses to the smell of the coffee. 7. it has been remarked that this fever did not spread in the country, when carried there by persons who were infected, and who afterwards died with it. during four times in which it prevailed in charleston, in no one instance, according to dr. lining, was it propagated in any other part of the state. 8. in the histories of the disease which have been preserved in this country, it has _six_ times appeared about the first or middle of august, and declined or ceased about the middle of october: viz. in 1732, 1739, 1745, and 1748 in charleston, in 1791 in new-york, and in 1793 in philadelphia. this frequent occurrence of the yellow fever at the usual period of our common bilious remittents, cannot be ascribed to accidental coincidence, but must be resolved, in most cases, into the combination of more active miasmata with the predisposition of a tropical season. in speaking of a tropical season, i include that kind of weather in which rains and heats are alternated with each other, as well as that which is uniformly warm. 9. several circumstances attended this epidemic, which do not occur in the west-india yellow fever. it affected children as well as adults, in common with our annual bilious fevers. in the west-indies, dr. hume tells us, it never attacked any person under puberty. it had, moreover, many peculiar symptoms (as i have already shown) which are not to be met with in any of the histories of the west india yellow fever. 10. why should it surprise us to see a yellow fever generated amongst us? it is only a higher grade of a fever which prevails every year in our city, from vegetable putrefaction. it conforms, in the difference of its degrees of violence and danger, to season as well as climate, and in this respect it is upon a footing with the small-pox, the measles, the sore-throat, and several other diseases. there are few years pass, in which a plethoric habit, and more active but limited miasmata, do not produce sporadic cases of true yellow fever in philadelphia. it is very common in south and north-carolina and in virginia, and there are facts which prove, that not only strangers, but native individuals, and, in one instance, a whole family, have been carried off by it in the state of maryland. it proved fatal to one hundred persons in the city of new-york in the year of 1791, where it was evidently generated by putrid exhalation. the yellow colour of the skin has unfortunately too often been considered as the characteristic mark of this fever, otherwise many other instances of its prevalence might be discovered, i have no doubt, in every part of the united states. i wish, with dr. mosely, the term _yellow_ could be abolished from the titles of this fever, for this colour is not only frequently absent, but sometimes occurs in the mildest bilious remittents. dr. haller, in his pathology, describes an epidemic of this kind in switzerland, in which this colour generally attended, and i have once seen it almost universal in a common bilious fever, which prevailed in the american army, in the year 1776. i cannot help taking notice, in this place, of an omission in the answer to the governor's letter, by the college of physicians. the governor requested to know whether it was imported; if it were, from _what place_, at _what time_, and in _what manner_. in the answer of the college of physicians to the governor's letter no notice was taken of any of those questions. in vain did dr. foulke call upon the college to be more definite in their answer to them. they had faithfully sought for the information required, but to no purpose. the character of their departed brother, dr. hutchinson, for capacity and vigilance in his office, as inspector of sickly vessels, was urged without effect as an argument against the probability of the disease being imported. public report had derived it from several different islands; had chased it from ship to ship, and from shore to shore; and finally conveyed it at different times into the city, alternately by dead and living bodies; and from these tales, all of which, when investigated, were proved to be without foundation, the college of physicians composed their letter. it would seem, from this conduct of the college, as if medical superstition had changed its names, and that, in accounting for the origin of pestilential fevers, celestial, planetary, and demoniacal influence had only yielded to the term _importation_. let not the reader reject the opinion i have delivered because it is opposed by so great a majority of the physicians of philadelphia. a single physician supported an opinion of the existence of the plague at messina, in the year 1743, in opposition to all the physicians (33 in number) of that city. they denied the disease in question to exist, because it was not accompanied by glandular swellings. time showed that they were all mistaken, and the plague, which might probably have been checked, at its first appearance, by their united efforts, was, by means of their ignorance, introduced with great mortality into every part of the city. this disposition of physicians to limit the symptoms of several other diseases, cannot be sufficiently lamented. the frequent absence of a yellow colour, in this epidemic, led to mistakes which cost the city of philadelphia several hundred lives. the letter of the college of physicians has served to confirm me in an opinion, that the plagues which occasionally desolated most of the countries of europe, in former centuries, and which were always said to be of foreign extraction, were of domestic origin. between the years 1006 and 1680, the plague was epidemic fifty-two times all over europe. it prevailed fourteen times in the 14th century. the state of europe, in this long period, is well known. idleness, a deficiency of vegetable aliment, a camp life, from the frequency of wars, famine, an uncultivated and marshy soil, small cabins, and the want of cleanliness in dress, diet, and furniture, all concurred to generate pestilential diseases. the plagues which prevailed in london, every year from 1593 to 1611, and from 1636 to 1649, i believe were generated in that city. the diminution of plagues in europe, more especially in london, appears to have been produced by the great change in the diet and manners of the people; also by the more commodious and airy forms of the houses of the poor, among whom the plague _always_ makes its first appearance. it is true, these plagues were said by authors to have been imported, either directly or indirectly, from the levant; but the proofs of such importation were as vague and deficient as they were of the west-india origin of our epidemic. the pestilential fevers which have been mentioned, have been described by authors by the generic name of the plague, but they appear to have originated from putrid vegetable exhalations, and to have resembled, in most of their symptoms, the west-india and _north-american_ yellow fever. i shall resume this interesting subject in another place, in which i shall mention a number of additional facts, not only in support of the domestic origin of the bilious yellow fever, but of its not spreading by contagion, and of course of its being impossible to import it. i shall at the same time enumerate all its different sources, and point out the means of destroying or removing them, and thus of exterminating the disease from our country. with these observations i conclude the history of the epidemic fever of the year 1793. a few of its symptoms, which have been omitted in this history, will be included in the method of cure, for they were discovered or produced by the remedies which were given for that purpose. [hand] the following page begins an account of the states of the thermometer and weather, from the 1st of january to the 1st of august, and of the states of the barometer, thermometer, winds, and weather, from the 1st of august to the 9th of november, 1793. the times of observation, for the first three months are at 7 in the morning, and 2 in the afternoon; for the next five months they are at 6 in the morning, and 3 in the afternoon. from the 1st of october to the 9th of november, they are as in the first three months. _january, 1793._ _february, 1793._ +----+---------+----------------------+---------+---------------------+ | | therm. | weather. | therm. | weather. | | d. | 7h | 2h | | 7h | 2h | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ | 1 | 27 | 30 | cloudy. | 9 | 26 | fair, hazy. | | 2 | 30 | 41 | fair, cloudy. | 25 | 34 | rain, ditto. | | 3 | 30 | 33 | cloudy, rain. | 33 | 37 | cloudy, fair. | | 4 | 38 | 41 | rain, cloudy. | 25 | 46 | cloudy, fair. | | 5 | 35 | 42 | fair, cloudy. | 36 | 44 | cloudy, ditto. | | 6 | 33 | 47 | cloudy, fair. | 35 | 46 | cloudy, rain. | | 7 | 38 | 51 | fair, fair. | 36 | 40 | cloudy, fair. | | 8 | 32 | 49 | fair, ditto. | 28 | 44 | cloudy, ditto. | | 9 | 33 | 48 | hazy, fair. | 42 | 50 | rain, fair. | | 10 | 38 | 51 | fair, ditto. | 38 | 40 | cloudy, fair. | | 11 | 35 | 48 | fair, clouds. | 19 | 27 | fair, cloudy. | | 12 | 31 | 42 | fair, ditto. | 20 | 28 | snow, cloudy. | | 13 | 28 | 42 | fair, ditto. | 22 | 31 | cloudy, snow. | | 14 | 25 | 27 | hail, snow, sleet. | 27 | 39 | cloudy, fair. | | 15 | 32 | 37 | clouds, mist. | 18 | 40 | fair, ditto. | | 16 | 37 | 39 | rain, ditto. | 29 | 42 | cloudy, ditto. | | 17 | 37 | 45 | rain, snow, fair. | 44 | 48 | rain, ditto. | | 18 | 32 | 52 | fair, ditto. | 39 | 49 | cloudy, fair. | | 19 | 37 | 48 | fair, ditto. | 31 | 41 | cloudy, rain. | | 20 | 33 | 47 | hazy, cloudy. | 52 | 53 | rain, fair. | | 21 | 36 | 47 | cloudy, fair. | 37 | 49 | fair, ditto. | | 22 | 27 | 32 | fair, ditto. | 29 | 34 | fair, ditto. | | 23 | 22 | 37 | fair, ditto. | 22 | 34 | snow, cloudy. | | 24 | 30 | 39 | cloudy, ditto. | 54 | 59 | rain, cloudy. | | 25 | 30 | 41 | fair, hazy. | 34 | 35 | cloudy, ditto. | | 26 | 31 | -| fair. | 35 | 43 | rain, mist. | | 27 | 23 | 38 | fair, cloudy, snow. | 43 | 43 | rain, cloudy. | | 28 | 35 | 45 | cloudy, fair. | 14 | 26 | fair, ditto. | | 29 | 29 | 37 | fair, ditto. | | | | | 30 | 22 | 23 | snow, hail. | | | | | 31 | 25 | 32 | cloudy, fair. | | | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ _march, 1793._ _april, 1793._ +----+---------+----------------------+---------+---------------------+ | | therm. | weather. | therm. | weather. | | d. | 7h | 2h | | 7h | 2h | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ | 1 | 20 | 38 | fair, ditto. | 45 | 70 | cloudy, fair. | | 2 | 31 | 51 | hazy, cloudy. | 47 | 71 | fair, ditto. | | 3 | 48 | 63 | rain, fair. | 56 | 80 | fair, ditto. | | 4 | 43 | 61 | hazy, ditto. | 51 | 72 | cloudy, fair. | | 5 | 51 | 52 | rain, fair. | 53 | 61 | cloudy, rain. | | 6 | 32 | 50 | fair, ditto. | 60 | 76 | misty, fair. | | 7 | 36 | 62 | fair, ditto, clouds. | 51 | 65 | fair, ditto. | | 8 | 54 | 60 | cloudy, rain. | 46 | 74 | fair, ditto. | | 9 | 26 | 41 | fair, ditto. | 55 | 71 | fair, cloudy. | | 10 | 29 | 51 | fair, ditto. | 50 | 56 | fair, ditto. | | 11 | 43 | 55 | rain, ditto. | 37 | 63 | fair, ditto. | | 12 | 40 | 43 | cloudy, ditto. | 54 | 62 | cloudy, rain, fair. | | 13 | 38 | 39 | cloudy, fair. | 49 | 62 | fair, ditto. | | 14 | 26 | 44 | fair, ditto. | 50 | 70 | fair, ditto. | | 15 | 32 | 59 | fair, ditto. | 45 | 55 | rain, cloudy. | | 16 | 52 | 62 | cloudy, fair. | 46 | 62 | cloudy, fair. | | 17 | 51 | 72 | cloudy, fair. | 48 | 67 | fair, clouds, fair. | | 18 | 58 | 69 | hazy, cloudy. | 52 | 66 | cloudy, fair. | | 19 | 53 | 59 | fair, ditto. | 52 | 75 | fair, ditto. | | 20 | 42 | 61 | fair, ditto. | 52 | 49 | rain, cloudy. | | 21 | 41 | 43 | rain, cloudy. | 44 | 47 | cloudy, ditto. | | 22 | 31 | 47 | fair, ditto. | 43 | 46 | rain, cloudy. | | 23 | 35 | 57 | fair, ditto. | 42 | 63 | fair, ditto. | | 24 | 37 | 50 | fair, ditto. | 44 | 68 | fair, ditto. | | 25 | 35 | 59 | fair, ditto. | 45 | 65 | cloudy, ditto. | | 26 | 47 | 54 | cloudy, rain. | 53 | 57 | cloudy, rain. | | 27 | 43 | 51 | fair, cloudy. | 47 | 46 | rain, ditto. | | 28 | 33 | 45 | fair, clouds, fair. | 44 | 54 | rain, cloudy. | | 29 | 34 | 57 | fair, ditto. | 40 | 59 | fair, ditto. | | 30 | 41 | 58 | cloudy, fair. | 40 | 65 | fair, ditto. | | 31 | 42 | 61 | cloudy, fair. | | | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------| _may, 1793._ _june, 1793._ +----+---------+----------------------+---------+---------------------+ | | therm. | weather. | therm. | weather. | | d. | 7h | 2h | | 7h | 2h | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ | 1 | 45 | 69 | foggy, cloudy. | 53 | 61 | rain, showery. | | 2 | 52 | 73 | fog, clouds, fair. | 54 | 64 | clouds, showers. | | 3 | 60 | 63 | rain, ditto. | 55 | 62 | cloudy, rain, fair. | | 4 | 60 | 80 | fair, ditto. | 54 | 60 | rain, do. cloudy. | | 5 | 55 | 56 | cloudy, ditto. | 58 | 72 | cloudy, fair, rain. | | 6 | 47 | 58 | cloudy, fair. | -| 71 | cloudy, rain. | | 7 | 50 | 68 | cloudy, fair. | 68 | 78 | fair, ditto. | | 8 | 59 | 78 | cloudy, fair. | 65 | -| fair, ditto. | | 9 | 61 | 79 | foggy, fair. | 70 | 88 | fog, fair. | | 10 | 65 | 71 | rain, hazy. | 74 | 90 | fair, ditto. | | 11 | 55 | 75 | cloudy, fair. | 76 | 90 | fair, ditto. | | 12 | 61 | 76 | cloudy, rain. | 75 | 88 | fair, showers. | | 13 | 57 | 78 | fair, ditto. | 74 | 81 | cloudy, rain. | | 14 | 59 | 83 | fair, cloudy. | 63 | 77 | fair, ditto. | | 15 | 60 | 71 | fair, ditto. | 63 | 82 | fair, hazy. | | 16 | 50 | 69 | fair, ditto. | 67 | 85 | fair, ditto. | | 17 | 48 | 74 | fair, ditto. | 74 | 89 | fair, showers. | | 18 | 61 | 81 | cloudy, fair. | 73 | 88 | fair, ditto. | | 19 | 65 | 85 | fair, rain. | 77 | 91 | fair, ditto. | | 20 | 65 | 87 | fair, ditto. | 79 | 88 | fair, rain, fair. | | 21 | 68 | 86 | fair, ditto, clouds. | 75 | 85 | cloudy, rain. | | 22 | 72 | 80 | clouds, gusts. | 58 | 78 | cloudy, fair. | | 23 | 94 | 79 | cloudy, fair. | 58 | 78 | fair, ditto. | | 24 | 58 | 75 | fair, ditto. | 60 | 79 | fair, ditto. | | 25 | 52 | 70 | fair, cloudy. | 67 | 74 | cloudy, rain. | | 26 | 61 | 66 | rain, ditto. | 66 | 69 | cloudy, rain. | | 27 | 68 | 84 | cloudy, fair. | 68 | 80 | cloudy, fair. | | 28 | 70 | 68 | fair, clouds, rain. | 71 | 85 | cloudy, fair. | | 29 | 57 | 62 | cloudy, rain, clouds.| 77 | 88 | cloudy, ditto. | | 30 | 54 | 57 | cloudy, rain. | 74 | 90 | fair, ditto. | | 31 | 54 | 60 | clouds, ditto. | | | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ july, 1793. +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | 6 3 | 6 3 | 6 3 | | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.| | | | | | | | | 1 |30 0 29 9| 77 88 | w w |fair. | | 2 |29 8 29 7| 77 81 | w |fair, showers. | | 3 |29 9 30 0| 74 80 | e e |cloudy. | | 4 |30 1 30 0| 70 83 | e sw |cloudy, fair, rain. | | 5 |30 0 29 9| 76 90 | nw sw |fair, ditto. | | 6 |29 9 29 9| 78 91 | sw sw |cloudy, thunder. | | 7 |29 9 30 0| 73 88 | ne nw |fair, clouds. | | 8 |30 1 30 1| 72 85 | e e |cloudy, fair. | | 9 |30 0 29 8| 73 81 | s sw |cloudy, ditto. | | 10 |30 0 30 0| 70 84 | w nw |fair, ditto. | | 11 |30 0 30 0| 74 88 | nw nw |fair, clouds. | | 12 |30 1 30 2| 70 84 | n n |fair, ditto. | | 13 |30 1 30 0| 68 83 | nw nw |fair, ditto. | | 14 |30 0 30 0| 65 80 | n calm |fair, hazy. | | 15 |30 0 29 9| 66 75 | sw sw |cloudy, ditto. | | 16 |29 8 29 7| 70 83 | w w |rain, fair. | | 17 |29 8 29 9| 68 81 | nw nw |fair, ditto. | | 18 |30 0 30 0| 66 86 | w sw |fair, ditto. | | 19 |29 9 29 9| 75 85 | sw w |fair, cloudy, rain. | | 20 |30 0 30 0| 72 87 | w nw |fair, ditto, shower.| | 21 |30 1 30 1| 70 86 | nw nw |fair, ditto. | | 22 |30 0 30 0| 72 87 | sw sw |fair, ditto. | | 23 |30 0 30 0| 73 91 | sw sw |fair, cloudy. | | 24 |29 9 29 9| 75 89 | calm w |cloudy, fair. | | 25 |30 1 30 1| 71 83 | nw nnw |fair, ditto. | | 26 |30 2 30 2| 63 82 | n ne |fair, ditto. | | 27 |30 2 30 1| 64 81 | s calm s |fair, cloudy. | | 28 |30 1 30 0| 72 85 | calm nne |cloudy, fair. | | 29 |30 1 30 1| 74 85 | sse ne |cloudy, ditto, rain.| | 30 |30 1 30 0| 73 86 | s sw |cloudy, fair. | | 31 |29 9 29 8| 76 80 | ssw sw |cloudy, rain, fair. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ august, 1793. +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | 6 3 | 6 3 | 6 3 | 6 3 | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m. | | 1 |29 95 30 0| 65 77 | wnw nw |cloudy, fair, | | 2 |30 1 30 1| 63 81 | nw sw |fair, fair, | | 3 |30 6 29 95| 62 82 | n nne |fair, fair, | | 4 |29 97 30 0| 65 87 | s sw |fair, fair, | | 5 |30 5 30 1| 73 90 | ssw sw |fair, fair, | | 6 |30 2 30 0| 77 87 | sw w |cloudy, fair, | | 7 |30 12 30 1| 68 83 | nw w |fair, fair, | | 8 |30 1 29 95| 69 86 | sse sse |fair, rain, | | 9 |29 8 29 75| 75 85 | ssw sw |cloudy, fair, | | 10 |29 9 29 9| 67 82 | w sw |fair, fair, | | 11 |30 0 30 0| 70 84 | sw wsw |cloudy, cloudy, | | 12 |30 0 30 0| 70 87 | w w |fair, fair, | | 13 |30 5 30 0| 71 89 | sw w |fair, fair, | | 14 |30 0 29 95| 75 82 | sw sw |fair, rain, | | 15 |30 0 30 1| 72 75 | nne ne |fair, cloudy, | | 16 |30 1 30 1| 70 83 | nne ne |fair, fair, | | 17 |30 1 30 0| 71 86 | sw sw |fair, fair, | | 18 |30 1 30 1| 73 89 | calm sw |fair, fair, | | 19 |30 1 30 0| 72 82 | n n |fair, cloudy, | | 20 |30 1 30 12| 69 82 | nne nne |fair, fair, | | 21 |30 15 30 25| 62 83 | n nne |fair, fair, | | 22 |30 3 30 35| 63 86 | ne se |fair, fair, | | 23 |30 25 30 15| 63 85 | calm s |fair, fair, | | 24 |30 1 30 1| 73 81 | calm calm |cloudy, rain, | | 25 |30 1 30 1| 71 66 | ne ne |rain, gr. rain, | | 26 |30 15 30 2| 59 69 | ne ne |cloudy, cloudy, | | 27 |30 2 30 2| 65 73 | ne ne |cloudy, cloudy, | | 28 |30 2 30 15| 67 80 | s calm |cloudy, clearin. | | 29 |30 16 30 15| 72 86 | calm sw |cloudy, fair, | | 30 |30 1 30 1| 74 87 | calm sw |fair, fair, | | 31 |30 0 30 0| 74 84 | sw nw |rain, fair. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ september, 1793. +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | 6 3 | 6 3 | 6 3 | 6 3 | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m. | | 1 |30 0 29 30| 71 86 | calm sw |fog, fair, | | 2 |29 75 29 8| 73 86 | sw sw |fair, fair, | | 3 |30 0 | 60 | nw n |fair, fair, | | 4 |30 15 30 15| 55 75 | w w |fair, fair, | | 5 |30 15 30 1| 62 80 | se s |fair, cloudy, | | 6 |29 97 29 95| 70 89 | wsw w |fair, cloudy, | | 7 |30 0 30 0| 65 77 | wnw nw |fair, fair, | | 8 |30 1 30 1| 64 70 | calm calm |cloudy, cloudy, | | 9 |30 0 30 0| 66 80 | se nw |rain, fair, | | 10 |30 0 30 0| 64 72 | n nne |fair, cloudy, | | 11 |30 1 30 0| 62 72 | nne n |cloudy, fair, | | 12 |29 96 29 9| 58 76 | nw nnw |fair, fair, | | 13 |29 95 30 0| 57 72 | nw n |fair, fair, | | 14 |30 0 30 5| 58 79 | nw nw |fair, fair, | | 15 |30 0 29 97| 65 80 | n s |fair, fair, | | 16 |29 9 29 | 70 84 | s sw |cloudy, fair, | | 17 |29 8 29 85| 66 67 | n n |cloudy, cloudy, | | 18 |30 3 | 44 | n |fair, | | 19 |30 4 30 35| 45 70 | calm sw |fair, fair, | | 20 |30 3 30 15| 54 69 | calm se |hazy, hazy, | | 21 |30 0 29 0| 59 78 | calm |cloudy, fair, | | 22 |30 0 30 0| 63 83 | calm |cloudy, fair, | | 23 |30 1 30 1| 62 80 | calm se |cloudy, cloudy, | | 24 |30 2 30 2| 65 70 | ne ene |cloudy, fair, | | 25 |30 15 30 0| 61 68 | ne ne |cloudy, cloudy, | | 26 |29 8 29 7| 58 79 | n n |cloudy, fair, | | 27 |29 7 | 64 | nw nw |cloudy, fair, | | 28 |30 5 30 15| 54 73 | nw nw |fair, fair, | | 29 |30 3 30 3| 56 74 | ne ene |cloudy, fair, | | 30 |30 35 30 3| 57 75 | calm sw |foggy, fair. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ october, 1793. +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | | | | | | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | | | | | | | 7 2 | 7 2 | 7 2 | 7 2 | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m. | | 1 |30 15 30 5| 64 80 | sw sw |cloudy, fair, | | 2 |29 9 30 5| 70 72 | w nnw |cloudy, fair, | | 3 |30 2 30 15| 50 72 | w sw |fair, fair, | | 4 |29 75 29 7| 59 72 | sw w |cloudy, cloudy, | | 5 |30 0 30 1| 58 66 | n n |fair, fair, | | 6 |30 3 30 3| 43 66 | ne w |fair, fair, | | 7 |30 45 | 46 | calm |fair, | | 8 |30 6 30 6| 53 68 | n n |fair, fair, | | 9 |30 5 30 4| 53 70 | nw nw |fair, fair, | | 10 |30 2 30 2| 49 74 | e nw |fair, fair, | | 11 |30 0 29 85| 51 74 | w w |fair, fair, | | 12 |29 6 29 55| 58 64 | sw nw |rain, rain, | | 13 |29 85 29 9| 49 69 | nw nw |fair, fair, | | 14 |30 5 30 0| 52 76 | sw sw |calm, fair, | | 15 |29 75 29 8| 56 54 | sw n |fair, rain, | | 16 |30 0 30 0| 37 53 | nnw n |fair, fair, | | 17 |30 1 30 1| 37 60 | ne ne |fair, fair, | | 18 |30 1 30 1| 41 62 | nw nw |fair, fair, | | 19 |30 0 29 9| 51 66 | n n |cloudy, fair, | | 20 |30 0 30 0| 44 54 | nw n |fair, fair, | | 21 |30 0 30 2| 49 59 | n nw |fair, fair, | | 22 |29 6 29 5| 51 65 | nw nw |fair, fair, | | 23 |29 8 29 8| 47 60 | w w |fair, fair, | | 24 |30 3 30 4| 36 59 | w nw |fair, fair, | | 25 |30 4 30 3| 46 71 | s s |cloudy, do. h-w. | | 26 |30 2 30 2| 60 72 | calm sw |cloudy, cloudy, | | 27 |30 3 30 3| 44 44 | nne nne |cloudy, cloudy, | | 28 |30 2 30 1| 34 37 | n n |cloudy, cloudy, | | 29 |29 85 29 85| 28 44 | nnw nw |fair, fair, | | 30 |30 1 30 1| 28 49 | calm sw |hazy, hazy, | | 31 |30 15 30 2| 42 45 | calm nne |cloudy, rain. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ november, 1793. +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | 7 2 | 7 2 | 7 2 | 7 2 | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.| a. m. p. m. | | 1 |30 1 30 1| 40 41 | nne ne |rain, cloudy, | | 2 |30 3 30 25| 32 49 | nne ne |fair, fair, | | 3 |30 1 30 0| 43 56 | calm sw |cloudy, cloudy, | | 4 |29 8 29 9| 55 67 | sw sw |cloudy, fair, | | 5 |30 15 30 1| 50 64 | ne ne |rain, rain, | | 6 |29 8 29 65| 63 67 | s s |cloudy, cloudy, | | 7 |29 8 29 8| 44 64 | calm sw |fair, fair, | | 8 |29 8 29 85| 43 56 | ssw sw |fair, fair, | | 9 |29 9 29 95| 42 64 | sw sw |fair, fair, | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ of the method of cure. in the introduction to the history of the fever, i mentioned the remedies which i used with success, in several cases which occurred in the beginning of august. i had seen, and recorded in my note book, the efficacy of gentle purges in the yellow fever of 1762; but finding them unsuccessful after the 20th of august, and observing the disease to assume uncommon symptoms of great prostration of strength, i laid them aside, and had recourse to a gentle vomit of ipecacuanha, on the first day of the fever, and to the usual remedies for exciting the action of the sanguiferous system. i gave bark in all its usual forms of infusion, powder, and tincture. i joined wine, brandy, and aromatics with it. i applied blisters to the limbs, neck, and head. finding them all ineffectual, i attempted to rouse the system by wrapping the whole body, agreeably to dr. hume's practice, in blankets dipped in warm vinegar. to these remedies i added one more: i rubbed the right side with mercurial ointment, with a view of exciting the action of the vessels in the whole system, through the medium of the liver, which i then supposed to be principally, though symptomatically, affected by the disease. none of these remedies appeared to be of any service; for although three out of thirteen recovered, of those to whom they were applied, yet i have reason to believe that they would have recovered much sooner had the cure been trusted to nature. perplexed and distressed by my want of success in the treatment of this fever, i waited upon dr. stephens, an eminent and worthy physician from st. croix, who happened then to be in our city, and asked for such advice and information upon the subject of the disease, as his extensive practice in the west-indies would naturally suggest. he politely informed me, that he had long ago laid aside evacuations of all kinds in the yellow fever; that they had been found to be hurtful, and that the disease yielded more readily to bark, wine, and, above all, to the use of the cold bath. he advised the bark to be given in large quantities by way of glyster, as well as in the usual way; and he informed me of the manner in which the cold bath should be used, so as to derive the greatest benefit from it. this mode of treating the yellow fever appeared to be reasonable. i had used bark, in the manner he recommended it, in several cases of sporadic yellow fever, with success, in former years. i had, moreover, the authority of several other physicians of reputation in its favour. dr. cleghorn tells us, that "he sometimes gave the bark when the bowels were full of vicious humours. these humours (he says) are produced by the fault of the circulation. the bark, by bracing the solids, enables them to throw off the excrementitious fluids, by the proper emunctories[65]." [65] page 223. i began the use of each of dr. stevens's remedies the next day after my interview with him, with great confidence of their success. i prescribed bark in large quantities: in one case i ordered it to be injected into the bowels every four hours. i directed buckets full of cold water to be thrown frequently upon my patients. the bark was offensive to the stomach, or rejected by it, in every case in which i prescribed it. the cold bath was grateful, and produced relief in several cases, by inducing a moisture on the skin. for a while i had hopes of benefit to my patients from the use of these remedies, but, in a few days, i was distressed to find they were not more effectual than those i had previously used. three out of four of my patients died, to whom the cold bath was administered, in addition to the tonic remedies before-mentioned. baffled in every attempt to stop the ravages of this fever, i anticipated all the numerous and complicated distresses in our city, which pestilential diseases have so often produced in other countries. the fever had a malignity and an obstinacy which i had never before observed in any disease, and it spread with a rapidity and mortality far beyond what it did in the year 1762. heaven alone bore witness to the anguish of my soul in this awful situation. but i did not abandon a hope that the disease might yet be cured. i had long believed that good was commensurate with evil, and that there does not exist a disease for which the goodness of providence has not provided a remedy. under the impression of this belief i applied myself with fresh ardour to the investigation of the disease before me. i ransacked my library, and pored over every book that treated of the yellow fever. the result of my researches for a while was fruitless. the accounts of the symptoms and cure of the disease by the authors i consulted were contradictory, and none of them appeared altogether applicable to the prevailing epidemic. before i desisted from the inquiry to which i had devoted myself, i recollected that i had, among some old papers, a manuscript account of the yellow fever as it prevailed in virginia in the year 1741, which had been put into my hands by dr. franklin, a short time before his death. i had read it formerly, and made extracts from it into my lectures upon that disease. i now read it a second time. i paused upon every sentence; even words in some places arrested and fixed my attention. in reading the history of the method of cure i was much struck with the following passages. "it must be remarked, that this evacuation (meaning by purges) is more necessary in this than in most other fevers. the abdominal viscera are the parts principally affected in this disease, but by this timely evacuation their feculent corruptible contents are discharged, before they corrupt and produce any ill effects, and their various emunctories and secerning vessels are set open, so as to allow a free discharge of their contents, and consequently a security to the parts themselves, during the course of the disease. by this evacuation the very minera of the disease, proceeding from the putrid miasmata fermenting with the salivary, bilious, and other inquiline humours of the body, is sometimes eradicated by timely emptying the abdominal viscera, on which it first fixes, after which a gentle sweat does as it were nip it in its bud. where the primæ viæ, but especially the stomach, is loaded with an offensive matter, or contracted and convulsed with the irritation of its stimulus, there is no procuring a laudable sweat till that is removed; after which a necessary quantity of sweat breaks _out of its own accord_, these parts promoting it when by an absterging medicine they are eased of the burden or stimulus which oppresses them." "all these acute putrid fevers ever require some evacuation to bring them to a perfect crisis and solution, and that even by stools, which must be promoted by art, where nature does not do the business herself. on this account an _ill-timed scrupulousness about the weakness of the body_ is of bad consequence in these urging circumstances; for it is that which seems chiefly to make evacuations necessary, which nature ever attempts, after the humours are fit to be expelled, but is not able to accomplish for the most part in this disease; and i can affirm that i have given a purge in this case, when _the pulse has been so low, that it could hardly be felt_, and the _debility extreme_, yet _both one and the other_ have been _restored by it_." "this evacuation must be procured by _lenitive chologoque_ purges." here i paused. a new train of ideas suddenly broke in upon my mind. i believed the weak and low pulse which i had observed in this fever, to be the effect of debility from a depressed state of the system, but the unsuccessful issue of purging, and even of a spontaneous diarrh[oe]a, in a patient of dr. hutchinson, had led me not only to doubt of, but to dread its effects. my fears from this evacuation were confirmed, by the communications i had received from dr. stevens. i had been accustomed to raising a weak and low pulse in pneumony and apoplexy, by means of blood-letting, but i had attended less to the effects of purging in producing this change in the pulse. dr. mitchell in a moment dissipated my ignorance and fears upon this subject. i adopted his theory and practice, and resolved to follow them. it remained now only to fix upon a suitable purge to answer the purpose of discharging the contents of the bowels. i have before described the state of the bile in the gall-bladder and duodenum, in an extract from the history of a dissection made by dr. mitchell. i suspected that my want of success in discharging this bile, in several of the cases in which i attempted the cure by purging, was owing the feebleness of my purges. i had been in the habit of occasionally purging with calomel in bilious and inflammatory fevers, and had recommended the practice the year before in my lectures, not only from my own experience, but upon the authority of dr. clark. i had, moreover, other precedents for its use in the practice of sir john pringle, dr. cleghorn, and dr. balfour, in diseases of the same class with the yellow fever. but these were not all my vouchers for the safety and efficacy of calomel. in my attendance upon the military hospitals during the late war, i had seen it given combined with jalap in the bilious fever by dr. thomas young, a senior surgeon in the hospitals. his usual dose was ten grains of each of them. this was given once or twice a day until it procured large evacuations from the bowels. for a while i remonstrated with the doctor against this purge, as being disproportioned to the violence and danger of the fever; but i was soon satisfied that it was as safe as cremor tartar or glauber's salts. it was adopted by several of the surgeons of the hospital, and was universally known, and sometimes prescribed, by the simple name of _ten_ and _ten_. this mode of giving calomel occurred to me in preference to any other. the jalap appeared to be a necessary addition to it, in order to quicken its passage through the bowels; for calomel is slow in its operation, more especially when it is given in large doses. i resolved, after mature deliberation, to prescribe this purge. finding ten grains of jalap insufficient to carry the calomel through the bowels in the rapid manner i wished, i added fifteen grains of the former to ten of the latter; but even this dose was slow and uncertain in its operation. i then issued three doses, each consisting of fifteen grains of jalap and ten of calomel; one to be given every six hours until they procured four or five large evacuations. the effects of this powder not only answered, but far exceeded my expectations. it perfectly cured four out of the first five patients to whom i gave it, notwithstanding some of them were advanced several days in the disease. mr. richard spain, a block-maker, in third-street, took eighty grains of calomel, and rather more of rhubarb and jalap mixed with it, on the two last days of august, and on the first day of september. he had passed twelve hours, before i began to give him this medicine, without a pulse, and with a cold sweat on all his limbs. his relations had given him over, and one of his neighbours complained to me of my neglecting to advise them to make immediate preparations for his funeral. but in this situation i did not despair of his recovery, dr. mitchell's account of the effects of purging in raising the pulse, exciting a hope that he might be saved, provided his bowels could be opened. i now committed the exhibition of the purging medicine to mr. stall, one of my pupils, who mixed it, and gave it with his own hand, three or four times a day. at length it operated, and produced two copious, f[oe]tid stools. his pulse rose immediately afterwards, and a universal moisture on his skin succeeded the cold sweat on his limbs. in a few days he was out of danger, and soon afterwards appeared in the streets in good health, as the first fruits of the efficacy of mercurial purges in the yellow fever. after such a pledge of the safety and success of my new medicine, i gave it afterwards with confidence. i communicated the prescription to such of the practitioners as i met in the streets. some of them i found had been in the use of calomel for several days, but as they had given it in small and single doses only, and had followed it by large doses of bark, wine, and laudanum, they had done little or no good with it. i imparted the prescription to the college of physicians, on the third of september, and endeavoured to remove the fears of my fellow-citizens, by assuring them that the disease was no longer incurable. mr. lewis, the lawyer, dr. m'ilvaine, mrs. bethel, her two sons, and a servant maid, and mr. peter baynton's whole family (nine in number), were some of the first trophies of this new remedy. the credit it acquired, brought me an immense accession of business. it still continued to be almost uniformly effectual in all those which i was able to attend, either in person, or by my pupils. dr. griffitts, dr. say, dr. pennington, and my former pupils who had settled in the city, viz. dr. leib, dr. porter, dr. annan, dr. woodhouse, and dr. mease, were among the first physicians who adopted it. i can never forget the transport with which dr. pennington ran across third-street to inform me, a few days after he began to give strong purges, that the disease yielded to them in every case. but i did not rely upon purging alone to cure the disease. the theory of it which i had adopted led me to use other remedies to abstract excess of stimulus from the system. these were _blood-letting_, _cool air_, _cold drinks_, _low diet_, and _applications of cold water_ to the body. i had bled mrs. bradford, mrs. leaming, and one of mrs. palmer's sons with success, early in the month of august. but i had witnessed the bad effects of bleeding in the first week in september, in two of my patients who had been bled without my knowledge, and who appeared to have died in consequence of it. i had, moreover, heard of a man who had been bled on the first day of the disease, who died in twelve hours afterwards. these cases produced caution, but they did not deter me from bleeding as soon as i found the disease to change its type, and instead of tending to a crisis on the third, to protract itself to a later day. i began by drawing a small quantity at a time. the appearance of the blood, and its effects upon the system, satisfied me of its safety and efficacy. never before did i experience such sublime joy as i now felt in contemplating the success of my remedies. it repaid me for all the toils and studies of my life. the conquest of this formidable disease was not the effect of accident, nor of the application of a single remedy; but it was the triumph of a principle in medicine. the reader will not wonder at this joyful state of my mind when i add a short extract from my note book, dated the 10th of september. "thank god! out of one hundred patients, whom i have visited or prescribed for this day, i have lost none." being unable to comply with the numerous demands which were made upon me for the purging powders, notwithstanding i had requested my sister, and two other persons to assist my pupils in putting them up; and, finding myself unable to attend all the persons who sent for me, i furnished the apothecaries with the recipe for the mercurial purges, together with printed directions for giving them, and for the treatment of the disease. hitherto there had been great harmony among the physicians of the city, although there was a diversity of sentiment as to the nature and cure of the prevailing fever. but this diversity of sentiment and practice was daily lessening, and would probably have ceased altogether in a few days, had it not been prevented by two publications, the one by dr. kuhn, and the other by dr. stevens, in which they recommended bark, wine, and other cordials, and the cold bath, as the proper remedies for the disease. the latter dissuaded from the use of evacuations of all kinds. this method of cure was supported by a letter from alexander hamilton, esq. then secretary of the treasury of the united states, to the college of physicians, in which he ascribed his recovery from the fever to the use of those remedies, administered by the hand of dr. stevens. the respectable characters of those two physicians procured an immediate adoption of the mode of practice recommended by them, by most of the physicians of the city, and a general confidence in it by all classes of citizens. had i consulted my interest, or regarded the certain consequences of opposing the use of remedies rendered suddenly popular by the names that were connected with them, i should silently have pursued my own plans of cure, with my old patients who still confided in them; but i felt, at this season of universal distress, my professional obligations to _all_ the citizens of philadelphia to be superior to private and personal considerations, and therefore determined at every hazard to do every thing in my power to save their lives. under the influence of this disposition, i addressed a letter to the college of physicians, in which i stated my objections to dr. kuhn and dr. stevens's remedies, and defended those i had recommended. i likewise defended them in the public papers against the attacks that were made upon them by several of the physicians of the city, and occasionally addressed such advice to the citizens as experience had suggested to be useful to _prevent_ the disease, particularly low diet, gentle doses of laxative physic, avoiding its exciting causes, and prompt applications for medical aid. in none of the recommendations of my remedies did i claim the credit of their discovery. on the contrary, i constantly endeavoured to enforce their adoption, by mentioning precedents in favour of their efficacy, from the highest authorities in medicine. this controversy with my brethren, with whom i had long lived in friendly intercourse, carried on amidst the most distressing labours, was extremely painful to me, and was submitted to only to prevent the greater evil of the depopulation of our city by the use of remedies which had been prescribed by myself, as well as others, not only without effect, but with evident injury to the sick. the repeated and numerous instances of their inefficacy, in some of the most opulent families in the city, and the almost uniform success of the depleting remedies, happily restored the public mind, after a while, from its distracted state, and procured submission to the latter from nearly all the persons who were affected by the fever. besides the two modes of practice which have been described, there were two others: the one consisted of _moderate_ purging with calomel only, and moderate bleeding, on the first or second day of the fever, and afterwards by the copious use of bark, wine, laudanum, and aromatic tonics. this practice was supported by an opinion, that the fever was inflammatory in its first, and putrid in its second stage. the other mode referred to was peculiar to the french physicians, several of whom had arrived in the city from the west-indies, just before the disease made its appearance. their remedies were various. some of them prescribed nitre, cremor tartar, camphor, centaury tea, the warm bath, glysters, and moderate bleeding, while a few used lenient purges, and large quantities of tamarind water, and other diluting drinks. the dissentions of the american physicians threw a great number of patients into the hands of these french physicians. they were moreover supposed to be better acquainted with the disease than the physicians of the city, most of whom, it was well known, had never seen it before. i shall hereafter inquire into the relative success of each of the four modes of practice which have been mentioned. having delivered a general account of the remedies which i used in this disease, i shall now proceed to make a few remarks upon each of them. i shall afterwards mention the effects of the remedies used by other physicians. of purging. i have already mentioned my reasons for promoting this evacuation, and the medicine i preferred for that purpose. it had many advantages over any other purge. it was detergent to the bile and mucus which lined the bowels. it probably acted in a peculiar manner upon the biliary ducts, and it was rapid in its operation. one dose was sometimes sufficient to open the bowels; but from two to six doses were often necessary for that purpose; more especially as part of them was frequently rejected by the stomach. i did not observe any inconvenience from the vomiting which was excited by the jalap. it was always without that straining which was produced by emetics; and it served to discharge bile when it was lodged in the stomach. nor did i rest the discharge of the contents of the bowels on the issue of one cleansing on the first day. there is, in all bilious fevers, a reproduction of morbid bile as fast as it is discharged. i therefore gave a purge every day while the fever continued. i used castor oil, salts, cremor tartar, and rhubarb (after the mercurial purges had performed their office), according to the inclinations of my patients, in all those cases where the bowels were easily moved; but where this was not the case, i gave a single dose of calomel and jalap every day. strong as this purge may be supposed to be, it was often ineffectual; more especially after the 20th of september, when the bowels became more obstinately constipated. to supply the place of the jalap, i now added gamboge to the calomel. two grains and a half of each, made into a pill, were given to an adult every six hours, until they procured four or five stools. i had other designs in giving a purge every day, besides discharging the re-accumulated bile. i had observed the fever to fall with its principal force upon such parts of the body as had been previously weakened by any former disease. by creating an artificial weak part in the bowels, i diverted the force of the fever to them, and thereby saved the liver and brain from fatal or dangerous congestions. the practice was further justified by the beneficial effects of a plentiful spontaneous diarrh[oe]a in the beginning of the disease[66]; by hæmorrhages from the bowels, when they occurred from no other parts of the body, and by the difficulty or impracticability of reducing the system by means of plentiful sweats. the purges seldom answered the intentions for which they were given, unless they produced four or five stools a day. as the fever showed no regard to day or night in the hours of its exacerbations, it became necessary to observe the same disregard to time in the exhibition of purges: i therefore prescribed them in the evening, at all times when the patient had passed a day without two or three plentiful stools. when purges were rejected, or slow in their operation, i always directed opening glysters to be given every two hours. the effects of purging were as follow: 1. it raised the pulse when low, and reduced it when it was preternaturally tense or full. 2. it revived and strengthened the patient. this was evident in many cases, in the facility with which patients who had staggered to a close-stool, walked back again to their beds after a copious evacuation. dr. sydenham takes notice of a similar increase of strength after a plentiful sweat in the plague. they both acted by abstracting excess of stimulus, and thereby removing the depression of the system. 3. it abated the paroxysm of the fever. hence arose the advantage of giving a purge in some cases in the evening, when an attack of the fever was expected in the course of the night. 4. it frequently produced sweats when given on the first or second day of the fever, after the most powerful sudorifics had been taken to no purpose. 5. it sometimes checked that vomiting which occurs in the beginning of the disease, and it always assisted in preventing the more alarming occurrence of that symptom about the 4th or 5th day. 6. it removed obstructions in the lymphatic system. i ascribe it wholly to the action of mercury, that in no instance did any of the glandular swellings, which i formerly mentioned, terminate in a suppuration. 7. by discharging the bile through the bowels as soon and as fast as it was secreted, it prevented, in most cases, a yellowness of the skin. [66] in some short manuscript notes upon dr. mitchell's account of the yellow fever in virginia, in the year 1741, made by the late dr. kearsley, sen. of this city, he remarks, that in the yellow fever which prevailed in the same year in philadelphia, "some recovered by an _early_ discharge of _black_ matter by stool." this gentleman, dr. redman informed me, introduced purging with glauber's salts in the yellow fever in our city. he was preceptor to dr. redman in medicine. however salutary the mercurial purge was, objections were made to it by many of our physicians; and prejudices, equally weak and ill-founded, were excited against it. i shall enumerate, and answer those objections. 1. it was said to be of too drastic a nature. it was compared to arsenic; and it was called a dose for a horse. this objection was without foundation. hundreds who took it declared they had never taken so mild a purge. i met with but one case in which it produced bloody stools; but i saw the same effect from a dose of salts. it sometimes, it is true, operated from twenty to thirty times in the course of twenty-four hours; but i heard of an equal number of stools in two cases from salts and cremor tartar. it is not an easy thing to affect life, or even subsequent health, by copious or frequent purging. dr. kirkland mentions a remarkable case of a gentleman who was cured of a rheumatism by a purge, which gave him between 40 and 50 stools. this patient had been previously affected by his disease 16 or 18 weeks[67]. dr. mosely not only proves the safety, but establishes the efficacy of numerous and copious stools in the yellow fever. dr. say probably owes his life to three and twenty stools procured by a dose of calomel and gamboge, taken by my advice. dr. redman was purged until he fainted, by a dose of the same medicine. this venerable gentleman, in whom 70 years had not abated the ardour of humanity, nor produced obstinacy of opinion, came forward from his retirement, and boldly adopted the remedies of purging and bleeding, with success in several families, before he was attacked by the disease. his recovery was as rapid, as the medicine he had used was active in its operation. besides taking the above purge, he lost twenty ounces of blood by two bleedings[68]. [67] treatise on the inflammatory rheumatism, vol. i. p. 407. [68] dr. redman was not the only instance furnished by the disease, in which _reason_ got the better of the habits of old age, and of the formalities of medicine. about the time the fever declined, i received a letter from dr. shippen, sen. (then above 82 years of age), dated oxford furnace, new-jersey, october 13th, 1793, in which, after approving in polite terms of my mode of practice, he adds, "desperate diseases require desperate remedies. i would only propose some small addition to your present method. suppose you should substitute, in the room of the jalap, _six_ grains of gamboge, to be mixed with ten or fifteen grains of calomel; and after a dose or two, as occasion may require, you should bleed your patients _almost_ to death, at least to _fainting_; and then direct a plentiful supply of mallows tea, with fresh lemon juice, and sugar and barley water, together with the most simple, _mild_, and nutricious food." the doctor concludes his letter by recommending to my perusal dr. dover's account of nearly a whole ship's crew having been cured of a yellow fever, on the coast of south-america, by being bled until they fainted. but who can suppose that a dozen or twenty stools in a day could endanger life, that has seen a diarrh[oe]a continue for several months, attended with fifteen or twenty stools every day, without making even a material breach in the constitution? hence dr. hillary has justly remarked, that "it rarely or never happens that the purging in this disease, though violent, takes the patient off, but the fever and inflammation of the bowels[69]." dr. clark in like manner remarks, that evacuations do not destroy life in the dysentery, but the fever, with the emaciation and mortification which attend and follow the disease[70]. [69] diseases of barbadoes, p. 212. [70] diseases in voyages to hot climates, vol. ii. p. 322. 2. a second objection to this mercurial purge was, that it excited a salivation, and sometimes loosened the teeth. i met with but two cases in which there was a loss of teeth from the use of this medicine, and in both the teeth were previously loose or decayed. the salivation was a trifling evil, compared with the benefit which was derived from it. i lost only one patient in whom it occurred. i was taught, by this accidental effect of mercury, to administer it with other views than merely to cleanse the bowels, and with a success which added much to my confidence in the power of medicine over this disease. i shall mention those views under another head. 3. it was said that the mercurial purge excoriated the rectum, and produced the symptoms of pain and inflammation in that part, which were formerly mentioned. to refute this charge, it will be sufficient to remark that the bile produces the same excoriation and pain in the rectum in the bilious and yellow fever, where no mercury has been given to discharge it. in the bilious remitting fever which prevailed in philadelphia in 1780, we find the bile which was discharged by "gentle doses of salts, and cream of tartar, or the butternut pill, was so acrid as to excoriate the rectum, and so offensive as to occasion, in some cases, sickness and faintness both in the patients, and in their attendants[71]." [71] vol. i. dr. hume says further upon this subject, that the rectum was so much excoriated by the natural discharge of bile in the yellow fever, as to render it impossible to introduce a glyster pipe into it. 4. it was objected to this purge, that it inflamed and lacerated the stomach and bowels. in support of this calumny, the inflamed and mortified appearances, which those viscera exhibited upon dissection in a patient who died at the hospital at bush-hill, were spoken of with horror in some parts of the city. to refute this objection it will only be necessary to review the account formerly given of the state of the stomach and bowels after death from the yellow fever, in cases in which no mercury had been given. i have before taken notice that sir john pringle and dr. cleghorn had prescribed mercurial purges with success in the dysentery, a disease in which the bowels are affected with more irritation and inflammation than in the yellow fever. dr. clark informs us that he had adopted this practice. i shall insert the eulogium of this excellent physician upon the use of mercury in the dysentery in his own words. "for several years past, when the dysentery has resisted the common mode of practice, i have administered mercury with the greatest success; and am thoroughly persuaded that it is possessed of powers to _remove inflammation_ and _ulceration_ of the intestines, which are the chief causes of death in this distemper[72]." [72] vol. ii. p. 342. 5. it was urged against this powerful and efficacious medicine, that it was prescribed indiscriminately in all cases, and that it did harm in all weak habits. to this i answer, that there was no person so weak by constitution or a previous disease, as to be injured by a single dose of this medicine. mrs. meredith, the wife of the treasurer of the united states, a lady of uncommon delicacy of constitution, took two doses of the powder in the course of twelve hours, not only without any inconvenience, but with an evident increase of strength soon afterwards. many similar cases might be mentioned. even children took two or three doses of it with perfect safety. this will not surprise those physicians who have been in the practice of giving from ten to twenty grains of mercury, with an equal quantity of jalap as a worm purge, and from fifty to a hundred grains of calomel, in the course of four or five days, in the internal dropsy of the brain. but i am happy in being able to add further, that many women took it in every stage of pregnancy without suffering the least inconvenience from it. out of a great number of pregnant women whom i attended in this fever i did not lose one to whom i gave this medicine, nor did any of them suffer an abortion. one of them had twice miscarried in the course of the two or three last years of her life. she bore a healthy child three months after her recovery from the yellow fever. no one has ever objected to the _indiscriminate_ mode of preparing the body for the small-pox by purging medicines. the _uniform_ inflammatory diathesis of that disease justifies the practice, in a certain degree, in all habits. the yellow fever admits of a sameness of cure much more than the small-pox, for it is _more_ uniformly and more highly inflammatory. an observation of dr. sydenham upon epidemics applies, in its utmost extent, to our late fever. "now it must be observed (says this most acute physician) that some epidemic diseases, in some years, are uniformly and constantly the same[73]." however diversified our fever was in some of its symptoms, it was in all cases accompanied by more or less inflammatory diathesis, and by a morbid state of the alimentary canal. [73] vol. i. p. 9. much has been said of the bad effects of this purge from its having been put up carelessly by the apothecaries, or from its having been taken contrary to the printed directions, by many people. if it did harm in any one case (which i do not believe) from the former of the above causes the fault is not mine. twenty men employed constantly in putting up this medicine would not have been sufficient to have complied with all the demands which were made of me for it. hundreds who were in health called or sent for it as well as the sick, in order to have it in readiness in case they should be surprised by the disease in the night, or at a distance from a physician. in all the cases in which this purge was supposed to have been hurtful, when given on the first or second day of the disease, i believe it was because it was not followed by repeated doses of the same, or of some other purge, or because it was not aided by blood-letting. i am led to make this assertion, not only from the authority of dr. sydenham, who often mentions the good effects of bleeding in moderating or checking a diarrh[oe]a, but by having heard no complaints of patients being purged to death by this medicine, after blood-letting was universally adopted by all the physicians in the city. it was remarked that the demand for this purging powder continued to increase under all opposition, and that the sale of it by the apothecaries was greatest towards the close of the disease. i shall hereafter say that this was not the case with the west-india remedies. it is possible that this purge sometimes proved hurtful when it was given on the fifth day of the disease, but it was seldom given for the _first_ time after the third day, and when it was, the patient was generally in such a situation that nothing did him either good or harm. i derived great pleasure from hearing, after the fever had left the city, that calomel had been given with success as a purge in bilious fevers in other parts of the union besides philadelphia. dr. lawrence informed me that he had cured many patients by it of the yellow fever which prevailed in new-york, in the year 1791, and the new-york papers have told us that several practitioners had been in the habit of giving it in the autumnal fevers, with great success, in the western parts of that state. they had probably learned the use of it from dr. young, who formerly practised in that part of the united states, and who lost no opportunity of making its praises public wherever he went. i have only to add to my account of that purging medicine, that, under an expectation that the yellow fever would mingle some of its bilious symptoms with the common inflammatory fevers of the winter and first spring months, i gave that purge in the form of pills, in every case of inflammatory fever to which i was called. the fatal issue of several fevers in the city, during the winter, in which this precaution had been neglected, convinced me that my practice was proper and useful. it is to be lamented that all new remedies are forced to pass through a fiery ordeal. opium and bark were long the objects of terror and invective in the schools of medicine. they were administered only by physicians for many years, and that too with all the solemnity of a religious ceremony. this error, with respect to those medicines, has at last passed away. it will, i hope, soon be succeeded by a time when the prejudices against _ten_ and _ten_, or _ten_ and _fifteen_, will sleep with the vulgar fears which were formerly entertained of the bark producing diseases and death, years after it had been taken, by "lying in the bones." of blood-letting. the theory of this fever which led me to administer purges, determined me to use blood-letting, as soon as it should be indicated. i am disposed to believe that i was tardy in the use of this remedy, and i shall long regret the loss of three patients, who might probably have been saved by it. i cannot blame myself for not having used it earlier, for the immense number of patients which poured in upon me, in the first week of september, prevented my attending so much to each of them, as was necessary to determine upon the propriety of this evacuation. i was in the situation of a surgeon in a battle, who runs to every call, and only stays long enough with each soldier to stop the bleeding of his wound, while the increase of the wounded, and the unexpected length of the battle, leave his original patients to suffer from the want of more suitable dressings. the reasons which determined me to bleed were, 1. the state of the pulse, which became more tense, in proportion as the weather became cool. 2. the appearance of a moist and _white_ tongue, on the first day of the disease, a certain sign of an inflammatory fever. 3. the frequency of hæmorrhages from every part of the body, and the perfect relief given in some cases by them. 4. the symptoms of congestion in the brain, resembling those which occur in the first stage of hydrocephalus internus, a disease in which i had lately used bleeding with success. 5. the character of the diseases which had preceded the yellow fever. they were all more or less inflammatory. even the scarlatina anginosa had partaken so much of that diathesis, as to require bleeding to subdue it. 6. the warm and dry weather which had likewise preceded the fever. dr. sydenham attributes a highly inflammatory state of the small-pox to a previously hot and dry summer; and i have since observed, that dr. hillary takes notice of inflammatory fevers having frequently succeeded hot and dry weather in barbadoes[74]. he informs us further, that the yellow fever is always most acute and inflammatory after a very hot season[75]. [74] diseases of barbadoes, p. 16, 43, 46, 48, 52, 122. [75] page 147. 7. the authority of dr. mosely had great weight with me in advising the loss of blood, more especially as his ideas of the highly inflammatory nature of the fever accorded so perfectly with my own. 8. i was induced to prescribe blood-letting by recollecting its good effects in mrs. palmer's son, whom i bled on the 20th of august, and who appeared to have been recovered by it. having begun to bleed, i was encouraged to continue it by the appearance of the blood, and by the obvious and very great relief my patients derived from it. the following is a short account of the appearances of the blood drawn from a vein in this disease. 1. it was, in the greatest number of cases, without any separation into crassamentum and serum, and of a scarlet colour. 2. there was in many cases a separation of the blood into crassamentum and _yellow_ serum. 3. there were a few cases in which this separation took place, and the serum was of a _natural_ colour. 4. there were many cases in which the blood was as sizy as in pneumony and rheumatism. 5. the blood was in some instances covered above with blue pellicle of sizy lymph, while the part which lay in the bottom of the bowl was dissolved. the lymph was in two cases mixed with green streaks. 6. it was in a few instances of a dark colour, and as fluid as molasses. i saw this kind of blood in a man who walked about his house during the whole of his sickness, and who finally recovered. both this, and the fifth kind of blood which has been mentioned, occurred chiefly where bleeding had been omitted altogether, or used too sparingly in the beginning of the disease. 7. in some patients the blood, in the course of the disease, exhibited nearly _all_ the appearances which have been mentioned. they were varied by the time in which the blood was drawn, and by the nature and force of the remedies which had been used in the disease. the effects of blood-letting upon the system were as follow: 1. it raised the pulse when depressed, and quickened it, when it was preternaturally slow, or subject to intermissions. 2. it reduced its force and frequency. 3. it checked in many cases the vomiting which occurred in the beginning of the disease, and thereby enabled the stomach to retain the purging medicine. it likewise assisted the purge in preventing the dangerous or fatal vomiting which came on about the fifth day. 4. it lessened the difficulty of opening the bowels. upon this account, in one of my addresses to the citizens of philadelphia, i advised bleeding to be used _before_, as well as after taking the mercurial purge. dr. woodhouse informed me that he had several times seen patients call for the close-stool while the blood was flowing from the vein. 5. it removed delirium, coma, and obstinate wakefulness. it also prevented or checked hæmorrhages; hence perhaps another reason why not a single instance of abortion occurred in such of my female patients as were pregnant. 6. it disposed, in some cases, to a gentle perspiration. 7. it lessened the sensible debility of the system; hence patients frequently rose from their beds, and walked across their rooms, in a few hours after the operation had been performed. 8. the redness of the eyes frequently disappeared in a few hours after bleeding. mr. coxe observed a dilated pupil to contract to its natural size within a few minutes after he had bound up the arm of his patient. i remarked, in the former part of this work, that blindness in many instances attended or followed this fever. but two such cases occurred among my patients. in one of them it was of short continuance, and in the other it was probably occasioned by the want of sufficient bleeding. in every case of blindness that came to my knowledge bleeding had been omitted, or used only in a very moderate degree. 9. it eased _pain_. thousands can testify this effect of blood-letting. many of my patients whom i bled with my own hand acknowledged to me, while the blood was flowing, that they were better; and some of them declared, that all their pains had left them before i had completely bound up their arms. 10. but blood-letting had, in many cases, an effect the opposite of _easing_ pain. it frequently increased it in every part of the body, more especially in the head. it appeared to be the effect of the system rising suddenly from a state of great depression, and of an increased action of the blood-vessels which took place in consequence of it. i had frequently seen complaints of the breast, and of the head, made worse by a single bleeding, and from the same cause. it was in some cases an unfortunate event in the yellow fever, for it prevented the blood-letting being repeated, by exciting or strengthening the prejudices of patients and physicians against it. in some instances the patients grew worse after a second, and, in one, after a third bleeding. this was the case in miss redman. her pains increased after three bleedings, but yielded to the fourth. her father, dr. redman, concurred in this seemingly absurd practice. it was at this time my old preceptor in medicine reminded me of dr. sydenham's remark, that moderate bleeding did harm in the plague where copious bleeding was indicated, and that in the cure of that disease, we should leave nature wholly to herself, or take the cure altogether out of her hands. the truth of this remark was very obvious. by taking away as much blood as restored the blood-vessels to a morbid degree of action, without reducing this action afterwards, pain, congestion, and inflammation were frequently increased, all of which were prevented, or occurred in a less degree, when the system rose gradually from the state of depression which had been induced by the great force of the disease. under the influence of the facts and reasonings which have been mentioned i bore the same testimony in acute cases, against what was called _moderate_ bleeding that i did against bark, wine, and laudanum in this fever. 11. blood-letting, when used _early_ on the first day, frequently strangled the disease in its birth, and generally rendered it more light, and the convalescence more speedy and perfect. i am not sure that it ever shortened the duration of the fever where it was not used within a few hours of the time of its attack. under every mode of treatment it seemed disposed, after it was completely formed, to run its course. i was so satisfied of this peculiarity in the fever, that i ventured in some cases to predict the day on which it would terminate, notwithstanding i took the cure entirely out of the hands of nature. i did not lose a patient on the third, whom i bled on the first or second day of the disease. 12. in those cases which ended fatally, blood-letting restored, or preserved the use of reason, rendered death easy, and retarded the putrefaction of the body after death. i shall now mention some of the circumstances which directed and regulated the use of this remedy. 1. where bleeding had been omitted for three days, in acute cases, it was seldom useful. where purging had been used, it was sometimes successful. i recovered two patients who had taken the mercurial purges, whom i bled for the first time on the seventh day. one of them was the daughter of mr. james cresson, the other was a journeyman ship-carpenter at kensington. in those cases where bleeding had been used on the first day, it was both safe and useful to repeat it every day afterwards, during the continuance of the fever. 2. i preferred bleeding in the exacerbation of the fever. the remedy here was applied when the disease was in its greatest force. a single paroxysm was like a sudden squall to the system, and, unless abated by bleeding or purging, often produced universal disorganization. i preferred the former to the latter remedy in cases of great danger, because it was more speedy, and more certain in its operation. 3. i bled in several instances in the remission of the fever, where the pulse was tense and corded. it lessened the violence of the succeeding paroxysm. 4. i bled in all those cases in which the pulse was preternaturally slow, provided it was tense. mr. benj. w. morris, mr. thomas wharton, jun. and mr. wm. sansom, all owe their lives probably to their having been bled in the above state of the pulse. i was led to use bleeding in this state of the pulse, not only by the theory of the disease which i had adopted, but by the success which had often attended this remedy, in a slow and depressed state of the pulse in apoplexy and pneumony. i had moreover the authority of dr. mosely in its favour, in the yellow fever, and of dr. sydenham, in his account of a new fever, which appeared in the year 1685. the words of the latter physician are so apposite to the cases which have been mentioned, that i hope i shall be excused for inserting them in this place. "all the symptoms of weakness (says our author) proceed from nature's being in a manner oppressed and overcome by the first attack of the disease, so as not to be able to raise regular symptoms adequate to the violence of the fever. i remember to have met with a remarkable instance of this, several years ago, in a young man i then attended; for though he seemed in a manner expiring, yet the outward parts felt so cool, that i could not persuade the attendants he had a fever, which could not disengage, and show itself clearly, because the vessels were so full as to obstruct the motion of the blood. however, i said, that they would soon find the fever rise high enough upon bleeding him. accordingly, after taking away a large quantity of blood, as violent a fever appeared as ever i met with, and did not go off till bleeding had been used three or four times[76]." [76] vol. ii. p. 351. 5. i bled in those cases in which the fever appeared in a tertian form, provided the pulse was full and tense. i well recollect the surprise with which mr. van berkel heard this prescription from me, at a time when he was able to walk and ride out on the intermediate days of a tertian fever. the event which followed this prescription showed that it was not disproportioned to the violence of his disease, for it soon put on such acute and inflammatory symptoms as to require six subsequent bleedings to subdue it. 6. i bled in those cases where patients were able to walk about, provided the pulse was the same as has been mentioned under the fourth head. i was determined as to the propriety of bleeding in these two supposed mild forms of the fever, by having observed each of them, when left to themselves, frequently to terminate in death. 7. i paid no regard to the dissolved state of the blood, when it appeared on the first or second day of the disease, but repeated the bleedings afterwards in every case, where the pulse continued to indicate it. it was common to see sizy blood succeed that which was dissolved. this occurred in mr. josiah coates, and mr. samuel powel. had i believed that this dissolved state of the blood arose from its putrefaction, i should have laid aside my lancet as soon as i saw it; but i had long ago parted with all ideas of putrefaction in bilious fevers. the refutation of this doctrine was the object of one of my papers in the medical society of edinburgh, in the year 1767. the dissolved appearance of the blood, i suppose to be the effect of a certain action of the blood-vessels upon it. it occurs in fevers which depend upon the sensible qualities of the air, and in which no putrid or foreign matter has been introduced into the system. 8. the presence of petechiæ did not deter me from repeating blood-letting, where the pulse retained its fulness or tension. i prescribed it with success in the cases of dr. mease, and of mrs. gebler, in dock-street, in each of whom petechiæ had appeared. bleeding was equally effectual in the case of the rev. mr. keating, at a time when his arms were spotted with that species of eruptions which i have compared to moscheto-bites. i had precedents in dr. de haen[77] and dr. sydenham[78], in favour of this practice. so far from viewing these eruptions as signs of putrefaction, i considered them as marks of the highest possible inflammatory diathesis. they disappeared in each of the above cases after bleeding. [77] ratio medendi, vol. ii. p. 162. vol. iv. p. 172. [78] vol. i. p. 210, and 264. 9. in determining the quantity of blood to be drawn, i was governed by the state of the pulse, and by the temperature of the weather. in the beginning of september, i found one or two moderate bleedings sufficient to subdue the fever; but in proportion as the system rose by the diminution of the stimulus of heat, and the fever put on more _visible_ signs of inflammatory diathesis, more frequent bleedings became necessary. i bled many patients twice, and a few three times a day. i preferred frequent and small, to large bleedings, in the beginning of september; but towards the height and close of the epidemic, i saw no inconvenience from the loss of a pint, and even twenty ounces of blood at a time. i drew from many persons seventy and eighty ounces in five days; and from a few, a much larger quantity. mr. gribble, cedar-cooper, in front-street, lost by ten bleedings a hundred ounces of blood; mr. george, a carter in ninth-street, lost about the same quantity by five bleedings; and mr. peter mierken, one hundred and fourteen ounces in five days. in the last of the above persons the quantity taken was determined by weight. mr. toy, blacksmith near dock-street, was eight times bled in the course of seven days. the quantity taken from him was about a hundred ounces. the blood in all these cases was dense, and in the last, very sizy. they were all attended in the month of october, and chiefly by my pupil, mr. fisher; and they were all, years afterwards, living and healthy instances of the efficacy of copious blood-letting, and of the intrepidity and judgment of their young physician. children, and even old people, bore the loss of much more blood in this fever than in common inflammatory fevers. i took above thirty ounces, in five bleedings, from a daughter of mr. robert bridges, who was then in the 9th year of her age. even great debility, whether natural or brought on by previous diseases, did not, in those few cases in which it yielded to the fever, deprive it of the uniformity of its inflammatory character. the following letter from dr. griffitts, written soon after his recovery from a third attack of the fever, and just before he went into the country for the re-establishment of his health, will furnish a striking illustration of the truth of the above observation. "i cannot leave town without a parting adieu to my kind friend, and sincere prayers for his preservation. "i am sorry to find that the use of the lancet is still so much dreaded by too many of our physicians; and, while lamenting the death of a valuable friend this morning, i was told that he was bled but _once_ during his disease. now if my poor frame, reduced by previous sickness, great anxiety, and fatigue, and a very low diet, could bear_ seven_ bleedings in five days, besides purging, and no diet but toast and water, what shall we say of physicians who bleed but once? "_october 19th, 1793._" i have compared a paroxysm of this fever to a sudden squall; but the disease in its whole course was like a tedious equinoctial gale acting upon a ship at sea; its destructive force was only to be opposed by handing every sail, and leaving the system to float, as it were, under bare poles. such was the fragility (if i may be allowed the expression) of the blood-vessels, that it was necessary to unload them of their contents, in order to prevent the system sinking from hæmorrhages, or from effusions in the viscera, particularly the brain. 9. such was the indomitable nature of the pulse, in some patients, that it did not lose its force after numerous and copious bleedings. in all such cases i considered the diminution of its frequency, and the absence of a vomiting, as signals to lay aside the lancet. the continuance of this preternatural force in the pulse appeared to be owing to the miasmata, which were universally diffused in the air, acting upon the arterial system in the same manner that it did in persons who were in apparent good health. thus have i mentioned the principal circumstances which were connected with blood-letting in the cure of the yellow fever. i shall now consider the objections that were made to it at the time, and since the prevalence of the fever. it was said that the bleeding was unnecessarily copious; and that many had been destroyed by it. to this i answer, that i did not lose a single patient whom i bled seven times or more in this fever. as a further proof that i did not draw an ounce of blood too much it will only be necessary to add, that hæmorrhages frequently occurred after a third, a fourth, and in one instance (in the only son of mr. william hall) after a sixth bleeding had been used; and further, that not a single death occurred from natural hæmorrhages in the first stage of the disease. a woman, who had been bled by my advice, awoke the night following in a bath of her blood, which had flowed from the orifice in her arm. the next day she was free from pain and fever. there were many recoveries in the city from similar accidents. there were likewise some recoveries from copious natural hæmorrhages in the more advanced stages of the disease, particularly when they occurred from the stomach and bowels. i left a servant maid of mrs. morris's, in walnut-street, who had discharged at least four pounds of blood from her stomach, without a pulse, and with scarcely a symptom that encouraged a hope of her life; but the next day i had the pleasure of finding her out of danger. it was remarked that fainting was much less common after bleeding in this fever than in common inflammatory fevers. this circumstance was observed by dr. griffitts, as well as myself. it has since been confirmed to me by three of the principal bleeders in the city, who performed the operation upwards of four thousand times. it occurred chiefly in those cases where it was used for the first time on the third or fourth day of the disease. a swelling of the legs, moreover, so common after plentiful bleeding in pneumony and rheumatism, rarely succeeded the use of this remedy in the yellow fever. 2. many of the indispositions, and much of the subsequent weakness of persons who had been cured by copious blood-letting, have been ascribed to it. this is so far from being true that the reverse of it has occurred in many cases. mr. mierken worked in his sugar-house, in good health, nine days after his last bleeding; and mr. gribble and mr. george seemed, by their appearance, to have derived fresh vigour from their evacuations. i could mention the names of many people who assured me their constitutions had been improved by the use of those remedies; and i know several persons in whom they have carried off habitual complaints. mr. richard wells attributed his relief from a chronic rheumatism to the copious bleeding and purging which were used to cure him of the yellow fever; and mr. william young, the bookseller, was relieved of a chronic pain in his side, by means of the same remedies. 3. it was said, that blood-letting was prescribed indiscriminately in all cases, without any regard to age, constitution, or the force of the disease. this is not true, as far as it relates to my practice. in my prescriptions for patients whom i was unable to visit, i advised them, when they were incapable of judging of the state of the pulse, to be guided in the use of bleeding, by the degrees of pain they felt, particularly in the head; and i seldom advised it for the _first_ time, after the second or third day of the disease. in pneumonies which affect whole neighbourhoods in the spring of the year, bleeding is the universal remedy. why should it not be equally so, in a fever which is of a more uniform inflammatory nature, and which tends more rapidly to effusions, in parts of the body much more vital than the lungs? i have before remarked, that the debility which occurs in the beginning of the yellow fever, arises from a depressed state of the system. the debility in the plague is of the same nature. it has long been known that debility from the sudden abstraction of stimuli is to be removed by the _gradual_ application of stimuli, but it has been less observed, that the excess of stimulus in the system is best removed in a _gradual_ manner, and that too in proportion to the degrees of depression, which exist in the system. this principle in the animal economy has been acknowledged by the practice of occasionally stopping the discharge of water from a canula in tapping, and of blood from a vein, in order to prevent fainting. child-birth induces fainting, and sometimes death, only by the _sudden_ abstraction of the stimulus of distention and pain. in all those cases where purging or bleeding have produced death in the yellow fever or plague, when they have been used on the first or second day of those diseases, i suspect that it was occasioned by the quantity of the stimulus abstracted being disproportioned to the degrees of depression in the system. the following facts will i hope throw light upon this subject. 1. dr. hodges informs us, that "although blood could not be drawn in the plague, even in the smallest quantity without danger, yet a _hundred_ times the quantity of fluids was discharged in pus from buboes without inconvenience[79]." [79] page 114. 2. pareus, after condemning bleeding in the plague, immediately adds an account of a patient, who was saved by a hæmorrhage from the nose, which continued _two_ days[80]. [80] skenkius, lib. vi. p. 881. 3. i have before remarked that bleeding proved fatal in three cases in the yellow fever, in the month of august; but at that time i saw one, and heard of another case, in which death seemed to have been prevented by a bleeding at the nose. perhaps the uniform good effects which were observed to follow a spontaneous hæmorrhage from an orifice in the arm, arose wholly from the _gradual_ manner in which the stimulus of the blood was in this way abstracted from the body. dr. williams relates a case of the recovery of a gentleman from the yellow fever, by means of small hæmorrhages, which continued three days, from wounds in his shoulders made by being cupped. he likewise mentions several other recoveries by hæmorrhages from the nose, after "a vomiting of black humours and a hiccup had taken place[81]." [81] essay on the bilious or yellow fever of jamaica, p. 40. 4. there is a disease in north-carolina, known among the common people by the name of the "pleurisy in the head." it occurs in the winter, after a sickly autumn, and seems to be an evanescent symptom of a bilious remitting fever. the cure of it has been attempted by bleeding, in the common way, but generally without success. it has, however, yielded to this remedy in another form, that is, to the discharge of a few ounces of blood obtained by thrusting a piece of quill up the nose. 5. riverius describes a pestilential fever which prevailed at montpellier, in the year 1623, which carried off one half of all who were affected by it[82]. after many unsuccessful attempts to cure it, this judicious physician prescribed the loss of _two_ or _three_ ounces of blood. the pulse rose with this small evacuation. three or four hours afterwards he drew six ounces of blood from his patients, and with the same good effect. the next day he gave a purge, which, he says, rescued his patients from the grave. all whom he treated in this manner recovered. the whole history of this epidemic is highly interesting, from its agreeing with our late epidemic in so many of its symptoms, more especially as they appeared in the different states of the pulse. [82] de febre pestilenti, vol. ii. p. 145, 146, and 147. an old and intelligent citizen of philadelphia, who remembers the yellow fever of 1741, says that when it first made its appearance bleeding was attended with fatal consequences. it was laid aside afterwards, and the disease prevailed with great mortality until it was checked by the cold weather. had blood been drawn in the manner mentioned by riverius, or had it been drawn in the usual way, after the abstraction of the stimulus of heat by the cool weather, the disease might probably have been subdued, and the remedy of blood-letting thereby have recovered its character. dr. hodges has another remark, in his account of the plague in london in the year 1665, which is still more to our purpose than the one which i have quoted from it upon this subject. he says that "bleeding, as a preventive of the plague, was only safe and useful when the blood was drawn by a _small_ orifice, and a _small_ quantity taken at _different_ times[83]." [83] page 209. i have remarked, in the history of this fever, that it was often cured on the first or second day by a copious sweat. the rev. mr. ustick was one among many whom i could mention, who were saved from a violent attack of the fever by this evacuation. it would be absurd to suppose that the miasmata which produced the disease were discharged in this manner from the body. the sweat seemed to cure the fever only by lessening the quantity of the fluids, and thus _gradually_ removing the depression of the system. the profuse sweats which sometimes cure the plague, as well as the disease which is brought on by the bite of poisonous snakes, seem to act in the same way. the system, in certain states of malignant fever, resembles a man struggling beneath a load of two hundred weight, who is able to lift but one hundred and seventy-five. in order to assist him it will be to no purpose to attempt to infuse additional vigour into his muscles by the use of a whip or of strong drink. every exertion will serve only to waste his strength. in this situation (supposing it impossible to divide the weight which confines him to the ground) let the pockets of this man be emptied of their contents, and let him be stripped of so much of his clothing as to reduce his weight five and twenty or thirty pounds. in this situation he will rise from the ground; but if the weights be abstracted suddenly, while he is in an act of exertion, he will rise with a spring that will endanger a second fall, and probably produce a temporary convulsion in his system. by abstracting the weights from his body more gradually, he will rise by degrees from the ground, and the system will accommodate itself in such a manner to the diminution of its pressure, as to resume its erect form, without the least deviation from the natural order of its appearance and motions. it has been said that the stimulating remedies of bark, wine, and the cold bath, were proper in our late epidemic in august, and in the beginning of september, but that they were improper afterwards. if my theory be just, they were more improper in august and the beginning of september, than they were after the disease put on the outward and common signs of inflammatory diathesis. the reason why a few strong purges cured the disease at its first appearance, was, because they abstracted in a _gradual_ manner some of the immense portion of stimulus under which the arterial system laboured, and thus gradually relieved it from its low and weakening degrees of depression. bleeding was fatal in these cases, probably because it removed this depression in too sudden a manner. the principle of the gradual abstraction, as well as of the gradual application of stimuli to the body, opens a wide field for the improvement of medicine. perhaps all the discoveries of future ages will consist more in a new application of established principles, and in new modes of exhibiting old medicines, than in the discovery of new theories, or of new articles of the materia medica. the reasons which induced me to prescribe purging and bleeding, in so liberal a manner, naturally led me to recommend _cool_ and _fresh air_ to my patients. the good effects of it were obvious in almost every case in which it was applied. it was equally proper whether the arterial system was depressed, or whether it discovered, in the pulse, a high degree of morbid excitement. dr. griffitts furnished a remarkable instance of the influence of cool air upon the fever. upon my visiting him, on the morning of the 8th of october, i found his pulse so full and tense as to indicate bleeding, but after sitting a few minutes by his bed-side, i perceived that the windows of his room had been shut in the night by his nurse, on account of the coldness of the night air. i desired that they might be opened. in ten minutes afterwards the doctor's pulse became so much slower and weaker that i advised the postponement of the bleeding, and recommended a purge instead of it. the bleeding notwithstanding became necessary, and was used with great advantage in the afternoon of the same day. the cool air was improper only in those cases where a chilliness attended the disease. for the same reason that i advised cool air, i directed my patients to use cold _drinks_. they consisted of lemonade, tamarind, jelly and raw apple water, toast and water, and of weak balm, and camomile tea. the subacid drinks were preferred in most cases, as being not only most agreeable to the taste, but because they tended to compose the stomach. all these drinks were taken in the early stage of the disease. towards the close of it, i permitted the use of porter and water, weak punch, and when the stomach would bear it, weak wine-whey. i forbade all cordial and stimulating food in the active state of the arterial system. the less my patients ate, of even the mildest vegetable food, the sooner they recovered. weak coffee, which (as i have formerly remarked) was almost universally agreeable, and weak tea were always inoffensive. as the action of the pulse diminished, i indulged my patients with weak chocolate; also with milk, to which roasted apples, or minced peaches, and (where they were not to be had), bread or indian mush were added. towards the crisis, i advised the drinking of weak chicken, veal, or mutton broth, and after the crisis had taken place, i permitted mild animal food to be eaten in a small quantity, and to be increased according to the waste of the excitability of the system. this strict abstinence which i imposed upon my patients did not escape obloquy; but the benefits they derived from it, and the ill effects which arose in many cases from a contrary regimen, satisfied me that it was proper in every case in which it was prescribed. _cold water_ was a most agreeable and powerful remedy in this disease. i directed it to be applied by means of napkins to the head, and to be injected into the bowels by way of glyster. it gave the same ease to both, when in pain, which opium gives to pain from other causes. i likewise advised the washing of the face and hands, and sometimes the feet, with cold water, and always with advantage. it was by suffering the body to lie for some time in a bed of cold water, that the inhabitants of the island of massuah cured the most violent bilious fevers[84]. when applied in this way, it _gradually_ abstracts the heat from the body, and thereby lessens the action of the system. it differs as much in its effects upon the body from the cold bath, as rest in a cold room, differs from exercise in the cold and open air. [84] bruce's travels. i was first led to the practice of the partial application of cold water to the body, in fevers of too much force in the arterial system, by observing its good effects in active hæmorrhages, and by recollecting the effects of a partial application of warm water to the feet, in fevers of an opposite character. cold water when applied to the feet as certainly reduces the pulse in force and frequency, as warm water, applied in the same way, produces contrary effects upon it. in an experiment which was made at my request, by one of my pupils, by placing his feet in cold pump water for a few minutes, the pulse was reduced 24 strokes in a minute, and became so small as hardly to be perceptible. but this effect of cold water, in reducing the frequency of the pulse, is not uniform. in weak and irritable habits, it increases its frequency. this has been fully proved by a number of experiments, made by my former pupil, dr. stock, of bristol, in england, and published in his "medical collections of the effects of cold, as a remedy in certain diseases[85]." [85] page 185. in the use of the remedies which were necessary to overcome the inflammatory action of the system, i was obliged to reduce it below its natural point of excitement. in the present imperfect state of our knowledge in medicine, perhaps no disease of too much action can be cured without it. besides the remedies which have been mentioned, i was led to employ another of great efficacy. i had observed a favourable issue of the fever, in every case in which a spontaneous discharge took place from the salivary glands. i had observed further, that all such of my patients (one excepted) as were salivated by the mercurial purges recovered in a few days. this early suggested an idea to me that the calomel might be applied to other purposes than the discharging of bile from the bowels. i ascribed its salutary effects, when it salivated in the first stage of the disease, to the excitement of inflammation and effusion in the throat, diverting them from more vital parts of the body. in the second stage of the disease, i was led to prescribe it as a stimulant, and, with a view of obtaining this operation from it, i aimed at exciting a salivation, as speedily as possible, in all cases. two precedents encouraged me to make trial of this remedy. in the month of october, 1789, i attended a gentleman in a bilious fever, which ended in many of the symptoms of a typhus mitior. in the lowest state of his fever, he complained of a pain in his right side, for which i ordered half an ounce of mercurial ointment to be rubbed on the part affected. the next day, he complained of a sore mouth, and, in the course of four and twenty hours, he was in a moderate salivation. from this time his pulse became full and slow, and his skin moist; his sleep and appetite suddenly returned, and in a day or two he was out of danger. the second precedent for a salivation in a fever, which occurred to me, was in dr. haller's short account of the works of dr. cramer[86]. the practice was moreover justified, in point of safety, as well as the probability of success, by the accounts which dr. clark has lately given of the effects of a salivation in the dysentery[87]. i began by prescribing the calomel in small doses, at short intervals, and afterwards i directed large quantities of the ointment to be rubbed upon the limbs. the effects of it, in every case in which it affected the mouth, were salutary. dr. woodhouse improved upon my method of exciting the salivation, by rubbing the gums with calomel, in the manner directed by mr. clare. it was more speedy in its operation in this way than in any other, and equally effectual. several persons appeared to be benefited by the mercury introduced into the system in the form of an ointment, where it did _not_ produce a salivation. among these, were the rev. dr. blackwell, and mr. john davis. [86] bibliotheca medicinæ practicæ, vol. iii. p. 491. [87] diseases of long voyages to hot climates, vol. ii. p. 334. soon after the above account was written of the good effects of a mercurial salivation in this fever, i had great satisfaction in discovering that it had been prescribed with equal, and even greater success, by dr. wade in bengal, in the year 1791, and by dr. chisholm in the island of granada, in the cure of bilious yellow fevers[88]. dr. wade did not lose one, and dr. chisholm lost only one out of forty-eight patients in whom the mercury affected the salivary glands. the latter gave 150 grains of calomel, and applied the strongest mercurial ointment below the groin of each side, in some cases. he adds further, that not a single instance of a relapse occurred, where the disease was cured by salivation. [88] medical commentaries, vol. xviii. p. 209, 288. after the reduction of the system, _blisters_ were applied with great advantage to every part of the body. they did most service when they were applied to the crown of the head. i did not see a single case, in which a mortification followed the sore, which was created by a blister. brandy and water, or porter and water, when agreeable to the stomach, with now and then a cup of chicken broth, were the drinks i prescribed to assist in restoring the tone of the system. in some cases i directed the limbs to be wrapped in flannels dipped in warm spirits, and cataplasms of bruised garlic to be applied to the feet. but my principal dependence, next to the use of mercurial medicines, for exciting a healthy action in the arterial system, was upon mild and gently stimulating food. this consisted of rich broths, the flesh of poultry, oysters, thick gruel, mush and milk, and chocolate. i directed my patients to eat or drink a portion of some of the above articles of diet every hour or two during the day, and in cases of great debility, from an exhausted state of the system, i advised their being waked for the same purpose two or three times in the night. the appetite frequently craved more savoury articles of food, such as beef-stakes and sausages; but they were permitted with great caution, and never till the system had been prepared for them by a less stimulating diet. there were several _symptoms_ which were very distressing in this disease, and which required a specific treatment. for the vomiting, with a burning sensation in the stomach, which came on about the fifth day, i found no remedy equal to a table spoonful of sweet milk, taken every hour, or to small draughts of milk and water. i was led to prescribe this simple medicine from having heard, from a west-india practitioner, and afterwards read, in dr. hume's account of the yellow fever, encomiums upon the milk of the cocoa-nut for this troublesome symptom. where sweet milk failed of giving relief, i prescribed small doses of sweet oil, and in some cases a mixture of equal parts of milk, sweet oil, and molasses. they were all intended to dilute or blunt the acrimony of the humours, which were either effused or generated in the stomach. where they all failed of checking the vomiting, i prescribed weak camomile tea, or porter, or cyder and water, with advantage. in some of my patients the stomach rejected all the mixtures and liquors which have been mentioned. in such cases i directed the stomach to be left to itself for a few hours, after which it sometimes received and retained the drinks that it had before rejected, provided they were administered in a small quantity at a time. the vomiting was sometimes stopped by a blister applied to the external region of the stomach. a mixture of liquid laudanum and sweet oil, applied to the same place, gave relief where the stomach was affected by pain only, without a vomiting. i have formerly mentioned that a distressing _pain_ often seized the lower part of the _bowels_. i was early taught that laudanum was not a proper remedy for it. it yielded in almost every case to two or three emollient glysters, or to the loss of a few ounces of blood. the convalescence from this fever was in general rapid, but in some cases it was very slow. i was more than usually struck by the great resemblance which the system in the convalescence from this fever bore to the state of the body and mind in old age. it appeared, 1. in the great weakness of the body, more especially of the limbs. 2. in uncommon depression of mind, and in a great aptitude to shed tears. 3. in the absence or short continuance of sleep. 4. in the frequent occurrence of appetite, and, in some cases, in its inordinate degrees. and 5. in the loss of the hair of the head, or in its being suddenly changed in some cases to a grey colour. pure air, gentle exercise, and agreeable society removed the debility both of body and mind of this premature and temporary old age. i met with a few cases, in which the yellow colour continued for several weeks after the patient's recovery from all the other symptoms of the fever. it was removed most speedily and effectually by two or three moderate doses of calomel and rhubarb. a feeble and irregular intermittent was very troublesome in some people, after an acute attack of the fever. it yielded gradually to camomile or snake-root tea, and country air. in a publication, dated the 16th of september, i recommended a diet of milk and vegetables, and cooling purges to be taken once or twice a week, to the citizens of philadelphia. this advice was the result of the theory of the disease i had adopted, and of the successful practice which had arisen from it. in my intercourse with my fellow-citizens, i advised this regimen to be regulated by the degrees of fatigue and foul air to which they were exposed. i likewise advised moderate blood-letting to all such persons as were of a plethoric habit. to men whose minds were influenced by the publications in favour of bark and wine, and who were unable at that time to grasp the extent and force of the remote cause of this terrible fever, the idea of dieting, purging, or bleeding the inhabitants of a whole village or city appeared to be extravagant and absurd: but i had not only the analogy of the regimen made use of to prepare the body for the small-pox, but many precedents in favour of the advice. dr. haller has given extracts from the histories of two plagues, in which the action of the miasmata was prevented or mitigated by bleeding[89]. dr. hodges confirms the utility of the same practice. the benefits of low diet, as a preventive of the plague, were established by many authors, long before they received the testimony of the benevolent mr. howard in their favour. socrates in athens, and justinian in constantinople, were preserved, by means of their abstemious modes of living, from the plagues which occasionally ravaged those cities. by means of the low diet, gentle physic, and occasional bleedings, which i thus publicly recommended, the disease was prevented in many instances, or rendered mild where it was taken. but my efforts to prevent the disease in my fellow-citizens did not end here. i advised them, not only in the public papers, but in my intercourse with them, to avoid heat, cold, labour, and every thing else that could excite the miasmata (which i knew to be present in all their bodies) into action. i forgot, upon this occasion, the usual laws which regulate the intercourse of man with man in the streets, and upon the public roads, in my excursions into the neighbourhood of the city. i cautioned many persons, whom i saw walking or riding in an unsafe manner, of the danger to which they exposed themselves; and thereby, i hope, prevented an attack of the disease in many people. [89] bibliotheca medicinæ practicæ, vol. ii. p. 93. and 387. it was from a conviction of the utility of low diet, gentle evacuations, and of carefully shunning all the exciting causes which i have mentioned, that i concealed, in no instance, from my patients the name of their disease. this plainness, which was blamed by weak people, produced strict obedience to my directions, and thereby restrained the progress of the fever in many families, or rendered it, when taken, as mild as inoculation does the small-pox. the opposite conduct of several physicians, by preventing the above precautions, increased the mortality of the disease, and, in some instances, contributed to the extinction of whole families. i proceed now to make a few remarks upon the remedies recommended by doctors kuhn and stevens, and by the french physicians. the former were bark, wine, laudanum, spices, the elixir of vitriol, and the cold bath. in every case in which i prescribed bark, it was offensive to the stomach. in several tertians which attended the convalescence from a common attack of the fever, i found it always unsuccessful, and once hurtful. mr. willing took it for several weeks without effect. about half a pint of a weak decoction of the bark produced, in mr. samuel meredith, a paroxysm of the fever, so violent as to require the loss of ten ounces of blood to moderate it. dr. annan informed me that he was forced to bleed one of his patients twice, after having given him a small quantity of bark, to hasten his convalescence. it was not in this epidemic only that the bark was hurtful. baron humboldt informed me, that dr. comoto had assured him, it hastened death in every case in which it was given in the yellow fever of vera cruz. if, in any instance, it was inoffensive, or did service, in our fever, i suspect it must have acted upon the bowels as a purge. dr. sydenham says the bark cured intermittents by this evacuation[90]; and mr. bruce says it operated in the same way, when it cured the bilious fevers at massuah. [90] vol. i. p. 440. _wine_ was nearly as disagreeable as the bark to the stomach, and equally hurtful. i tried it in every form, and of every quality, but without success. it was either rejected by the stomach, or produced in it a burning sensation. i should suspect that i had been mistaken in my complaints against wine, had i not since met with an account in skenkius of its having destroyed all who took it in the famous hungarian fever, which prevailed, with great mortality, over nearly every country in europe, about the middle of the 16th century[91]. dr. wade declares wine to be "ill adapted to the fevers of bengal, where the treatment has been proper in other respects." [91] omnes qui vini potione non abstinuerunt, interiere, adeo ut summa spes salvationis in vini abstinentia collocata videreter. lib. vi. p. 847. _laudanum_ has been called by dr. mosely "a fatal medicine" in the yellow fever. in one of my patients, who took only fifteen drops of it, without my advice, to ease a pain in his bowels, it produced a delirium, and death in a few hours. i was much gratified in discovering that my practice, with respect to the use of opium in this fever, accorded with dr. wade's in the fever of bengal. he tells us, "that it was mischievous in almost every instance, even in combination with antimonials." the _spices_ were hurtful in the first stage of the fever, and, when sufficient evacuations had been used, they were seldom necessary in its second. the _elixir of vitriol_ was, in general, offensive to the stomach. the _cold bath_ was useful in those cases where its sedative prevailed over its stimulating effects. but this could not often happen, from the suddenness and force, with which the water was thrown upon the body. in two cases in which i prescribed it, it produced a gentle sweat, but it did not save life. in a third it removed a delirium, and reduced the pulse for a few minutes, in frequency and force, but this patient died. the recommendation of it indiscriminately, in all cases, was extremely improper. in that chilliness and tendency to fainting upon the least motion, which attended the disease in some patients, it was an unsafe remedy. i heard of a woman who was seized with delirium immediately after using it, from which she never recovered; and of a man who died a few minutes after he came out of a bathing tub. had this remedy been the exclusive antidote to the yellow fever, the mortality of the disease would have been but little checked by it. thousands must have perished from the want of means to procure tubs, and of a suitable number of attendants to apply the water, and to lift the patient in and out of bed. the reason of our citizens ran before the learning of the friends of this remedy, and long before it was abandoned by the physicians, it was rejected as useless, or not attempted, because impracticable, by the good sense of the city. it is to be lamented that the remedy of cold water has suffered in its character by the manner in which it was advised. in fevers of too much action, it reduces the morbid excitement of the blood-vessels, provided it be _applied without force_, and for a considerable time, to the body. it is in the jail fever, and in the second stage of the yellow fever only, in which its stimulant and tonic powers are proper. dr. jackson establishes this mode of using it, by informing us, that when it did service, it "gave vigour and tone" to the system[92]. [92] fevers of jamaica. a mode of practice which i formerly mentioned in this fever, consisted of a union of the evacuating and tonic remedies. the physicians who adopted this mode gave calomel by itself, in small doses, on the first or second day of the fever, bled once or twice, in a sparing manner, and gave the bark, wine, and laudanum, in large quantities, upon the first appearance of a remission. after they began the use of these remedies purging was omitted, or, if the bowels were moved, it was only by means of gentle glysters. this practice, i shall say hereafter, was not much more successful than that which was recommended by dr. kuhn and dr. stevens. it resembled throwing water and oil at the same time upon a fire, in order to extinguish it. the _french_ remedies were nitre and cremor tartar, in small doses, centaury tea, camphor, and several other warm medicines; subacid drinks, taken in large quantities, the warm bath, and moderate bleeding. after what has been said it must be obvious to the reader, that the nitre and cremor tartar, in small doses, could do no good, and that camphor and all cordial medicines must have done harm. the diluting subacid drinks, which the french physicians gave in large quantities, were useful in diluting and blunting the acrimony of the bile, and to this remedy, assisted by occasional bleeding, i ascribe most of the cures which were performed by those physicians. those few persons in whom the _warm bath_ produced copious and universal sweats recovered, but, in nearly all the cases which came under my notice, it did harm. i come now to inquire into the comparative success of all the different modes of practice which have been mentioned. i have already said that ten out of thirteen patients whom i treated with bark, wine, and laudanum, and that three out of four, in whom i added the cold bath to those remedies, died. dr. pennington informed me, that he had lost all the patients (six in number) to whom he had given the above medicines. dr. johnson assured me, with great concern, about two weeks before he died, that he had not recovered a single patient by them. whole families were swept off where these medicines were used. but further, most of those persons who received the seeds of the fever in the city, and sickened in the country, or in the neighbouring towns, and who were treated with tonic remedies, died. there was not a single cure performed by them in new-york, where they were used in several sporadic cases with every possible advantage. but why do i multiply proofs of their deadly effects? the clamours of hundreds whose relations had perished by them, and the fears of others, compelled those physicians who had been most attached to them to lay them aside, or to prepare the way for them (as it was called) by purging and bleeding. the bathing tub soon shared a worse fate than bark, wine, and laudanum, and, long before the disease disappeared, it was discarded by all the physicians in the city. in answer to these facts we are told, that mr. hamilton and his family were cured by dr. stevens's remedies, and that dr. kuhn had administered them with success in several instances. upon these cures i shall insert the following judicious remarks from dr. sydenham. "success (says the doctor) is not a sufficient proof of the excellency of a method of cure in acute diseases, since some are recovered by the imprudent procedure of old women; but it is further required, that the distemper should be _easily cured_, and yield conformably to its _own_ nature[93]." and again, speaking of the cure of the new fever of 1685, this incomparable physician observes, "if it be objected that this fever frequently yields to a quite contrary method to that which i have laid down, i answer, that the cure of a disease by a method which is attended with success only _now_ and _then_, in a _few_ instances, differs extremely from that practical method, the efficacy whereof appears both from its recovering _greater numbers_, and all the practical phenomena happening in the cure[94]." [93] vol. ii. p. 254. [94] vol, ii. p. 354. far be it from me to deny that the depression of the system may not be overcome by such stimuli as are more powerful than those which occasion it. this has sometimes been demonstrated by the efficacy of bark, wine, and laudanum, in the confluent and petechial small-pox; but even this state of that disease yields more easily to blood-letting, or to plentiful evacuations from the stomach and bowels, on the first or second day of the eruptive fever. this i have often proved, by giving a large dose of tartar emetic and calomel, as soon as i was satisfied from circumstances, that my patient was infected with the small-pox. but the depression produced by the yellow fever appears to be much greater than that which occurs in the small-pox, and hence it more uniformly resisted the most powerful tonic remedies. in one of my publications during the prevalence of the fever i asserted, that the remedies of which i have given a history cured a greater proportion than ninety-nine out of a hundred, of all who applied to me on the first day of the disease, before the 15th day of september. i regret that it is not in my power to furnish a list of them, for a majority of them were poor people, whose names are still unknown to me. i was not singular in this successful practice in the first appearance of the disease. dr. pennington assured me on his death bed, that he had not lost one, out of forty-eight patients whom he had treated agreeably to the principles and practice i had recommended. dr. griffitts triumphed over the disease in every part of the city, by the use of what were called the new remedies. my former pupils spread, by their success, the reputation of purging and bleeding, wherever they were called. unhappily the pleasure we derived from this success in the treatment of the disease, was of short duration. many circumstances contributed to lessen it, and to revive the mortality of the fever. i shall briefly enumerate them. 1. the distraction produced in the public mind, by the recommendation of remedies, the opposites in every respect of purging and bleeding. 2. the opinion which had been published by several physicians, and inculcated by others, that we had other fevers in the city besides the yellow fever. this produced a delay in many people in sending for a physician, or in taking medicines, for two or three days, from a belief that they had nothing but a cold, or a common fever. some people were so much deceived by this opinion, that they refused to send for physicians, lest they should be infected by them with the yellow fever. in most of the cases in which these delays took place, the disease proved mortal. to obviate a suspicion that i have laid more stress upon the fatal influence of this error than is just, i shall here insert an extract of a letter i received from mr. john connelly, one of the city committee, who frequently left his brethren in the city hall, and spent many hours in visiting and prescribing for the sick. "the publications (says he) of some physicians, that there were but few persons infected with the yellow fever, and that many were ill with colds and common remitting and fall fevers, proved fatal to almost every family which was credulous enough to believe them. that opinion slew its hundreds, if not its thousands, many of whom did not send for a physician until they were in the last stage of the disorder, and beyond the power of medicine." 3. the interference of the friends of the stimulating system, in dissuading patients from submitting to sufficient evacuations. 4. the deceptions which were practised by some patients upon their physicians, in their reports of the quantity of blood they had lost, or of the quality and number of their evacuations by stool. 5. the impracticability of procuring bleeders as soon as bleeding was prescribed. life in this disease, as in the apoplexy, frequently turned upon that operation being performed within an _hour_. it was often delayed, from the want of a bleeder, one or two days. 6. the inability of physicians, from the number of their patients, and from frequent indisposition, to visit the sick, at such times as was necessary to watch the changes in their disease. 7. the great accumulation and concentration of the miasmata in sick rooms, from the continuance of the disease in the city, whereby the system was exposed to a constant stimulus, and the effect of the evacuations was thus defeated. 8. the want of skill or fidelity in nurses to administer the medicines properly; to persuade patients to drink frequently; also to supply them with food or cordial drinks when required in the night. 9. the great degrees of debility induced in the systems of many of the people who were affected by the disease, from fatigue in attending their relations or friends. 10. the universal depression of mind, amounting in some instances to despair, which affected many people. what medicine could act upon a patient who awoke in the night, and saw through the broken and faint light of a candle, no human creature, but a black nurse, perhaps asleep in a distant corner of the room; and who heard no noise, but that of a hearse conveying, perhaps, a neighbour or a friend to the grave? the state of mind under which many were affected by the disease, is so well described by the rev. dr. smith, in the case of his wife, in a letter i received from him in my sick room, two days after her death, that i hope i shall be excused for inserting an extract from it. it forms a part of the history of the disease. the letter was written in answer to a short note of condolence which i sent to the doctor immediately after hearing of mrs. smith's death. after some pathetic expressions of grief, he adds, "the scene of her funeral, and some preceding circumstances, can never depart from my mind. on our return from a visit to our daughter, whom we had been striving to console on the death of mrs. keppele, who was long familiar and dear to both, my dear wife, passing the burying-ground gate, led me into the ground, viewed the graves of her two children, called the old grave-digger, marked a spot for herself as close as possible to them and the grave of dr. phineas bond, whose memory she adored. then, by the side of the spot she had chosen, we found room and chose _mine_, pledging ourselves to each other, and directing the grave-digger that this should be the order of our interment. we returned to our house. night approached. i hoped my dear wife had gone to rest, as she had chosen, since her return from nursing her daughter, to sleep in a chamber by herself, through fear of infecting her grandchild and me. but it seems she closed not her eyes; sitting with them fixed through her chamber window on mrs. keppele's house, till about midnight she saw her hearse, and followed it with her eyes as far as it could be seen. two days afterwards mrs. rodgers, her next only surviving intimate friend, was carried past her window, and by no persuasion could i draw her from thence, nor stop her sympathetic foreboding tears, so long as her eyes could follow the funeral, which was through two squares, from fourth to second-street, where the hearse disappeared." the doctor proceeds in describing the distress of his wife. but pointed as his expressions are, they do not convey the gloomy state of her mind with so much force as she has done it herself in two letters to her niece, mrs. cadwallader, who was then in the country. the one was dated the 9th, the other the 11th of october. i shall insert a few extracts from each of them. october 9th. "it is not possible for me to pass the streets without walking in a line with the dead, passing infected houses, and looking into open graves. this has been the case for many weeks." "i don't know what to write; my head is gone, and my heart is torn to pieces." "i intreat you to have no fears on my account. i am in the hands of a just and merciful god, and his will be done." october 11th. "don't wonder that i am so low to-day. my heart is sunk down within me." the next day this excellent woman sickened, and died on the 19th of the same month. if in a person possessed naturally of uncommon equanimity and fortitude, the distresses of our city produced such dejection of spirits, what must have been their effect upon hundreds, who were not endowed with those rare and extraordinary qualities of mind! death in this, as well as in many other cases in which medicine had done its duty, appeared to be the inevitable consequence of the total abstraction of the energy of the mind in restoring the natural motions of life. under all the circumstances which have been mentioned, which opposed the system of depletion in the cure of this fever, it was still far more successful than any other mode of cure that had been pursued before in the united states, or in the west-indies. three out of four died of the disease in jamaica, under the care of dr. hume. dr. blane considers it as one of the "most mortal" of diseases, and dr. jackson places a more successful mode of treating it among the subjects which will admit of "innovation" in medicine. after the 15th of september, my success was much limited, compared with what it had been before that time. but at no period of the disease did i lose more than one in twenty of those whom i saw on the first day, and attended regularly through every stage of the fever, provided they had not been previously worn down by attending the sick. the following statement, which will admit of being corrected, if it be inaccurate, will, i hope, establish the truth of the above assertions. about one half of the families whom i have attended for many years, left the city. of those who remained, many were affected by the disease. out of the whole of them, after i had adopted my second mode of practice, i lost but five heads of families, and about a dozen servants and children. in no instance did i lose both heads of the same family. my success in these cases was owing to two causes: 1st, to the credit my former patients gave to my public declaration, that we had only _one_ fever in the city: hence they applied on the _first_ day, and sometimes on the _first_ hour of their indisposition; and 2dly, to the numerous pledges many of them had seen of the safety and efficacy of copious blood-letting, by my advice, in other diseases: hence my prescription of that necessary remedy was always obeyed in its utmost extent. of the few adults whom i lost, among my former patients, two of them were old people, two took laudanum, without my knowledge, and one refused to take medicine of any kind; all the rest had been worn down by previous fatigue. i have before said that a great number of the blacks were my patients. of these not one died under my care. this uniform success, among those people, was not owing altogether to the mildness of the disease, for i shall say presently, that a great proportion of a given number died, under other modes of practice. in speaking of the comparative effects of purging and bleeding, it may not be amiss to repeat, that not one pregnant woman, to whom i prescribed them, died, or suffered abortion. where the tonic remedies were used, abortion or death, and, in many instances, both, were nearly universal. many whole families, consisting of five, six, and, in three instances, of nine members, were recovered by plentiful purging and bleeding. i could swell this work by publishing a list of those families; but i take more pleasure in adding, that i was not singular in my success in the use of the above remedies. they were prescribed with great advantage by many of the physicians of the city, who had for a while given tonic medicines without effect. i shall not mention the names of any of the physicians who _totally_ renounced those medicines, lest i should give offence by not mentioning them all. many large families were cured by some of them, after they adopted and prescribed copious purging and blood-letting. one of them cured ten in the family of mr. robert haydock, by means of those remedies. in one of that family, the disease came on with a vomiting of black bile. but the use of the new remedies was not directed finally by the physicians alone. the clergy, the apothecaries, many private citizens, several intelligent women, and two black men, prescribed them with great success. nay more, many persons prescribed them to themselves, and, as i shall say hereafter, with a success that was unequalled by any of the regular or irregular practitioners in the city. it was owing to the almost universal use of purging and bleeding, that the mortality of the disease diminished, in proportion as the number of persons who were affected by it increased, about the middle of october. it was scarcely double of what it was in the middle of september, and yet six times the number of persons were probably at that time confined by it. the success of copious purging and bleeding was not confined to the city of philadelphia. several persons, who were infected in town, and sickened in the country, were cured by them. could a comparison be made of the number of patients who died of the yellow fever in 1793, after having been plentifully bled and purged, with those who died of the same disease in the years 1699, 1741, 1747, and 1762, i am persuaded that the proportion would be very small in the year 1793, compared with the former years[95]. including all who died under every mode of treatment, i suspect the mortality to be less, in proportion to the population of the city, and the number of persons who were affected, than it was in any of the other years that have been mentioned. [95] it appears from one of mr. norris's letters, dated the 9th of november, o. s. that there died 220 persons, in the year 1699, with the yellow fever. between 80 and 90 of them, he says, belonged to the society of friends. the city, at this time, probably, did not contain more than 2 or 3000 people, many of whom, it is probable, fled from the disease. not less than 6000 of the inhabitants of philadelphia probably owe their lives to purging and bleeding, during the autumn. i proceed with reluctance to inquire into the comparative success of the french practice. it would not be difficult to decide upon it from many facts that came under my notice in the city; but i shall rest its merit wholly upon the returns of the number of deaths at bush-hill. this hospital, after the 22d of september, was put under the care of a french physician, who was assisted by one of the physicians of the city. the hospital was in a pleasant and airy situation; it was provided with all the necessaries and comforts for sick people that humanity could invent, or liberality supply. the attendants were devoted to their duty; and cleanliness and order pervaded every room in the house. the reputation of this hospital, and of the french physician, drew patients to it in the early stage of the disease. of this i have been assured in a letter from dr. annan, who was appointed to examine and give orders of admission into the hospital, to such of the poor of the district of southwark, as could not be taken care of in their own houses. mr. olden has likewise informed me, that most of the patients who were sent to the hospital by the city committee (of which he was a member) were in the first stage of the fever. with all these advantages, the deaths between the 22d of september and the 6th of november, amounted to 448 out of 807 patients who were admitted into the hospital within that time. three fourths of all the blacks (nearly 20) who were patients in this hospital died. a list of the medicines prescribed there may be seen in the minutes of the proceedings of the city committee. calomel and jalap are not among them. _moderate_ bleeding and purging with glauber's salts, i have been informed, were used in some cases by the physicians of this hospital. the proportion of deaths to the recoveries, as it appears in the minutes of the committee from whence the above report is taken, is truly melancholy! i hasten from it therefore to a part of this work, to which i have looked with pleasure, ever since i sat down to compose it. i have said that the clergy, the apothecaries, and many other persons who were uninstructed in the principles of medicine, prescribed purging and bleeding with great success in this disease. necessity gave rise to this undisciplined sect of practitioners, for they came forward to supply the places of the regular bred physicians who were sick or dead. i shall mention the names of a few of those persons who distinguished themselves as volunteers in this new work of humanity. the late rev. mr. fleming, one of the ministers of the catholic church, carried the purging powders in his pocket, and gave them to his poor parishioners with great success. he even became the advocate of the new remedies. in a conversation i had with him, on the 22d of september, he informed me, that he had advised four of our physicians, whom he met a day or two before, "to renounce the pride of science, and to adopt the new mode of practice, for that he had witnessed its good effects in many cases." mr. john keihmle, a german apothecary, has assured me, that out of 314 patients whom he visited, and 187 for whom he prescribed from the reports of their friends, he lost but 47 (which is nearly but one in eleven), and that he treated them all agreeably to the method which i had recommended. the rev. mr. schmidt, one of the ministers of the lutheran church, was cured by him. i have before mentioned an instance of the judgment of mr. connelly, and of his zeal in visiting and prescribing for the sick. his remedies were bleeding and purging. he, moreover, bore a constant and useful testimony against bark, wine, laudanum, and the warm bath[96]. mrs. paxton, in carter's-alley, and mrs. evans, the wife of mr. john evans, in second-street, were indefatigable; the one in distributing mercurial purges composed by herself, and the other in urging the necessity of _copious_ bleeding and purging among her friends and neighbours, as the only safe remedies for the fever. these worthy women were the means of saving many lives[97]. absalom jones and richard allen, two black men, spent all the intervals of time, in which they were not employed in burying the dead, in visiting the poor who were sick, and in bleeding and purging them, agreeably to the directions which had been printed in all the newspapers. their success was unparalleled by what is called regular practice. this encomium upon the practice of the blacks will not surprise the reader, when i add that they had no fear of putrefaction in the fluids, nor of the calumnies of a body of fellow-citizens in the republic of medicine to deter them from plentiful purging and bleeding. they had, besides, no more patients than they were able to visit two or three times a day. but great as their success was, it was exceeded by those persons who, in despair of procuring medical aid of any kind, purged and bled themselves. this palm of superior success will not be withheld from those people when i explain the causes of it. it was owing to their _early_ use of the proper remedies, and to their being guided in the repetition of them, by the continuance of a tense pulse, or of pain and fever. a day, an afternoon, and even an hour, were not lost by these people in waiting for the visit of a physician, who was often detained from them by sickness, or by new and unexpected engagements, by which means the precious moment for using the remedies with effect passed irrevocably away. i have stated these facts from faithful inquiries, and numerous observations. i could mention the names and families of many persons who thus cured themselves. one person only shall be mentioned, who has shown by her conduct what reason is capable of doing when it is forced to act for itself. mrs. long, a widow, after having been twice unsuccessful in her attempts to procure a physician, undertook at last to cure herself. she took several of the mercurial purges, agreeably to the printed directions, and had herself bled _seven_ times in the course of five or six days. the indication for repeating the bleeding was the continuance of the pain in her head. her recovery was rapid and complete. the history of it was communicated to me by herself, with great gratitude, in my own house, during my second confinement with the fever. to these accounts of persons who cured themselves in the city, i could add many others, of citizens who sickened in the country, and who cured themselves by plentiful bleeding and purging, without the attendance of a physician. [96] in the letter before quoted, from mr. connelly, he expresses his opinion of those four medicines in the following words: "laudanum, bark, and wine have put a period to the existence of some, where the fever has been apparently broken, and the patients in a fair way of recovery; a single dose of laudanum has hurried them suddenly into eternity. i have visited a few patients where the hot bath was used, and am convinced that it only tended to weaken and relax the system, without producing any good effect." [97] the yellow fever prevailed at the caraccos, in south-america, in october, 1793, with great mortality, more especially among the spanish troops. nearly all died who were attended by physicians. recourse was finally had to the old women, who were successful in almost every case to which they were called. their remedies were a liquor called _narencado_ (a species of lemonade) and a tea made of a root called _fistula_. with these drinks they drenched their patients for the first two or three days. they induced plentiful sweats, and, probably, after blunting, discharged the bile from the bowels. i received this information from an american gentleman, who had been cured, by one of those amazons in medicine, in the above way. from a short review of these facts, reason and humanity awake from their long repose in medicine, and unite in proclaiming, that it is time to take the cure of pestilential epidemics out of the hands of physicians, and to place it in the hands of the people. let not the reader startle at this proposition. i shall give the following reasons for it. 1. in consequence of these diseases affecting a great number of people at one time, it has always been, and always will be impossible, for them _all_ to have the benefit of medical aid, more especially as the proportion of physicians to the number of sick, is generally diminished upon these occasions, by desertion, sickness, and death. 2. the safety of committing to the people the cure of pestilential fevers, particularly the yellow fever and the plague, is established by the simplicity and uniformity of their causes, and of their remedies. however diversified they may be in their symptoms, the system, in both diseases, is generally under a state of undue excitement or great depression, and in most cases requires the abstraction of stimulus in a greater or less degree, or in a sudden or gradual manner. there can never be any danger of the people injuring themselves by mistaking any other disease for an _epidemic_ yellow fever or plague, for no other febrile disease can prevail with them. it was probably to prevent this mistake, that the benevolent father of mankind, who has permitted no evil to exist which does not carry its antidote along with it, originally imposed that law upon all great and mortal epidemics. 3. the history of the yellow fever in the west-indies proves the advantage of trusting patients to their own judgment. dr. lind has remarked, that a greater proportion of sailors who had no physicians recovered from that fever, than of those who had the best medical assistance. the fresh air of the deck of a ship, a purge of salt water, and the free use of cold water, probably triumphed here over the cordial juleps of physicians. 4. by committing the cure of this and other pestilential epidemics to the people, all those circumstances which prevented the universal success of purging and bleeding, in this disease, will have no operation. the fever will be mild in most cases, for all will prepare themselves to receive it, by a vegetable diet, and by moderate evacuations. the remedies will be used the _moment_ the disease is felt, or even seen, and its violence and danger will thereby be obviated. there will then be no disputes among physicians, about the nature of the disease, to distract the public mind, for they will seldom be consulted in it. none will suffer from chronic debility induced by previous fatigue in attending the sick, nor from the want of nurses, for few will be so ill as to require them, and there will be no "foreboding" fears of death, or despair of recovery, to invite an attack of the disease, or to ensure its mortality. the small-pox was once as fatal as the yellow fever and the plague. it has since yielded as universally to a vegetable diet and evacuations, in the hands of apothecaries, the clergy, and even of the good women, as it did in the hands of doctors of physic. they have narrow conceptions, not only of the divine goodness, but of the gradual progress of human knowledge, who suppose that all pestilential diseases shall not, like the small-pox, sooner or later cease to be the scourge and terror of mankind. for a long while, air, water, and even the light of the sun, were dealt out by physicians to their patients with a sparing hand. they possessed, for several centuries, the same monopoly of many artificial remedies. but a new order of things is rising in medicine. air, water, and light are taken without the advice of a physician, and bark and laudanum are now prescribed every where by nurses and mistresses of families, with safety and advantage. human reason cannot be stationary upon these subjects. the time must and will come, when, in addition to the above remedies, the general use of calomel, jalap, and the lancet, shall be considered among the most essential articles of the knowledge and rights of man. it is no more necessary that a patient should be ignorant of the medicine he takes, to be cured by it, than that the business of government should be conducted with secrecy, in order to insure obedience to just laws. much less is it necessary that the means of life should be prescribed in a dead language, or dictated with the solemn pomp of a necromancer. the effects of imposture, in every thing, are like the artificial health produced by the use of ardent spirits. its vigour is temporary, and is always followed by misery and death. the belief that the yellow fever and the plague are necessarily mortal, is as much the effect of a superstitious torpor in the understanding, as the ancient belief that the epilepsy was a supernatural disease, and that it was an offence against heaven to attempt to cure it. it is partly from the influence of this torpor in the minds of some people, that the numerous cures of the yellow fever, performed by a few simple remedies, were said to be of _other_ diseases. it is necessary, for the conviction of such persons, that patients should always _die_ of that, and other dangerous diseases, to prove that they have been affected by them. the repairs which our world is destined to undergo will be incomplete, until pestilential fevers cease to be numbered among the widest outlets of human life. there are many things which are now familiar to women and children, which were known a century ago only to a few men who lived in closets, and were distinguished by the name of philosophers. we teach a hundred things in our schools less useful, and many things more difficult, than the knowledge that would be necessary to cure a yellow fever or the plague. in my attempts to teach the citizens of philadelphia, by my different publications, the method of curing themselves of yellow fever, i observed no difficulty in their apprehending every thing that was addressed to them, except what related to the different states of the pulse. all the knowledge that is necessary to discover when blood-letting is proper, might be taught to a boy or girl of twelve years old in a few hours. i taught it in less time to several persons, during the prevalence of the epidemic. i would as soon believe that ratafia was intended by the author of nature to be the only drink of man, instead of water, as believe that the knowledge of what relates to the health and lives of a _whole_ city, or nation, should be confined to one, and that a small or a privileged order of men. but what have physicians, what have universities or medical societies done, after the labours and studies of many centuries, towards lessening the mortality of pestilential fevers? they have either copied or contradicted each other, in all their publications. plagues and malignant fevers are still leagued with war and famine, in their ravages upon human life. to prevent the formation and mortality of this fever, it will be necessary, when it makes its appearance in a city or country, to publish an account of those symptoms which i have called the _precursors_ of the disease, and to exhort the people, as soon as they feel those symptoms, to have immediate recourse to the remedies of purging or bleeding. the danger of delay in using one, or both these remedies, should be inculcated in the strongest terms, for the disease, like time, has a lock on its forehead, but is bald behind. the bite of a rattle-snake is seldom fatal, because the medicines which cure it are applied or taken as soon as the poison comes in contact with the blood. there is less danger to be apprehended from the yellow fever than from the poison of the snake, provided the remedies for it are administered within a few hours after it is excited into action. let persons who are subject to chronic pains, or diseases of any kind, be advised not to be deceived by them. every pain, at such a time, is the beginning of the disease; for it always acts first on debilitated parts of the body. from an ignorance of this law of epidemics many persons, by delaying their applications for help, perished with our fever. let nature be trusted into no case whatever, to cure this disease; and let no attack of it, however light, be treated with neglect. death as certainly performs his work, when he steals on the system in the form of a mild intermittent, as he does, when he comes on with the symptoms of apoplexy, or a black vomiting. cleanliness, in houses and dress, cannot be too often inculcated during the prevalence of a yellow fever. let it not be supposed, that i mean that the history which i have given of the method of cure of this epidemic, should be applied, in all its parts, to the yellow fevers which may appear hereafter in the united states, or which exist at all times in the west-india islands. season and climate vary this, as well as all other diseases. bark and wine, so fatal in this, may be proper in a future yellow fever. but in the climate of the united states, i believe it will seldom appear with such symptoms of prostration and weakness, as not to require, in its first stage, evacuations of some kind. the only inquiry, when the disease makes its appearance, should be, from what part of the body these evacuations should be procured; the order which should be pursued in obtaining them; and the quantity of each of the matters to be discharged, which should be withdrawn at a time. thus far did i venture, from my theory of the disease, and from the authorities of dr. hillary and dr. mosely, to decide in favour of evacuations in the yellow fever; but dr. wade, and mr. chisholm again support me by their practice in the fevers of the east and west-indies. they both gave strong mercurial purges, and bled in some cases. dr. wade confirmed, by his practice, the advantage of _gradually_ abstracting stimulus from the system. he never drew blood, even in the most inflammatory cases, until he had first discharged the contents of the bowels. the doctor has further established the efficacy of a vegetable diet and of water as a drink, as the best means of preventing the disease in a hot climate. the manner in which the miasmata that produce the plague act upon the system is so much like that which has been described in the yellow fever, and the accounts of the efficacy of low diet, in preparing the body for its reception, and of copious bleeding, cold air, and cold water, in curing it, are so similar, that all the directions which relate to preventing, mitigating, or curing the yellow fever may be applied to it. the fluids in the plague show a greater tendency to the skin, than they do in the yellow fever. perhaps, upon this account, the early use of powerful sudorifics may be more proper in the former than in the latter disease. from the influence of early purging and bleeding in promoting sweats in the yellow fever, there can be little doubt but the efforts of nature to unload the system in the plague, through the channel of the pores, might be accelerated by the early use of the same remedies. one thing, with respect to the plague, is certain, that its cure depends upon the abstraction of stimulus, either by means of plentiful sweats, or of purulent matter from external sores. perhaps the efficacy of these remedies depends wholly upon their elevating the system from its prostrated state in a _gradual_ manner. if this be the case, those natural discharges might be easily and effectually imitated by small and repeated bleedings. to correspond in quantity with the discharge from the skin, blood-letting in the plague, when indicated, should be copious. a profuse sweat, continued for twenty-four hours, cannot fail of wasting many pounds of the fluids of the body. this was the duration of the critical sweats in the famous plague which was known by the name of the english sweating sickness, and which made its appearance in the army of henry vii. in milford-haven in wales, and spread from thence through every part of the kingdom. the principles which lead to the prevention and cure of the yellow fever and the plague, apply with equal force to the mitigation of the measles, and to the prevention or mitigation of the scarlatina anginosa, the dysentery, and the inflammatory jail fever. i have remarked elsewhere[98], that a previous vegetable diet lessened the violence and danger of the measles. dr. sims taught me, many years ago, to prevent or mitigate the scarlatina anginosa, by means of gentle purges, after children are infected by it[99]. purges of salts have in many instances preserved whole families and neighbourhoods from the dysentery, where they have been exposed to its remote cause. during the late american war, an emetic seldom failed of preventing an attack of the hospital fever, when given in its forming state[100]. i have had no experience of the effects of previous evacuations in abating the violence, or preventing the mortality of the malignant sore throat, but i can have no doubt of their efficacy, from the sameness of the state of the system in that disease, as in other malignant fevers. the debility induced in it is from depression, and the supposed symptoms of putrefaction are nothing but the disguised effects of a sudden and violent pressure of an inflammatory stimulus upon the arterial system. [98] vol. ii. [99] medical memoirs, vol. i. [100] vol. i. with these observations i close the history of the rise, progress, symptoms, and treatment of the bilious remitting yellow fever, which appeared in philadelphia in the year 1793. my principal aim has been to revive and apply to it the principles and practice of dr. sydenham, and, however coldly those principles and that practice may be received by some physicians of the present day, i am convinced that experience, in all ages and in all countries, will vouch for their truth and utility. a narrative of the _state of the body and mind_ of the author, during the prevalence of the fever. narratives of escapes from great dangers of shipwreck, war, captivity, and famine have always formed an interesting part of the history of the body and mind of man. but there are deliverances from equal dangers which have hitherto passed unnoticed; i mean from pestilential fevers. i shall briefly describe the state of my body and mind during my intercourse with the sick in the epidemic of 1793. the account will throw additional light upon the disease, and probably illustrate some of the laws of the animal economy. it will, moreover, serve to furnish a lesson to all who may be placed in similar circumstances to commit their lives, without fear, to the protection of that being, who is able to save to the uttermost, not only from future, but from present evil. some time before the fever made its appearance, my wife and children went into the state of new-jersey, where they had long been in the habit of spending the summer months. my family, about the 25th of august, consisted of my mother, a sister, who was on a visit to me, a black servant man, and a mulatto boy. i had five pupils, viz. warner washington and edward fisher, of virginia, john alston, of south-carolina, and john redman coxe (grandson to dr. redman) and john stall, both of this city. they all crowded around me upon the sudden increase of business, and with one heart devoted themselves to my service, and to the cause of humanity. the credit which the new mode of treating the disease acquired, in all parts of the city, produced an immense influx of patients to me from all quarters. my pupils were constantly employed; at first in putting up purging powders, but, after a while, only in bleeding and visiting the sick. between the 8th and the 15th of september i visited and prescribed for between a hundred and a hundred and twenty patients a day. several of my pupils visited a fourth or fifth part of that number. for a while we refused no calls. in the short intervals of business, which i spent at my meals, my house was filled with patients, chiefly the poor, waiting for advice. for many weeks i seldom ate without prescribing for numbers as i sat at my table. to assist me at these hours, as well as in the night, mr. stall, mr. fisher, and mr. coxe accepted of rooms in my house, and became members of my family. their labours now had no remission. immediately after i adopted the antiphlogistic mode of treating the disease, i altered my manner of living. i left off drinking wine and malt liquors. the good effects of the disuse of these liquors helped to confirm me in the theory i had adopted of the disease. a troublesome head-ach, which i had occasionally felt, and which excited a constant apprehension that i was taking the fever, now suddenly left me. i likewise, at this time, left off eating solid animal food, and lived wholly, but sparingly, upon weak broth, potatoes, raisins, coffee, and bread and butter. from my constant exposure to the sources of the disease, my body became highly impregnated with miasmata. my eyes were yellow, and sometimes a yellowness was perceptible in my face. my pulse was preternaturally quick, and i had profuse sweats every night. these sweats were so offensive, as to oblige me to draw the bed-clothes close to my neck, to defend myself from their smell. they lost their f[oe]tor entirely, upon my leaving off the use of broth, and living entirely upon milk and vegetables. but my nights were rendered disagreeable, not only by these sweats, but by the want of my usual sleep, produced in part by the frequent knocking at my door, and in part by anxiety of mind, and the stimulus of the miasmata upon my system. i went to bed in conformity to habit only, for it ceased to afford me rest or refreshment. when it was evening i wished for morning; and when it was morning, the prospect of the labours of the day, at which i often shuddered, caused me to wish for the return of evening. the degrees of my anxiety may be easily conceived when i add, that i had at one time upwards of thirty heads of families under my care; among these were mr. josiah coates, the father of eight, and mr. benjamin scull and mr. john morell, both fathers of ten children. they were all in imminent danger; but it pleased god to make me the instrument of saving each of their lives. i rose at six o'clock, and generally found a number of persons waiting for advice in my shop or parlour. hitherto the success of my practice gave a tone to my mind, which imparted preternatural vigour to my body. it was meat and drink to me to fulfil the duties i owed to my fellow-citizens, in this time of great and universal distress. from a hope that i might escape the disease, by avoiding every thing that could excite it into action, i carefully avoided the heat of the sun, and the coldness of the evening air. i likewise avoided yielding to every thing that should raise or depress my passions. but, at such a time, the events which influence the state of the body and mind are no more under our command than the winds or weather. on the evening of the 14th of september, after eight o'clock, i visited the son of mrs. berriman, near the swedes's church, who had sent for me early in the morning. i found him very ill. he had been bled in the forenoon, by my advice, but his pulse indicated a second bleeding. it would have been difficult to procure a bleeder at that late hour. i therefore bled him myself. heated by this act, and debilitated by the labours of the day, i rode home in the evening air. during the ensuing night i was much indisposed. i rose, notwithstanding, at my usual hour. at eight o'clock i lost ten ounces of blood, and immediately afterwards got into my chair, and visited between forty and fifty patients before dinner. at the house of one of them i was forced to lie down a few minutes. in the course of this morning's labours my mind was suddenly thrown off its pivots, by the last look, and the pathetic cries, of a friend for help, who was dying under the care of a french physician. i came home about two o'clock, and was seized, immediately afterwards, with a chilly fit and a high fever. i took a dose of the mercurial medicine, and went to bed. in the evening i took a second purging powder, and lost ten ounces more of blood. the next morning i bathed my face, hands, and feet in cold water for some time. i drank plentifully, during the day and night, of weak hyson tea, and of water, in which currant jelly had been dissolved. at eight o'clock i was so well as to admit persons who came for advice into my room, and to receive reports from my pupils of the state of as many of my patients as they were able to visit; for, unfortunately, they were not able to visit them all (with their own) in due time; by which means several died. the next day i came down stairs, and prescribed in my parlour for not less than a hundred people. on the 19th of the same month, i resumed my labours, but in great weakness. it was with difficulty that i ascended a pair of stairs, by the help of a banister. a slow fever, attended with irregular chills, and a troublesome cough, hung constantly upon me. the fever discovered itself in the heat of my hands, which my patients often told me were warmer than their own. the breath and exhalations from the sick now began to affect me, in small and infected rooms, in the most sensible manner. on the morning of the 4th of october i suddenly sunk down, in a sick room, upon a bed, with a giddiness in my head. it continued for a few minutes, and was succeeded by a fever, which confined me to my house the remaining part of the day. every moment in the intervals of my visits to the sick was employed in prescribing, in my own house, for the poor, or in sending answers to messages from my patients; time was now too precious to be spent in counting the number of persons who called upon me for advice. from circumstances i believe it was frequently 150, and seldom less than 50 in a day, for five or six weeks. the evening did not bring with it the least relaxation from my labours. i received letters every day from the country, and from distant parts of the union, containing inquiries into the mode of treating the disease, and after the health and lives of persons who had remained in the city. the business of every evening was to answer these letters, also to write to my family. these employments, by affording a fresh current to my thoughts, kept me from dwelling on the gloomy scenes of the day. after these duties were performed, i copied into my note book all the observations i had collected during the day, and which i had marked with a pencil in my pocket-book in sick rooms, or in my carriage. to these constant labours of body and mind were added distresses from a variety of causes. having found myself unable to comply with the numerous applications that were made to me, i was obliged to refuse many every day. my sister counted forty-seven in one forenoon before eleven o'clock. many of them left my door with tears, but they did not feel more distress than i did from refusing to follow them. sympathy, when it vents itself in acts of humanity, affords pleasure, and contributes to health; but the reflux of pity, like anger, gives pain, and disorders the body. in riding through the streets, i was often forced to resist the entreaties of parents imploring a visit to their children, or of children to their parents. i recollect, and even _yet_ with pain, that i tore myself at one time from five persons in moravian-alley, who attempted to stop me, by suddenly whipping my horse, and driving my chair as speedily as possible beyond the reach of their cries. the solicitude of the friends of the sick for help may further be conceived of, when i add, that the most extravagant compensations were sometimes offered for medical services, and, in one instance, for only a single visit. i had no merit in refusing these offers, and i have introduced an account of them only to inform such physicians as may hereafter be thrown into a similar situation, that i was favoured with an exemption from the fear of death, in proportion as i subdued every selfish feeling, and laboured exclusively for the benefit of others. in every instance in which i was forced to refuse these pathetic and earnest applications, my distress was heightened by the fear that the persons, whom i was unable to visit, would fall into improper hands, and perish by the use of bark, wine, and laudanum. but i had other afflictions besides the distress which arose from the abortive sympathy which i have described. on the 11th of september, my ingenious pupil, mr. washington, fell a victim to his humanity. he had taken lodgings in the country, where he sickened with the disease. having been almost uniformly successful in curing others, he made light of his fever, and concealed the knowledge of his danger from me, until the day before he died. on the 18th of september mr. stall sickened in my house. a delirium attended his fever from the first hour it affected him. he refused, and even resisted force when used to compel him to take medicine. he died on the 23d of september[101]. scarcely had i recovered from the shock of the death of this amiable youth, when i was called to weep for a third pupil, mr. alston, who died in my neighbourhood the next day. he had worn himself down, before his sickness, by uncommon exertions in visiting, bleeding, and even sitting up with sick people. at this time mr. fisher was ill in my house. on the 26th of the month, at 12 o'clock, mr. coxe, my only assistant, was seized with the fever, and went to his grandfather's. i followed him with a look, which i feared would be the last in my house. at two o'clock my sister, who had complained for several days, yielded to the disease, and retired to her bed. my mother followed her, much indisposed, early in the evening. my black servant man had been confined with the fever for several days, and had on that day, for the first time, quitted his bed. my little mulatto boy, of eleven years old, was the only person in my family who was able to afford me the least assistance. at eight o'clock in the evening i finished the business of the day. a solemn stillness at that time pervaded the streets. in vain did i strive to forget my melancholy situation by answering letters, and by putting up medicines, to be distributed next day among my patients. my faithful black man crept to my door, and at my request sat down by the fire, but he added, by his silence and dullness, to the gloom which suddenly overpowered every faculty of my mind. [101] this accomplished youth had made great attainments in his profession. he possessed, with an uncommon genius for science, talents for music, painting, and poetry. the following copy of an unfinished letter to his father (who had left the city) was found among his papers after his death. it shows that the qualities of his heart were equal to those of his head. "_philadelphia, september 15, 1793._ "my dear father, "i take every moment i have to spare to write to you, which is not many; but you must excuse me, as i am doing good to my fellow-creatures. at this time, every moment i spend in idleness might probably cost a life. the sickness increases every day, but most of those who die, die for want of good attendance. we cure all we are called to on the first day, who are well attended, but so many doctors are sick, the poor creatures are glad to get a doctor's servant." on the first day of october, at two o'clock in the afternoon, my sister died. i got into my carriage within an hour after she expired, and spent the afternoon in visiting patients. according as a sense of duty, or as grief has predominated in my mind, i have approved, and disapproved of this act, ever since. she had borne a share in my labours. she had been my nurse in sickness, and my casuist in my choice of duties. my whole heart reposed itself in her friendship. upon being invited to a friend's house in the country, when the disease made its appearance in the city, she declined accepting the invitation, and gave as a reason for so doing, that i might probably require her services in case of my taking the disease, and that, if she were sure of dying, she would remain with me, provided that, by her death, she could save my life. from this time i declined in health and strength. all motion became painful to me. my appetite began to fail. my night sweats continued. my short and imperfect sleep was disturbed by distressing or frightful dreams. the scenes of them were derived altogether from sick rooms and grave-yards. i concealed my sorrows as much as possible from my patients; but when alone, the retrospect of what was past, and the prospect of what was before me, the termination of which was invisible, often filled my soul with the most poignant anguish. i wept frequently when retired from the public eye, but i did not weep over the lost members of my family alone. i beheld or heard every day of the deaths of citizens, useful in public, or amiable in private life. it was my misfortune to lose as patients the rev. mr. fleming and mr. graesel, both exhausted by their labours of piety and love among the poor, before they sickened with the disease. i saw the last struggles of departing life in mr. powel, and deplored, in his death, an upright and faithful servant of the public, as well as a sincere and affectionate friend. often did i mourn over persons who had, by the most unparalleled exertions, saved their friends and families from the grave, at the expence of their own lives. many of these martyrs to humanity were in humble stations. among the members of my profession, with whom i had been most intimately connected, i had daily cause of grief and distress. i saw the great and expanded mind of dr. pennington, shattered by delirium, just before he died. he was to me dear and beloved, like a younger brother. he was, moreover, a joab in the contest with the disease. philadelphia must long deplore the premature death of this excellent physician. had he lived a few years longer, he would have filled an immense space in the republic of medicine[102]. it was my affliction to see my friend dr. john morris breathe his last, and to hear the first effusions of the most pathetic grief from his mother, as she bursted from the room in which he died. but i had distress from the sickness, as well as the deaths of my brethren in physic. my worthy friends, dr. griffitts, dr. say, and dr. mease, were suspended by a thread over the grave, nearly at the same time. heaven, in mercy to me, as well as in kindness to the public and their friends, preserved their lives. had they died, the measure of my sorrows would have been complete. [102] before he finished his studies in medicine, he published a volume of ingenious and patriotic "chemical and economical essays, designed to illustrate the connection between the theory and practice of chemistry, and the application of that science to some of the arts and manufactures of the united states of america." i have said before, that i early left off drinking wine; but i used it in another way. i carried a little of it in a vial in my pocket, and when i felt myself fainty, after coming out of a sick room, or after a long ride, i kept about a table spoonful of it in my mouth for half a minute, or longer, without swallowing it. so weak and excitable was my system, that this small quantity of wine refreshed and invigorated me as much as half a pint would have done at any other time. the only difference was, that the vigour i derived from the wine in the former, was of shorter duration than when taken in the latter way. for the first two weeks after i visited patients in the yellow fever, i carried a rag wetted with vinegar, and smelled it occasionally in sick rooms: but after i saw and felt the signs of the universal presence of miasmata in my system, i laid aside this and all other precautions. i rested myself on the bed-side of my patients, and i drank milk or ate fruit in their sick rooms. besides being saturated with miasmata, i had another security against being infected in sick rooms, and that was, i went into scarcely a house which was more infected than my own. many of the poor people, who called upon me for advice, were bled by my pupils in my shop, and in the yard, which was between it and the street. from the want of a sufficient number of bowls to receive their blood, it was sometimes suffered to flow and putrify upon the ground. from this source, streams of miasmata were constantly poured into my house, and conveyed into my body by the air, during every hour of the day and night. the deaths of my pupils and sister have often been urged as objections to my mode of treating the fever. had the same degrees of labour and fatigue, which preceded the attack of the yellow fever in each of them, preceded an attack of a common pleurisy, i think it probable that some, or perhaps all of them, would have died with it. but when the influence of the concentrated miasmata which filled my house was added to that of constant fatigue upon their bodies, what remedies could be expected to save their lives? under the above circumstances, i consider the recovery of the other branches of my family from the fever (and none of them escaped it) with emotions, such as i should feel had we all been revived from apparent death by the exertions of a humane society. for upwards of six weeks i did not taste animal food, nor fermented liquors of any kind. the quantity of aliment which i took, inclusive of drinks, during this time, was frequently not more than one or two pounds in a day. yet upon this diet i possessed, for a while, uncommon activity of body. this influence of abstinence upon bodily exertion has been happily illustrated by dr. jackson, in his directions for preserving the health of soldiers in hot climates. he tells us, that he walked a hundred miles in three days, in jamaica, during which time he breakfasted on tea, supped on bread and salad, and drank nothing but lemonade or water. he adds further, that he walked from edinburgh to london in eleven days and a half, and that he travelled with the most ease when he only breakfasted and supped, and drank nothing but water. the fatigue of riding on horseback is prevented or lessened by abstinence from solid food. even the horse suffers least from a quick and long journey when he is fed sparingly with hay. these facts add weight to the arguments formerly adduced, in favour of a vegetable diet, in preventing or mitigating the action of the miasmata of malignant fevers upon the system. in both cases the abstraction of stimulus removes the body further from the reach of undue excitement and morbid depression. food supports life as much by its stimulus, as by affording nourishment to the body. where an artificial stimulus acts upon the system the natural stimulus of food ceases to be necessary. under the influence of this principle, i increased or diminished my food with the signs i discovered of the increase or diminution of the seeds of the disease in my body. until the 15th of september i drank weak coffee, but after that time i drank nothing but milk, or milk and water, in the intervals of my meals. i was so satisfied of the efficacy of this mode of living, that i believed life might have been preserved, and a fever prevented, for many days, with a much greater accumulation of miasmata in my system, by means of a total abstinence from food. poison is a relative term, and an excess in quantity, or a derangement in place, is necessary to its producing deleterious effects. the miasmata of the yellow fever produced sickness and death only from the excess of their quantity, or from their force being increased by the addition of those other stimuli which i have elsewhere called exciting causes. in addition to low diet, as a preventive of the disease, i obviated costiveness by taking occasionally a calomel pill, or by chewing rhubarb. i had read and taught, in my lectures, that fasting increases acuteness in the sense of touch. my low living had that effect, in a certain degree, upon my fingers. i had a quickness in my perception, of the state of the pulse in the yellow fever, that i had never experienced before in any other disease. my abstemious diet, assisted perhaps by the state of my feelings, had likewise an influence upon my mind. its operations were performed with an ease and a celerity, which rendered my numerous and complicated duties much less burdensome than they would probably have been under other circumstances of diet, or a less agitated state of my passions. my perception of the lapse of time was new to me. it was uncommonly slow. the ordinary business and pursuits of men appeared to me in a light that was equally new. the hearse and the grave mingled themselves with every view i took of human affairs. under these impressions i recollect being as much struck with observing a number of men, employed in digging the cellar of a large house, as i should have been, at any other time, in seeing preparations for building a palace upon a cake of ice. i recollect, further, being struck with surprise, about the 1st of october, in seeing a man busily employed in laying in wood for the approaching winter. i should as soon have thought of making provision for a dinner on the first day of the year 1800. in the account of my distresses, i have passed over the slanders which were propagated against me by some of my brethren. i have mentioned them only for the sake of declaring, in this public manner, that i most heartily forgive them; and that if i discovered, at any time, an undue sense of the unkindness and cruelty of those slanders, it was not because i felt myself injured by them, but because i was sure they would irreparably injure my fellow-citizens, by lessening their confidence in the only remedies that i believed to be effectual in the reigning epidemic. one thing in my conduct towards these gentlemen may require justification; and that is, my refusing to consult with them. a mahometan and a jew might as well attempt to worship the supreme being in the same temple, and through the medium of the same ceremonies, as two physicians of opposite principles and practice attempt to confer about the life of the same patient. what is done in consequence of such negotiations (for they are not consultations) is the ineffectual result of neutralized opinions; and wherever they take place, should be considered as the effect of a criminal compact between physicians, to assess the property of their patients, by a shameful prostitution of the dictates of their consciences. besides, i early discovered that it was impossible for me, by any reasonings, to change the practice of some of my brethren. humanity was, therefore, on the side of leaving them to themselves; for the extremity of _wrong_ in medicine, as in morals and government, is often a less mischief than that mixture of _right_ and _wrong_ which serves, by palliating, to perpetuate evil. after the loss of my health i received letters from my friends in the country, pressing me, in the strongest terms, to leave the city. such a step had become impracticable. my aged mother was too infirm to be removed, and i could not leave her. i was, moreover, part of a little circle of physicians, who had associated themselves in support of the new remedies. this circle would have been broken by my quitting the city. the weather varied the disease, and, in the weakest state of my body, i expected to be able, from the reports of my pupils, to assist my associates in detecting its changes, and in accommodating our remedies to them. under these circumstances it pleased god to enable me to reply to one of the letters that urged my retreat from the city, that "i had resolved to stick to my principles, my practice, and my patients, to the last extremity." on the 9th of october, i visited a considerable number of patients, and, as the day was warm, i lessened the quantity of my clothing. towards evening i was seized with a pain in the back, which obliged me to go to bed at eight o'clock. about twelve i awoke with a chilly fit. a violent fever, with acute pains in different parts of my body, followed it. at one o'clock i called for mr. fisher, who slept in the next room. he came instantly, with my affectionate black man, to my relief. i saw my danger painted in mr. fisher's countenance. he bled me plentifully, and gave me a dose of the mercurial medicine. this was immediately rejected. he gave me a second dose, which likewise acted as an emetic, and discharged a large quantity of bile from my stomach. the remaining part of the night was passed under an apprehension that my labours were near an end. i could hardly expect to survive so violent an attack of the fever, broken down, as i was, by labour, sickness, and grief. my wife and seven children, whom the great and distressing events that were passing in our city had jostled out of my mind for six or seven weeks, now resumed their former place in my affections. my wife had stipulated, in consenting to remain in the country, to come to my assistance in case of my sickness; but i took measures which, without alarming her, proved effectual in preventing it. my house was enveloped in foul air, and the probability of my death made her life doubly necessary to my family. in the morning the medicine operated kindly, and my fever abated. in the afternoon it returned, attended with a great inclination to sleep. mr. fisher bled me again, which removed the sleepiness. the next day the fever left me, but in so weak a state, that i awoke two successive nights with a faintness which threatened the extinction of my life. it was removed each time by taking a little aliment. my convalescence was extremely slow. i returned, in a very gradual manner, to my former habits of diet. the smell of animal food, the first time i saw it at my table, forced me to leave the room. during the month of november, and all the winter months, i was harassed with a cough, and a fever somewhat of the hectic kind. the early warmth of the spring removed those complaints, and restored me, through divine goodness, to my usual state of health. i should be deficient in gratitude, were i to conclude this narrative without acknowledging my obligations to my surviving pupils, mr. fisher and mr. coxe, for the great support and sympathy i derived from them in my labours and distresses. i take great pleasure likewise in acknowledging my obligations to my former pupil, dr. woodhouse, who assisted me in the care of my patients, after i became so weak as not to be able to attend them with the punctuality their cases required. the disinterested exploits of these young gentlemen in the cause of humanity, and their success in the treatment of the disease, have endeared their names to hundreds, and, at the same time, afforded a prelude of their future eminence and usefulness in their profession. but wherewith shall i come before the great father and redeemer of men, and what shall i render unto him for the issue of my life from the grave? ----here all language fails:--- come then, expressive silence, muse his praise. an account of the bilious remitting and intermitting _yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year 1794. i concluded the history of the symptoms of the bilious remitting yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in the year 1793, by taking notice, that the diseases which succeeded that fatal epidemic were all of a highly inflammatory nature. in that history i described the weather and diseases of the months of march and april, in the spring of 1794. the weather, during the first three weeks of the month of may, was dry and temperate, with now and then a cold day and night. the strawberries were ripe on the 15th, and cherries on the 22d day of the month, in several of the city gardens. a shower of hail fell on the afternoon of the 22d, which broke the glass windows of many houses. a single stone of this hail was found to weigh two drachms. several people collected a quantity of it, and preserved it till the next day in their cellars, when they used it for the purpose of cooling their wine. the weather, after this hail storm, was rainy during the remaining part of the month. the diseases were still inflammatory. many persons were afflicted with a sore mouth in this month. the weather in june was pleasant and temperate. several intermittents, and two very acute pleurisies, occurred in my practice during this month. the intermittents were uncommonly obstinate, and would not yield to the largest doses of the bark. in a son of mr. samuel coates, of seven years old, the bark produced a sudden translation of this state of fever to the head, where it produced all the symptoms of the first stage of internal dropsy of the brain. this once formidable disease yielded, in this case, to three bleedings, and other depleting medicines. the blood drawn in every instance was sizy. from the inflammatory complexion of the diseases of the spring, and of the beginning of june, i expected the fevers of the summer and autumn would be of a violent and malignant nature. i was the more disposed to entertain this opinion from observing the stagnating filth of the gutters of our city; for the citizens of philadelphia, having an interest in rejecting the proofs of the generation of the epidemic of 1793 in their city, had neglected to introduce the regulations which were necessary to prevent the production of a similar fever from domestic putrefaction. they had, it is true, taken pains to remove the earth and offal matters which accumulated in the streets; but these, from their being always dry, were inoffensive as remote causes of disease. perhaps the removal of the earth did harm, by preventing the absorption of the miasmata which were constantly exhaled from the gutters. on the 6th of june, dr. physick called upon me, and informed me that he had a woman in the yellow fever under his care. the information did not surprise me, but it awakened suddenly in my mind the most distressing emotions. i advised him to inform the mayor of the city of the case, but by no means to make it more public, for i hoped that it might be a sporadic instance of the disease, and that it might not become general in the city. on the 12th of the month, my fears of the return of the yellow fever were revived by visiting mr. isaac morris, whom i found very ill with a violent puking, great pain in his head, a red eye, and a slow tense pulse. i ordered him to be bled, and purged him plentifully with jalap and calomel. his blood had that appearance which has been compared by authors to the washings of raw flesh in water. upon his recovery, he told me that he "suspected he had had the yellow fever, for that his feelings were exactly such as they had been in the fall of 1793, at which time he had an attack of that disease." on the 14th of june, i was sent for, in the absence of dr. mease, to visit his sister in a fever. her mother, who had become intimately acquainted with the yellow fever, by nursing her son and mother in it, the year before, at once decided upon the name of her daughter's disease. her symptoms were violent, but they appeared in an intermitting form. each paroxysm of her fever was like a hurricane to her whole system. it excited apprehensions of immediate dissolution in the minds of all her friends. the loss of sixty ounces of blood, by five bleedings, copious doses of calomel and jalap, and a large blister to her neck, soon vanquished this malignant intermittent, without the aid of a single dose of bark. during the remaining part of the month, i was called to several cases of fever, which had symptoms of malignity of an alarming nature. the son of mr. andrew brown had a hæmorrhage from his nose in a fever, and a case of menorrhagia occurred in a woman, who was affected with but a slight degree of fever. in the course of this month, i met with several cases of swelled testicles, which had succeeded fevers so slight as to have required no medical aid. dr. desportes records similar instances of a swelling in the testicles, which appeared during the prevalence of the yellow fever in st. domingo, in the year 1741[103]. [103] histoire des maladies de saint domingue, p. 112. in the month of july, i visited james lefferty and william adams, both of whom had, with the usual symptoms of yellow fever, a yellow colour on their skin. i likewise attended three women, in whom i discovered the disease under forms in which i had often seen it in the year 1793. in two of them it appeared with symptoms of a violent colic, which yielded only to frequent bleedings. in the third, it appeared with symptoms of pleurisy, which was attended with a constant hæmorrhage from the uterus, although blood was drawn almost daily from her arm, for six or seven days. about the middle of this month many people complained of nausea, which in some cases produced a puking, without any symptoms of fever. during the month of august, i was called to peter denham, mrs. bruce, a son of jacob gribble, mr. cole, john madge, mrs. gardiner, miss purdon, mrs. gavin, and benjamin cochran, each of whom had all the usual symptoms of the yellow fever. i found mr. cochran sitting on the side of his bed, with a pot in his hand, into which he was discharging black matter from his stomach, on the 6th day of the disease. he died on the next day. mrs. gavin died on the 6th day of her disease, from a want of sufficient bleeding, to which she objected from the influence of her friends. besides the above persons, i visited mr. george eyre at kensington, mr. thomas fitzsimons, and thomas m'kean, jun. son of the chief justice of pennsylvania, all of whom had the disease, but in a moderate degree. during this time i took no steps to alarm my fellow-citizens with the unwelcome news of its being in town. but my mind was not easy in this situation, for i daily heard of persons who died of the disease, who might probably have been saved had they applied early for relief, or had a suspicion become general among all our physicians of the existence of the yellow fever in the city. the cholera infantum was common during this, and part of the preceding month. it was more obstinate and more fatal than in common years. on the 12th of this month, a letter from baltimore announced the existence of the yellow fever in that city. one of the patients whom i visited in this month, in the fever, mr. cole, brought the seeds of it in his body from that place. on the 25th of the month, two members of a committee, lately appointed by the government of the state, for taking care of the health of the city, called upon me to know whether the yellow fever was in town. i told them it was, and mentioned some of the cases that had come under my notice; but informed them, at the same time, that i had seen no case in which it had been contagious, and that, in every case where i had been called early, and where my prescriptions had been followed, the disease had yielded to medicine. on the 29th of the month i received an invitation to attend a meeting of the committee of health, at their office at walnut-street. they interrogated me respecting the intelligence i had given to two of their members on the 25th. i repeated it to them, and mentioned the names of all the persons i had attended in the yellow fever since the 9th of june. neither this, nor several subsequent communications to the committee of health produced the effect that was intended by them. dr. physick and dr. dewees supported me in my declaration, but their testimony did not protect me from the clamours of my fellow-citizens, nor from the calumnies of some of my brethren, who, while they daily attended or lost patients in the yellow fever, called it by the less unpopular names of 1. a common intermittent. 2. a bilious fever. 3. an inflammatory remitting fever. 4. a putrid fever. 5. a nervous fever. 6. a dropsy of the brain. 7. a lethargy. 8. pleurisy. 9. gout. 10. rheumatism. 11. colic. 12. dysentery. and 13. sore throat. it was said further, by several of the physicians of the city, not to be the yellow fever, because some who had died of it had not a sighing in the beginning, and a black vomiting in the close of the disease. even where the black vomiting and yellow skin occurred, they were said not to constitute a yellow fever, for that those symptoms occurred in other fevers. let not the reader complain of the citizens and physicians of philadelphia alone. a similar conduct has existed in all cities upon the appearance of great and mortal epidemics. nor is it any thing new for mortal diseases to receive mild and harmless names from physicians. the plague was called a spotted fever, for several months, by some of the physicians of london, in the year 1665. notwithstanding the pains which were taken to discredit the report of the existence of the yellow fever in the city, it was finally believed by many citizens, and a number of families in consequence of it left the city. and in spite of the harmless names of intermitting and remitting fever, and the like, which were given to the disease, the bodies of persons who had died with it were conveyed to the grave, in several instances, upon a hearse, the way in which those who died of the yellow fever were buried the year before. from the influence of occasional showers of rain, in the months of september and october, the disease was frequently checked, so as to disappear altogether for two or three days in my circle of practice. it was observed, that while showers of rain lessened, moist or damp weather, without rain, increased it. the cold weather in october checked the fever, but it did not banish it from the city. it appeared in november, and in all the succeeding winter and spring months. the weather, during these months, being uncommonly moderate, will account for its not being destroyed at the time in which the disease usually disappeared in former years. the causes which predisposed to this fever were the same as in the year 1793. persons of full habits, strangers, and negroes, were most subject to it. it may seem strange to those persons who have read that the negroes are seldom affected with this fever in the west-indies, that they were so much affected by it in philadelphia. there were two reasons for it. their manner of living was as plentiful as that of white people in the west-indies, and they generally resided in alleys and on the skirts of the city, where they were more exposed to noxious exhalation, than in its more open and central parts. the summer fruits, from being eaten before they were ripe, or in too large a quantity, became frequently exciting causes of this fever. it was awakened in one of my patients by a supper of peaches and milk. cucumbers, in several instances, gave vigour to the miasmata which had been previously received into the system. terror excited it in two of my patients. in one of them, a young woman, this terror was produced by hearing, while she sat at dinner, that a hearse had passed by her door with a person on it who had died of the yellow fever. vexation excited it in a foreign master of a vessel, in consequence of a young woman suddenly breaking an engagement to marry him. the disease terminated fatally in this instance. it was sometimes unfortunate for patients when the disease was excited by an article of diet, or by any other cause which acted suddenly upon the system; for it led both them, and in some instances their physicians, to confound those exciting causes with its remote cause, and to view the disease without the least relation to the prevailing epidemic. it was from this mistake that many persons were said to die of intemperance, of eating ice creams, and of trifling colds, who certainly died of the yellow fever. the rum, the ice creams, and the changes in the air, in all these cases, acted like sparks of fire which set in motion the quiescent particles of tinder or gunpowder. i shall now proceed to describe the symptoms which this fever assumed during the periods which have been mentioned. this detail will be interesting to physicians who wish to see how little nature regards the nosological arrangement of authors, in the formation of the symptoms of diseases, and how much the seasons influence epidemics. a physician, who had practised medicine near sixty years in the city of philadelphia, declared that he had never seen the dysentery assume the same symptoms in any two _successive_ years. the same may be said probably of nearly all epidemic diseases. in the arrangement of the symptoms of this fever, i shall follow the order i adopted in my account of the yellow fever of 1793, and describe them as they appeared in the sanguiferous system, the liver, lungs, and brain, the alimentary canal, the secretions and excretions, the nervous system, the senses and appetites, upon the skin, and in the blood. two premonitory symptoms struck me this year, which i did not observe in 1793. one of them was a frequent discharge of pale urine for a day or two before the commencement of the fever; the other was sleep unusually sound, the night before the attack of the fever. the former symptom was a precursor of the plague of bassora, in the year 1773. i. i observed but few symptoms in the sanguiferous system different from what i have mentioned in the fever of the preceding year. the slow and intermitting pulse occurred in many, and a pulse nearly imperceptible, in three instances. it was seldom very frequent. in john madge, an english farmer, who had just arrived in our city, it beat only 64 strokes in a minute, for several days, while he was so ill as to require three bleedings a day, and at no time of his fever did his pulse exceed 96 strokes in a minute. in miss sally eyre, the pulse at one time was at 176, and at another time it was at 140; but this frequency of pulse was very rare. in a majority of the cases which came under my notice, where the danger was great, it seldom exceeded 80 strokes in a minute. i have been thus particular in describing the frequency of the pulse, because custom has created an expectation of that part of the history of fevers; but my attention was directed chiefly to the different degrees of _force_ in the pulse, as manifested by its tension, fulness, intermissions, and inequality of action. the _hobbling_ pulse was common. in john geraud, i perceived a quick stroke to succeed every two strokes of an ordinary healthy pulse. the intermitting, chorded, and depressed pulse occurred in many cases. i called it the year before a _sulky_ pulse. one of my pupils, mr. alexander, called it more properly a _locked_ pulse. i think i observed this state of the pulse to occur chiefly in persons in whom the fever came on without a chilly fit. hæmorrhages occurred in all the grades of this fever, but less frequently in my practice this year than in the year before. it occurred, after a ninth bleeding, in miss sally eyre, from the nose and bowels. it occurred from the nose, after a sixth bleeding, in mrs. gardiner, who was at that time in the sixth month of her pregnancy. this symptom, which was accompanied by a tense and quick pulse, induced me to repeat the bleeding a seventh time. the blood was very sizy. i mention this fact to establish the opinion that hæmorrhages depend upon too much action in the blood-vessels, and that they are not occasioned by a dissolved state of the blood. there was a disposition at this time to hæmorrhage in persons who were in apparent good health. a private, in a company of volunteers commanded by major m'pherson, informed me that three of his messmates were affected by a bleeding at the nose, for several days after they left the city, on their way to quell the insurrection in the western counties of pennsylvania. ii. the liver did not exhibit the usual marks of inflammation. perhaps my mode of treating the fever prevented those symptoms of hepatic affection which belong to the yellow fever in tropical climates. the lungs were frequently affected; and hence the disease was in many instances called a pleurisy or a catarrh. this inflammation of the lungs occurred in a more especial manner in the winter season. it was distinguished from the pleurisies of common years by a red eye, by a vomiting of green or yellow bile, by black stools, and by requiring very copious blood-letting to cure it. the head was affected, in this fever, not only with coma and delirium, but with mania. this symptom was so common as to give rise to an opinion that madness was epidemic in our city. i saw no case of it which was not connected with other symptoms of the bilious remitting fever. the rev. mr. keating, one of the ministers of the roman church, informed me that he had been called to visit seven deranged persons in his congregation, in the course of one week, in the month of march. two of them had made attempts upon their lives. this mania was probably, in each of the above cases, a symptom only of general fever. the dilatation of the pupil was universal in this fever. sore eyes were common during the prevalence of this fever. in mrs. leaming, this affection of the eyes was attended with a fever of a tertian type. iii. the alimentary canal suffered as usual in this fever. a vomiting was common upon the first attack of the disease. i observed this symptom to be less common after the cold and rainy weather which took place about the first of october. i have in another place mentioned the influence of the weather upon the symptoms of this disease. in addition to the facts which have been formerly recorded, i shall add one more from dr. desportes. he tells us, that in dry weather the disease affects the head, and that the bowels in this case are more obstinately costive than in moist weather. this influence of the atmosphere on the yellow fever will not surprise those physicians who recollect the remarkable passage in hippocrates, in which he says, that in the violent heats of summer, fevers appeared, but without any sweat; but if a shower, though ever so slight, appeared, a sweat broke out in the beginning[104]. i observed further, that a vomiting rarely attended those cases in which there was an absence of a chilly fit in the beginning of the fever. the same observation is made by dr. desportes[105]. [104] epidemics, book xi. sect. i. [105] les maladies de st. domingue, vol. i. p. 193. the matter discharged by vomiting was green or yellow bile in most cases. mrs. jones, the wife of captain lloyd jones, and one other person, discharged black bile within one hour after they were attacked by the fever. i have taken notice, in the history of the yellow fever of 1793, that a discharge of bile in the beginning of this fever was always a favourable symptom. dr. davidson of st. vincents, in a letter to me, dated the 22d july, 1794, makes the same remark. it shows that the biliary ducts are open, and that the bile is not in that viscid and impacted state which is described in the dissections of dr. mitchel[106]. a distressing pain in the stomach, called by dr. cullen gastrodynia, attended in two instances. a burning pain in the stomach, and a soreness to the touch of its whole external region, occurred in three or four cases. two of them were in march, 1795. in mrs. vogles, who had the fever in september, 1794, the sensibility of the pit of the stomach was so exquisite, that she could not bear the weight of a sheet upon it. [106] account of the yellow fever of 1793. pains in the bowels were very common. they formed the true bilious colic, so often mentioned by west-india writers. in john madge these pains produced a hardness and contraction of the whole external region of the bowels. they were periodical in miss nancy eyre, and in mrs. gardiner, and in both cases were attended with diarrh[oe]a. costiveness without pain was common, and, in some cases, so extremely obstinate as to resist, for several days, the successive and alternated use of all the usual purges of the shops. flatulency was less common in this fever than in the year 1793. the disease appeared with symptoms of dysentery in several cases. iv. the following is an account of the state of the _secretions_ and _excretions_ in this fever. a puking of bile was more common this year than in the year 1793. it was generally of a green or yellow colour. i have remarked before, that two of my patients discharged black bile within an hour after they were affected by the fever, and many discharged that kind of matter which has been compared to coffee grounds, towards the close of the disease. the fæces were black in most cases where the symptoms of the highest grade of the fever attended. in one very malignant case the most drastic purges brought away, by fifty evacuations, nothing but natural stools. the purges were continued, and finally black fæces were discharged, which produced immediate relief[107]. in one person the fæces were of a light colour. in this patient the yellowness in the face was of an orange colour, and continued so for several weeks after his recovery. [107] in the account of the effects of morbid action and inflammation, in the outlines of the theory of fever, the author neglected to mention the change of certain fluids from their natural to a dark colour. it appears in the secretions of the stomach and bowels, in the bile, in the urine, in carbuncles, and occasionally in the matter which is produced by blisters. all these changes occur in the yellow fever, and, in common with the other effects of fever that have been enumerated, are the result of peculiar actions in the vessels, derived from _one_ cause, viz. morbid excitement. the urine was, in most cases, high coloured. it was scanty in quantity in peter brown, and totally suppressed in john madge for two days. i ascribed this defect of natural action in the kidneys to an _engorgement_ in their blood-vessels, similar to that which takes place in the lungs and brain in this fever. i had for some time entertained this idea of a morbid affection of the kidneys, but i have lately been confirmed in it by the account which dr. chisholm gives of the state of one of the kidneys, in a man whom he lost with the beullam fever, at grenada. "the right kidney (says the doctor) was mortified, although, during his illness, no symptom of inflammation of that organ was perceived[108]." it would seem as if the want of action in the kidneys, and a defect in their functions were not necessarily attended with pain. i recollect to have met with several cases in 1793, in which there was a total absence of pain in a suppression of urine of several days continuance. the same observation is made by dr. chisholm, in his account of the beullam fever of grenada[109]. from this fact it seems probable, that pain is not the effect of any determinate state of animal fibres, but requires the concurrence of morbid or preternatural excitement to produce it. i met with but one case of strangury in this fever. it terminated favourably in a few days. i have never seen death, in a single instance, in a fever from any cause, where a strangury attended, and i have seldom seen a fatal issue to a fever, where this symptom was accidentally produced by a blister. from this fact there would seem to be a connection between a morbid excitement in the neck of the bladder, and the safety of more vital parts of the body. the idea of this connection was first suggested to me, above thirty years ago, by the late dr. james leiper, of maryland, who informed me that he had sometimes cured the most dangerous cases of pleurisy, after the usual remedies had failed, by exciting a strangury, by means of the tincture of spanish flies mixed with camphorated spirit of wine. [108] essay on the malignant pestilential fever introduced into the west-indies from beullam, p. 137. [109] page 224. the tongue was always moist in the beginning of the fever, but it was generally of a darker colour than last year. when the disease was left to itself, or treated with bark and wine, the tongue became of a fiery red colour, or dry and furrowed, as in the typhus fever. _sweats_ were more common in the remissions of this fever, than they were in the year 1793, but they seldom terminated the disease. during the course of the sweats, i observed a deadly coldness over the whole body to continue in several instances, but without any danger or inconvenience to the patient. in two of the worst cases i attended, there were remissions, but no sweats until the day on which the fever terminated. in several of my patients, the fever wore away without the least moisture on the skin. the _milk_, in one case, was of a greenish colour, such as sometimes appears in the serum of the blood. in another female patient who gave suck, there was no diminution in the quantity of her milk during the whole time of her fever, nor did her infant suffer the least injury from sucking her breasts. i observed tears to flow from the eye of a young woman in this fever, at a time when her mind seemed free from distress of every kind. v. i proceed next to mention the symptoms of this fever in the nervous system. delirium was less common than last year. i was much struck in observing john madge, who had retained his reason while he was so ill as to require three bleedings a day, to become delirious as soon as he began to recover, at which time his pulse rose from between 60 and 70, to 96 strokes in a minute. i saw one case of extreme danger, in which a hysterical laughing and weeping alternately attended. i have before mentioned the frequency of mania as a symptom of this disease. an obstinate wakefulness attended the convalescence from this fever in peter brown, john madge, and mr. cole. fainting was more common in this fever than in the fever of 1793. it ushered in the disease in one of my patients, and it occurred in several instances after bleeding, where the quantity of blood drawn was very moderate. several people complained of giddiness in the first attack of the fever, before they were confined to their beds. sighing was less common, but a hiccup was more so, than in the year before. john madge had an immobility in his limbs bordering upon palsy. a weakness in the wrists in one case succeeded a violent attack of the fever. peter brown complained of a most acute pain in the muscles of one of his legs. it afterwards became so much inflamed as to require external applications to prevent the inflammation terminating in an abscess. mrs. mitchell complained of severe cramps in her legs. the sensations of pain in this fever were often expressed in extravagant language. the pain in the head, in a particular manner, was compared to repeated strokes of a hammer upon the brain, and in two cases, in which this pain was accompanied by great heat, it was compared to the boiling of a pot. the more the pains were confined to the bones and back, the less danger was to be apprehended from the disease. i saw no case of death from the yellow fever in 1793, where the patient complained much of pain in the back. it is easy to conceive how this external determination of morbid action should preserve more vital parts. the bilious fever of 1780 was a harmless disease, only because it spent its whole force chiefly upon the limbs. this was so generally the case, that it acquired, from the pains in the bones which accompanied it, the name of the "break bone fever." hippocrates has remarked that pains which descend, in a fever, are more favourable than those which ascend[110]. this is probably true, but i did not observe any such peculiarity in the translation of pain in this fever. the following fact from dr. grainger will add weight to the above observations. he observed the pains in a malignant fever which were diffused through the whole head, though excruciating, were much less dangerous than when they were confined to the temples or forehead[111]. [110] epidemics, book ii. sect. 2. [111] historia febris anomalæ batavæ annorum 1746, 1747, 1748, cap. i. i saw two cases in which a locked jaw attended. in one of them it occurred only during one paroxysm of the fever. in both it yielded in half an hour to blood-letting. i met with one case in which there was universal tetanus. i should have suspected this to have been the primary disease, had not two persons been infected in the same house with the yellow fever. the countenance sometimes put on a ghastly appearance in the height of a paroxysm of the fever. the face of a lady, admired when in health for uncommon beauty, was so much distorted by the commotions of her whole system, in a fit of the fever, as to be viewed with horror by all her friends. vi. the senses and appetites were affected in this fever in the following manner. a total blindness occurred in two persons during the exacerbation of the fever, and ceased during its remissions. a great intolerance of light occurred in several cases. it was most observable in john madge during his convalescence. a soreness in the sense of touch was so exquisite in mrs. kapper, about the crisis of her fever, that the pressure of a piece of fine muslin upon her skin gave her pain. peter brown, with great heat in his skin, and a quick pulse, had no thirst, but a most intense degree of thirst was very common in this fever. it produced the same extravagance of expression that i formerly said was produced by pain. one of my patients, mr. cole, said he "could drink up the ocean." i did not observe thirst to be connected with any peculiar state of the pulse. george eyre and henry clymer had an unusual degree of appetite, just before the usual time of the return of a paroxysm of fever. a young man complained to me of being afflicted with nocturnal emissions of seed during his convalescence. this symptom is not a new one in malignant fevers. hippocrates takes notice of it[112]. i met with one instance of it among the sporadic cases of yellow fever which occurred in 1795. it sometimes occurs, according to lomius, in the commotions of the whole system which take place in epilepsy. [112] epidemics, book iv. vii. the disease made an impression upon the lymphatic system. four of my patients had glandular swellings: two of them were in the groin; a third was in the parotid; and the fourth was in the maxillary glands. two of these swellings suppurated. viii. the yellowness of the skin, which sometimes attends this fever, was more universal, but more faint than in the year 1793. it was, in many cases, composed of such a mixture of colours, as to resemble polished mahogany. but, in a few cases, the yellowness was of a deep orange colour. the former went off with the fever, but the latter often continued for several weeks after the patients recovered. in some instances a red colour predominated to such a degree in the face, as to produce an appearance of inflammation. in mrs. vogles a yellowness appeared in her eyes during the paroxysm of her fever, and went off in its remissions. in james lefferty the yellowness affected every part of his body, except his hands, which were as pale as in a common fever. peter brown tinged his sheets of a yellow colour, by night sweats, many weeks after his recovery. there was an exudation from the soles of the feet of richard wells's maid, which tinged a towel of a yellow colour. in my account of the yellow fever of 1793, i ascribed the yellow colour of the skin wholly to a mixture of bile with the blood. i believe that this is the cause of it, in those cases where the colour is deep, and endures for several weeks beyond the crisis of the fever; but where it is transitory, and, above all, where it is local, or appears only for a few hours, during the paroxysm of the fever, it appears probable that it is connected with the mode of aggregation of the blood, and that it is produced wholly by some peculiar action in the blood-vessels. a similar colour takes place from the bite of certain animals, and from contusions of the skin, in neither of which cases has a suspicion been entertained of an absorption or mixture of bile with the blood. a troublesome itching, with an eruption of red blotches on the skin, attended on the first day of the attack of the fever, in mrs. gardiner. a roughness of the skin, and a disposition in it to peel off, appeared about the crisis of the fever, in miss sally eyre. that species of eruption, which i have elsewhere compared to moscheto bites, appeared in mrs. sellers. john ray, a day labourer, to whom i was called in the last stage of the fever, had petechiæ on his breast the day before he died. that burning heat on the skin, called by the ancients "calor mordens," and from which this fever, in some countries, has derived the name of _causus_, was more common this year than last. it was sometimes local, and sometimes general. i perceived it in an exquisite degree in the cheeks only of miss sally eyre, and over the whole body of john ray. it had no connection with the rapidity or force of the circulation of the blood in the latter instance, for it was most intense at a time when he had no pulse. it is remarkable that the heat of the skin has no connection with the state of the pulse. this fact did not escape dr. chisholm. he says he found the skin to be warm while the pulse was at 52, and that it was sometimes disagreeably cold when the pulse was as quick as in ordinary fever[113]. [113] page 117. ix. i have in another place rejected putrefaction from the blood as the cause or effect of this fever. i shall mention the changes which were induced in its appearances when i come to treat of the method of cure. having described the symptoms of this fever as they appeared in different parts of the body, i shall now add a few observations upon its type or general character. i shall begin this part of the history of the fever by remarking, that we had but one reigning disease in town during the autumn and winter; that this was a bilious remitting, or intermitting, and sometimes a yellow fever; and that all the fevers from other remote causes than putrid exhalation, partook more or less of the symptoms of the prevailing epidemic. as well might we distinguish the rain which falls in gentle showers in great-britain, from that which is poured in torrents from the clouds in the west-indies, by different names and qualities, as impose specific names and characters upon the different states of bilious fever. the forms in which this fever appeared were as follow. 1. a tertian fever. several persons died of the third fit of tertians, who were so well as to go abroad on the intermediate day of the fever. it is no new thing for malignant fevers to put on the form of a tertian. hippocrates long ago remarked, that intermittents sometimes degenerate into malignant acute diseases; and hence he advises physicians to be on their guard upon the 5th, 7th, 9th, and even on the 14th day of such fevers[114]. [114] de morb. popular. lib. vii. 2. it appeared most frequently in the form of a remittent. the exacerbations occurred most commonly in the evening. in some there were exacerbations in the morning as well as in the evening. but i met with several patients who appeared to be better and worse half a dozen times in a day. in each of these cases, there were evident remissions and exacerbations of the fever. it assumed, in several instances, the symptoms of a colic and cholera morbus. in one case the fever, after the colic was cured, ended in a regular intermittent. in another, the colic was accompanied by a hæmorrhage from the nose. i distinguished this bilious colic from that which is excited by lighter causes, by its always coming on with more or less of a chilliness[115]. the symptoms of colic and cholera morbus occurred most frequently in june and july. [115] see sydenham, vol. i. p. 212. 4. it appeared in the form of a dysentery in a boy of william corfield, and in a man whom my pupil, mr. alexander, visited in the neighbourhood of harrowgate. 5. it appeared, in one case, in the form of an apoplexy. 6. it disguised itself in the form of madness. 7. during the month of november, and in all the winter months, it was accompanied with pains in the sides and breast, constituting what nosologists call the "pleuritis biliosa." 8. the puerperile fever was accompanied, during the summer and autumn, with more violent symptoms than usual. dr. physick informed me, that two women, to whom he was called soon after their delivery, died of uterine hæmorrhages; and that he had with difficulty recovered two other lying-in women, who were afflicted with that symptom of a malignant diathesis in the blood-vessels. 9. even dropsies partook more or less of the inflammatory and bilious character of this fever. 10. it blended itself with the scarlatina. the blood, in this disease, and in the puerperile fever, had exactly the same appearance that it had in the yellow fever. a yellowness in the eyes accompanied the latter disease in one case that came under my notice. a slight shivering ushered in the fever in several instances. but the worst cases i saw came on without a chilly fit, or the least sense of coldness in any part of the body. such was the predominance of the intermitting, remitting, and bilious fever, that the measles, the small-pox, and even the gout itself, partook more or less of its character. there were several instances in which the measles, and one in which the gout appeared with quotidian exacerbations; and two in which madness appeared regularly in the form of a tertian. i mentioned formerly that this fever sometimes went off with a sweat, when it appeared in a tertian form. this was always the case with the second grade of the fever, but never with the first degree of it, before the third or fourth paroxysm; nor did a sweat occur on the fifth or seventh day, except after the use of depleting remedies. this peculiarity in the fever of this year was so fixed, that it gave occasion for my comparing it, in my intercourse with my patients, to a lion on the first seven days, and to a lamb during the remaining part of its duration. the fever differed from the fever of the preceding year in an important particular. i saw or heard of no case which terminated in death on the first or third day. in every case, the fever came on fraught with paroxysms. the moderate degrees of it were of so chronic a nature as to continue for several weeks, when left to themselves. i wish this peculiarity in the epidemic which i am now describing to be remembered; for it will serve hereafter to explain the reason why a treatment apparently different should be alike successful, in different seasons and in different countries. the crisis of the fever occurred on uneven days more frequently than in the fever of the year 1793. i remarked formerly[116] that remissions were more common in the yellow fever than in the common bilious fever. the same observation applies to critical days. they were observable in almost every case in which the disease was not strangled in its birth. dr. chisholm describes the same peculiarity in the beullam fever. "i have not met with any disease (says the doctor) in which the periods were more accurately ascertained[117]." [116] account of the yellow fever of 1793. [117] page 141. in addition to the instances formerly enumerated[118], of the predominance of powerful epidemics over other diseases, i shall add two more, which i have lately met with in the course of my reading. [118] account of the yellow fever in 1793. dr. chisholm, in describing the pestilential fever introduced into the west-indies from beullam, has the following remarks. "most other diseases degenerated into, or partook very much of this. dysenteries suddenly stopped, and were immediately succeeded by the symptoms of the pestilential fever. catarrhal complaints, simple at first, soon changed their nature; convalescents from other diseases were very subject to this, but it generally proved mild. those labouring at the same time under chronic complaints, particularly rheumatism and hepatitis, were very subject to it. the puerperile fever became malignant, and of course fatal; and even pregnant negro women, who otherwise might have had it in the usual mild degree peculiar to that description of people, were reduced to a very dangerous situation by it. in short, every disease in which the patient was liable to infection, sooner or later assumed the appearance, and acquired the danger of the pestilential fever[119]." [119] page 129, 130. dr. desportes ascribes the same universal empire to the yellow fever which prevailed in st. domingo, in the summer of 1733. "the fever of siam (says the doctor) conveyed an infinite number of men to the grave, in a short time; but i saw but one woman who was attacked by it." "the violence of this disease was such, that it subjected all other diseases, and reigned alone. this is the character of all contagious and pestilential diseases. sydenham, and before him diemerbroek, have remarked this of the plague[120]." [120] page 40, 41. see also p. 111, 230, 231. vol. i. in baltimore, the small-pox in the natural way was attended with unusual malignity and mortality, occasioned by its being combined with the reigning yellow fever. it has been urged as an objection to the influence of powerful epidemics chasing away, or blending with fevers of inferior force, that the measles sometimes supplant the small-pox, and mild intermittents take the place of fevers of great malignity. this fact did not escape the microscopic eye of dr. sydenham, nor is it difficult to explain the cause of it. it is well known that epidemics, like simple fevers, are most violent at their first appearance, and that they gradually lose their force as they disappear; now it is in their evanescent and feeble state, that they are jostled out of their order of danger or force, and yield to the youthful strength of epidemics, more feeble under equal circumstances of age than themselves. it would seem, from this fact, that an inflammatory constitution of the air, and powerful epidemics, both in their aggregate and individual forms, possessed a common character. they all invade with the fury of a savage, and retire with the gentleness of a civilized foe. it is agreeable to discover from these facts and observations, that epidemic diseases, however irregular they appear at first sight, are all subject to certain laws, and partake of the order and harmony of the universe. the action of the miasmata upon the body, when, from the absence of an exciting cause, they did not produce fever, was the same as i have elsewhere described. the sensations which i experienced, in entering a small room where a person was confined with this fever, were so exactly the same with those i felt the year before, that i think i could have distinguished the presence of the disease without the assistance of my eyes, or without asking a single question. after sitting a few minutes in a sick room, i became languid and fainty. weakness and chilliness followed every visit i paid to a gentleman at mr. oellers's hotel, which continued for half an hour. a burning in my stomach, great heaviness, and a slight inflammation in my eyes, with a constant discharge of a watery humour from them for two days, succeeded the first visit i paid to mrs. sellers. these symptoms came on in less than ten minutes after i left her room. they were probably excited thus early, and in the degree which i have mentioned, by my having received her breath in my face by inspecting her tonsils, which were ulcerated on the first attack of the fever. i formerly supposed these changes in my body were proofs of the contagious nature of the yellow fever, but i shall hereafter explain them upon other principles. i recollect having more than once perceived a smell which had been familiar to me during the prevalence of the yellow fever in 1793. it resembled the smell of liver of sulphur. i suspected for a while that it arose from the exhalations of the gutters of the city. but an accident taught me that it was produced by the perspiration of my body. upon rubbing my hands, this odour was increased so as to become not only more perceptible to myself, but in the most sensible degree to my pupil, mr. otto. from this fact, i was convinced that i was strongly impregnated with miasmata, and i was led by it to live chiefly upon vegetables, to drink no wine, and to avoid, with double care, all the usual exciting causes of fever. there was another mark by which i distinguished the presence of the seeds of this fever in my system, and that was, wine imparted a burning sensation to my tongue and throat, such as is felt after it has been taken in excess, or in the beginning of a fever. several persons, who were exposed to the miasmata, informed me that wine, even in the smallest quantity, affected them exactly in the same manner. i attended four persons in this fever who had had it the year before. it remains now that i mention the origin of this fever. this was very evident. it was produced by the exhalations from the gutters, and the stagnating ponds of water in the neighbourhood of the city. where there was most exhalation, there were most persons affected by the fever. hence the poor people, who generally live in the neighbourhood of the ponds in the suburbs, were the greatest sufferers by it. four persons had the fever in spruce, between fourth and fifth-streets, in which part of the city the smell from the gutters was extremely offensive every evening. in water-street, between market and walnut-streets, many persons had the fever: now the filth of that confined part of the city is well known to every citizen. i have before remarked, that one reason why most of our physicians refused to admit the presence of the yellow fever in the city, was because they could not fix upon a vestige of its being imported. on the 25th of august, the brig commerce arrived in the river, from st. mark, commanded by captain shirtliff. after lying five days at the fort, she came up to the city. a boy, who had been shut out from his lodgings, went, in a state of intoxication, and slept on her deck, exposed to the night air, in consequence of which the fever was excited in him. this event gave occasion, for a few days, to a report that the disease was imported, and several of the physicians, who had neglected to attend to all the circumstances that have been stated, admitted the yellow fever to be in town. an investigation of this supposed origin of the disease soon discovered that it had no foundation. at the time of the arrival of this ship, i had attended nearly thirty persons with the fever, and upwards of a hundred had had it, under the care of other physicians. the generation of the yellow fever in our city was rendered more certain by the prevalence of bilious diseases in every part of the united states, and, in several of them, in the grade of yellow fever. it was common in charleston, in south-carolina, where it carried off many people, and where no suspicion was entertained of its being of west-india origin. it prevailed with great mortality at that part of the city of baltimore, which is known by the name of fell's point, where, dr. drysdale assures me, it was evidently generated. a few sporadic cases of it occurred in new-york, which were produced by the morbid exhalation from the docks of that city. sporadic cases of it occurred likewise in most of the states, in which the proofs of its being generated were obvious to common observation; and where the symptoms of depressed pulse, yellowness of the skin, and black discharges from the bowels and stomach (symptoms which mark the highest grade of bilious remitting fever) did not occur, the fevers in all their form of tertian, quotidian, colic, and dysentery, were uncommonly obstinate or fatal in every state in the union. in new-haven only, where the yellow fever was epidemic, it was said to have been imported from martinique, but this opinion was proved to be erroneous by unanswerable documents, published afterwards in the medical repository, by dr. elisha smith, of new-york. the year 1795 furnished several melancholy proofs of the american origin of the yellow fever. all the physicians and citizens of new-york and norfolk agree in its having been generated in their respective cities that year. it prevailed with great mortality at the same time in the neighbourhood of the lakes, and on the waters of the genesee river, in the state of new-york. from its situation it obtained the name of the lake and genesee fever. it was so general, in some parts of that new country, as to affect horses. thus have i endeavoured to fix the predisposing and remote causes of the yellow fever in our country. the remote cause is sometimes so powerful as to become an exciting cause of the disease, but in general both the predisposing and remote causes are harmless in the system, until they are roused into action by some exciting cause. i shall conclude this account of the symptoms and origin of the yellow fever by relating two facts, which serious and contemplating minds will apply to a more interesting subject. 1. notwithstanding the numerous proofs of the prevalence of the yellow fever in philadelphia in the year 1794, which have been mentioned, there are many thousands of our citizens, and a majority of our physicians, who do not believe that a case of it existed at that time in the city; nor is a single record of it to be met with in any of the newspapers, or other public documents of that year. let us learn from this fact, that the denial of events, or a general silence upon the subject of them, is no refutation of their truth, where they oppose the pride or interests of the learned, or the great. 2. notwithstanding the general denial of the existence of the yellow fever in philadelphia, and the silence observed by our newspapers relative to it in 1794, there was scarcely a citizen or physician who, three years afterwards, did not admit of its having prevailed in that year. we learn from this fact another important truth, that departed vice and error have no friends nor advocates. of the method of cure. the remedies employed for the cure of this fever were the same that i employed the year before. i shall only relate such effects of them as tend more fully to establish the practice adopted in the year 1793, and such as escaped my notice in my former remarks upon those remedies. my method of cure consisted, i. in the abstraction of the stimulus of blood and heat from the whole body, and of bile and other acrid humours from the bowels, by means of the following remedies: 1. bleeding. 2. purging. 3. cool air and cold drinks. 4. cold water applied to the external parts of the body, and to the bowels by means of glysters. ii. in creating a diversion of congestion, inflammation, and serous effusion, from the brain and viscera to the mouth, by means of a salivation, and to the external parts of the body, by means of blisters. iii. in restoring the strength of the system, by tonic remedies. i proceed to make a few remarks upon the remedies set down under each of the above heads. i. i have taken notice that this fever differed from the fever of 1793, in coming forward in july and august with a number of paroxysms, which refused to yield to purging alone. i therefore began the cure of every case i was called to by _bleeding_. i shall mention the effects of this remedy, and the circumstances, manner, and degrees in which i used it occasionally, in this fever, in my defence of blood-letting. under the present head i shall only furnish the reader with a table of the quantity of blood drawn from a number of my patients in the course of the disease. from several of them the quantity set down was taken in three, four, and five days. i shall afterwards describe the appearances of the blood. +-----------+------------------+-----------+------------+ | month. | patients. | quantity. | number of | | | | ounces. | times bled.| +-----------+------------------+-----------+------------+ | august. | peter denham | 50 | 5 | | | mrs. bruce | 70 | 7 | | | andrew gribble, | | | | | aged 15 years. | 50 | 5 | | | john madge | 150 | 12 | | | peter brown | 80 | 8 | | september.| mrs. gardiner | 80 | 7 | | | miss sally eyre | 80 | 9 | | | mrs. gass | 50 | 3 | | | richard wells's | | | | | maid | 100 | 10 | | | mr. norval | 100 | 9 | | | mr. harrison | 90 | 9 | | | henry clymer | 80 | 8 | | october. | mrs. mitchell | 120 | 13 | | | mrs. lenox | 80 | 7 | | | mrs. kapper | 140 | 11 | | | rev. dr. magaw's | | | | | maid | 100 | 10 | | | miss hood | 100 | 10 | | | mrs. vogles | 70 | 5 | | 1795 | guy stone | 100 | 9 | | january. | benj. hancock | 100 | 10 | | | mr. benton | 130 | 13 | | | mrs. fries | 150 | 15 | | | mrs. garrigues | 80 | 7 | +-----------+------------------+-----------+------------+ three of the women, whose names i have mentioned, were in the advanced stage of pregnancy, viz. mrs. gardiner, mrs. gass, and mrs. garrigues. they have all since borne healthy children. i have omitted the names of above one hundred persons who had the fever, from whom i drew thirty or forty ounces of blood, by two or three bleedings. i did not cure a single person without at least one bleeding. it is only by contemplating the extent in which it is necessary to use this remedy, in order to overcome a yellow fever, that we can acquire just ideas of its force. hitherto this force has been estimated by no other measure than the grave, and this, we know, puts the strength of all diseases upon a level. the blood drawn in this fever exhibited the following appearances; 1. it was dissolved in a few instances. 2. the crassamentum of the blood was so partially dissolved in the serum, as to produce an appearance in the serum resembling the washings of flesh in water. 3. the serum was so lightly tinged of a _red_ colour as to be perfectly transparent. 4. the serum was, in many cases, of a deep yellow colour. 5. there was, in every case in which the blood was not dissolved, or in which the second appearance that has been mentioned did not take place, a beautiful scarlet-coloured sediment in the bottom of the bowl, forming lines, or a large circle. it seemed to be a tendency of the blood to dissolution. this state of the blood occurred in almost all the diseases of the last two years, and in some in which there was not the least suspicion of the miasmata of the yellow fever. 6. the crassamentum generally floated in the serum, but it sometimes sunk to the bottom of the bowl. in the latter case the serum had a muddy appearance. 7. i saw but one case in which there was not a separation of the crassamentum and serum of the blood. its colour in this case was of a deep scarlet. in the year 1793 this appearance was very common. 8. i saw one case in which the blood drawn, amounting to 14 ounces, separated partially, and was of a deep _black_ colour. this blood was taken from mr. norval, a citizen of north-carolina. 9. there was, in several instances, a transparent jelly-like pellicle which covered the crassamentum of the blood, and which was easily separated from it without altering its texture. it appeared to have no connection with the blood. 10. the blood, towards the crisis of the fever in many people, exhibited the usual forms of inflammatory crust. it was cupped in many instances. 11. after the loss of 70 or 80 ounces of blood there was an evident disproportion of the quantity of crassamentum to the serum. it was sometimes less, by one half, than in the first bleedings. under this head it will be proper to mention that the blood, when it happened to flow along the external part of the arm in falling into the bowl, was so warm as to excite an unpleasant sensation of heat in several patients. to the appearances exhibited by the blood to the eye, i shall add a fact communicated to me by a german bleeder, who followed his business in the city during the prevalence of the fever in 1793. he informed me that he could distinguish a yellow fever from all other states of fever, by a peculiar smell which the blood emitted while it was flowing from a vein. from the certainty of his decision in one case which came under my notice, before a suspicion had taken place of the fever being in the city, i am disposed to believe that there is a foundation for his remark. ii. i have but little to add to the remarks i made upon the use of _purging_ in the year 1793. i gave jalap, calomel, and gamboge until i obtained large and dark-coloured stools; after which i kept the bowels gently open every day with castor oil, cremor tartar, or glauber's salts. i gave calomel in much larger quantities than i did the year before. john madge took nearly 150 grains of it in six days. i should have thought this a large quantity, had i not since read that dr. chisholm gave 400 grains of it to one patient in the course of his fever, and 50 grains to another at a single dose, three times a day. i found strong mercurial purges to be extremely useful in the winter months, when the fever put on symptoms of pleurisy. i am not singular in ascribing much to the efficacy of purges in the bilious pleurisy. dr. desportes tells us that he found the pleurisy of st. domingo, which was of the bilious kind, to end happily in proportion as the bowels were kept constantly open[121]. nor am i singular in keeping my eye upon the original type of a disease, which only changes its symptoms with the weather or the season, and in treating it with the same remedies. dr. sydenham bled as freely in the diarrh[oe]a of 1668 as he had done in the inflammatory fever of the preceding year[122]. how long the pleurisies of winter, in the city of philadelphia, may continue to retain the bilious symptoms of autumn, which they have assumed for three years past, i know not; but the late dr. faysseaux, of south-carolina, informed me, that for many years he had not seen a pleurisy in charleston with the common inflammatory symptoms which characterised that disease when he was a student of medicine. they all now put on bilious symptoms, and require strong purges to cure them. the pleurisies which the late dr. chalmers supposes he cured by purging were probably nothing but bilious fevers, in which the cool weather had excited some pleuritic symptoms. [121] page 140. [122] wallis's edition, p. 211. vol. i. i have nothing to add to the remarks i have elsewhere published upon the efficacy of _cool air_ and _cold drinks_ in this fever. they were both equally pleasant and useful, and contributed, with cleanliness, very much to the success of my practice. 4. _cold water_, applied to the external parts of the body, and injected into the bowels by way of glyster, did great service in many cases. john madge found great relief from cloths dipped in cold water, and applied to the lower part of his belly. they eased a pain in his bowels, and procured a discharge of urine. a throbbing and most distressing pain in the head was relieved by the same remedy, in mrs. vogles and mrs. lenox. the cloths were applied for three successive days and nights to mrs. lenox's head, during an inflammation of her brain, which succeeded her fever, and were changed, during the greater part of the time, every ten or fifteen minutes. in 1795, i increased the coldness of pump water, when used in this way, by dissolving ice in it, and in some cases i applied powdered ice in a bladder to the head, with great advantage. the following facts will show the good effects of cold water in this, as well as other fevers of too much action. in the afternoon of one of those days in which my system was impregnated with the miasmata of the yellow fever, i felt so much indisposed that i deliberated whether i should go to bed or visit a patient about a mile in the country. the afternoon was cool and rainy. i recollected, at this time, a case related by dr. daignan, a french physician, of a man who was cured of the plague, by being forced to lie all night in an open field, in a shower of rain. i got into my chair, and exposed myself to the rain. it was extremely grateful to my feelings. in two hours i returned, when, to my great satisfaction, i found all my feverish symptoms had left me, nor had i the least return of them afterwards. dr. caldwell, who acted as a surgeon of a regiment, in the expedition against the insurgents in the western counties of pennsylvania, furnished me, in a letter dated from bedford, october 20th, 1794, with an account of his having been cured of a fever, by a more copious use of the same remedy. "i was (says the doctor), to use a vulgar expression, _wet to the skin_, and had no opportunity of shifting my clothes for several hours. in consequence of this thorough bathing, and my subsequent exposure to a cool air, i was relieved from every symptom of indisposition in a few hours, and have enjoyed more than my usual stock of health ever since." the efficacy of cold water, in preventing and curing inflammation, may be conceived from its effects when used with mud or clay, for obviating the pain and inflammation which arise from the sting of venomous insects. the same remedy, applied for half an hour, has lately, it is said, been equally effectual in preventing the deleterious effects of the bite of a rattle-snake. ii. the good effects i had observed from a _salivation_ in the yellow fever of 1793, induced me to excite it as early as possible, in all those cases which did not yield immediately to bleeding and purging. i was delighted with its effects in every case in which it took place. these effects were as follow: 1. it immediately attracted and concentrated in the mouth all the scattered pains of every part of the body. 2. it checked a nausea and vomiting. 3. it gradually, when it was copious, reduced the pulse, and thereby prevented the necessity of further bleeding or purging. i wish it were possible to render the use of this remedy universal in the treatment of malignant fevers. dr. chisholm, in his account of the beullam fever, has done much to establish its safety and efficacy. it is a rare occurrence for a patient that has been sufficiently bled and purged, to die after a salivation takes place. the artificial disease excited by the mercury suspends or destroys disease in every part of the body. the occasional inconveniences which attend it are not to be named with its certain and universal advantages. during the whole of the season in which the yellow fever prevailed, i saw but two instances in which it probably loosened or destroyed the teeth. i am not certain that the mercury was the cause of the injury or loss of those teeth; for who has not seen malignant fevers terminate in ulcers, which have ended in the erosions of bony parts of the body? it has been justly remarked, that there can be but one action at a time in the blood-vessels. this was frequently illustrated by the manner in which mercury acted upon the system in this fever. it seldom salivated until the fever intermitted or declined. i saw several cases in which the salivation came on during the intermission, and went off during its exacerbation; and many, in which there was no salivation until the morbid action had ceased altogether in the blood-vessels, by the solution of the fever. it is because the action of the vessels, in epilepsy and pulmonary consumption, surpasses the stimulus of the mercury, that it is so difficult to excite a salivation in both those diseases. let not the advocates for the healing powers of nature complain of a salivation as an unnatural remedy in fevers. dr. sydenham speaks in high terms of it, in the fever of 1670, 1671, and 1672, in which cases it occurred spontaneously, and says that it cured it when it was so malignant as to be accompanied by purple spots on the body[123]. [123] vol. ii. p. 212. blisters, when applied at a _proper_ time, did great service in this fever. this time was, when the fever was so much weakened by evacuations, that the artificial pain excited by the stimulus of the blisters destroyed, and, like a conductor, conveyed off all the natural pain of the body. it is from ignorance, or inattention to the proper stage of fevers in which blisters have been applied, that there have been so many disputes among physicians respecting their efficacy. when applied in a state of great arterial action, they do harm; when applied after that action has nearly ceased, they do little or no service. i have called the period in which blisters are useful the _blistering point_. in bilious fevers this point is generally circumscribed within eight and forty hours. the effects of blisters were as follow: 1. they concentrated, like a salivation, all the scattered pains of the body, and thereby, 2. reduced the pulse in force and frequency. 3. they instantly checked a sickness at the stomach and vomiting. 4. they often induced a gentle moisture upon the skin. i found it of little consequence to what part of the body the blisters were applied; for i observed a pain in the head, and even delirium, to be as speedily and certainly cured by blisters upon the wrists, as they were by a large blister to the neck. iii. after the reduction of the morbid action of the blood-vessels, by means of the remedies which have been mentioned, i seldom made use of any other tonic than a nourishing and gently stimulating diet. this consisted of summer fruits, bread and milk, chicken broth, the white meats, eggs, oysters, and malt liquors, more especially porter. i made many attempts to cure this fever when it appeared in the form of a simple intermittent, without malignant symptoms, by means of _bark_, but always, except in two instances, without success; and in them it did not take effect until after bleeding. in several cases it evidently did harm. i should have suspected my judgment in these observations respecting this medicine, had i not been assured by dr. griffitts, dr. physick, and dr. woodhouse, that it was equally ineffectual in their practice, in nearly all the cases in which they gave it, and even where blood-letting had been premised. dr. woodhouse saw a case in which near a pound of bark had been taken without effect; and another in which a fatal dropsy succeeded its use. dr. griffitts excepted, from his testimony against the bark, the cases of seven persons from the country, who brought the seeds of the intermitting fever with them to the city. in them the bark succeeded without previous bleeding. the facility with which these seven cases of intermitting fever were cured by the bark, clearly proves that fevers of the same season differ very much, according to the nature of the exhalation which excites them. the intermittents in these strangers were excited by miasmata of less force than that which was generated in our city, in which, from the greater heat of the atmosphere, and the more heterogeneous nature of the putrid matters which stagnate in our ponds and gutters, the exhalation probably possesses a more active and stimulating quality. thus the mild remittents in june, and in the beginning of july, which were produced by the usual filth of the streets of philadelphia, in the year 1793, differed very much from the malignant remitting yellow fever which was produced by the stench of the putrid coffee a few weeks afterwards. sir john pringle long ago taught the inefficacy of bark in certain bilious fevers. but dr. chisholm has done great service to medicine by recording its ill effects in the beullam fever. "head-ach (says the doctor), a heavy dull eye, with a considerable protrusion from its orbits, low spirits, thirst, and a total want of appetite, were the general consequences of the treatment with bark without the previous antiphlogistic." i have mentioned a case of internal dropsy of the brain having been produced by the improper use of the bark, in a son of mr. coates. i have no doubt but this disease, as also palsy and consumption, obstructions of the liver and bowels, and dropsies of the belly and limbs, are often induced by the use of the bark, during an inflammatory state of the blood-vessels. it is to be lamented that the association of certain diseases and remedies, in the minds of physicians, becomes so fixed, as to refuse to yield to the influence of reason. thus pain and opium, dropsy and foxglove, low spirits and assaf[oe]tida, and, above all, an intermitting fever and bark, are all connected together, in common practice, as mechanically as the candle and the snuffers are in the mind of an old and steady house servant. to abolish the mischief of these mechanical associations in medicine, it will be necessary for physicians to prescribe only for the different states of the system. finding the bark to be so universally ineffectual or hurtful, i substituted columbo root, the carribean bark, and several other bitters, in its place, but without success. they did less harm than the jesuit's bark, but they did not check the return of a single paroxysm of fever. i know that bark was given in this fever in some instances in which the patients recovered; but they were subject, during the winter, and in the following spring, to frequent relapses, and, in some instances, to affections of the brain and lungs. in the highest grade of the fever it certainly accelerated a supposed putrefaction of the blood, and precipitated death. the practice of physicians who create this gangrenous state of fever by means of the bark, resembles the conduct of a horse, who attempts by pawing to remove his shadow in a stream of water, and thereby renders it so turbid that he is unable to drink it. should the immediate success of tonic and depleting remedies in destroying the fever be equal, the effects of the former upon the constitution cannot fail of being less safe than the latter remedies. they cure by overstraining the powers of life. there is the same difference, therefore, between the two modes of practice, that there is between gently lifting the latch of a door, and breaking it open in order to go into a house. _wine_ was hurtful in every case of yellow fever in which it was given, while there were any remains of inflammatory action in the system. i recollect that a few spoonsful of it, which mr. harrison of virginia took in the depressed state of his pulse, excited a sensation in his stomach which he compared to a fire. even wine-whey, in the excitable state of the system induced by this fever, was sometimes hurtful. in a patient of dr. physick, who was on the recovery, it produced a relapse that had nearly proved fatal, in the year 1795. dr. desperrieres ascribes the death of a patient to a small quantity of wine given to him by a black nurse[124]. these facts are important, inasmuch as wine is a medicine which patients are most apt to use in all cases, without the advice of a physician. [124] vol. ii. p. 108. i observed _opium_ to be less hurtful in this fever than it was in the fever of 1793. i administered a few drops of laudanum, in one case, in the form of a glyster, in a violent pain of the bowels, with evident advantage, before the inflammatory action of the blood-vessels was subdued. in this way i have often obtained the composing effects of laudanum where it has been rejected by the stomach. but i gave it sparingly, and in small doses only, in the early stage of the fever. john madge, whose pains in his bowels were often as exquisite as they are in the most acute colic, did not take a single drop of it. i used no anodyne in his case but bleeding, and applications of cold water to the inside and outside of his bowels. after the fever had passed the seventh day, and had been so far subdued by copious evacuations as to put on the form of a common inflammatory intermittent, i gave laudanum during the intermissions of the fever with great advantage. in some cases it suddenly checked the paroxysms of the fever, while in many more it only moderated them, but in such a manner that they wore themselves away in eight or ten days. one of my female patients, who had taken bitters of every kind without effect to cure a tertian, which succeeded a yellow fever, took a large dose of laudanum, in the interval of her paroxysms, to cure a tooth-ach. to her great surprise it removed her tertian. the effects of laudanum in this fever were very different from those of bark. where it did no service it did not, like the bark, do any harm. perhaps this difference in the operation of those two medicines depended upon the bark acting with an astringent, as well as stimulating power, chiefly upon the blood-vessels, while the action of the opium was more simply stimulating, and diffused at the same time over all the systems of the body. i shall say in another place that i sometimes directed a few drops of laudanum to be given in that state of extreme debility which succeeds a paroxysm of fever, with evident advantage. _nitre_, so useful in common inflammatory fevers, was in most cases so offensive to the stomach in this fever, that i was seldom able to give it. where the stomach retained it i did not perceive it to do any service. _antimonials_ were as ineffectual as nitre in abating the action of the sanguiferous system, and in producing a sweat. i should as soon expect to compose a storm by music, as to cure a yellow fever by such feeble remedies. thus have i finished the history of the symptoms, origin, and cure of the yellow fever as it appeared in philadelphia in 1794, and in the winter of 1795. the efficacy of the remedies which have been mentioned was established by almost universal success. out of upwards of 200 patients to whom i was called on the first stage of the fever, between the 12th of june, 1794, and the 1st of april, 1795, i lost but four persons, in whom the unequivocal symptoms had occurred, which characterize the first grade of the disease. it will be useful, i hope, to relate the cases of the patients whom i lost, and to mention the causes of their deaths. the first of them was mrs. gavin. she objected to a fifth bleeding in the beginning of a paroxysm of her fever, and died from the want of it. her death was ascribed to the frequency of her bleedings by the enemies of the depleting system. it was said that she had been bled ten times, owing to ten marks of a lancet having been discovered on her arms after death, five of which were occasioned by unsuccessful attempts to bleed her. she died with the usual symptoms of congestion in her brain. mr. marr, to whom i was called on the first day of his disease, died in a paroxysm of his fever which came on in the middle of the seventh night, after six bleedings. i had left him, the night before, nearly free of fever, and in good spirits. he might probably have been saved (humanly speaking) by one more bleeding in the exacerbation of what appeared to be the critical paroxysm of his fever. mr. montford, of the state of georgia, died under the joint care of dr. physick and myself. he had been cured by plentiful bleeding and purging, but had relapsed. he appeared to expire in a fainty fit in the first stage of a paroxysm of the fever. death from this cause (which occurs most frequently where blood-letting is not used) is common in the yellow fever of the west-indies. dr. bisset, in describing the different ways in which the disease terminates fatally, says, "in a few cases the patient is carried off by an _unexpected syncope_[125]." [125] medical essays and observations, p. 28. a servant of mr. henry mitchel, to whom i was called in the early stage of his disease, died in consequence of a sudden effusion in his lungs, which had been weakened by a previous pulmonary complaint. i wish the friends of bark and wine in the yellow fever, or of _moderate_ bleeding with antimonial medicines, would publish an account of the number of their deaths by the fever, within the period i have mentioned, and with the same fidelity i have done. the contrast would for ever decide the controversy in favour of copious depletion. the mortality under the tonic mode of practice may easily be conceived from the acknowledgment of one of the gentlemen who used it, but who premised it, in many cases, by two and three bleedings. he informed dr. woodhouse, that out of twenty-seven patients, whom he had attended in the yellow fever, he had saved but nine. other practitioners were, i believe, equally unsuccessful, in proportion to the number of patients whom they attended. the reader will not admit of many deaths having occurred from the diseases (formerly enumerated) to which they were ascribed, when he recollects that even a single death from most of them, in common seasons, is a rare occurrence in the practice of regular bred physicians. in answer to the account i have given of the mortality of the fever in 1794, it will be said, that 30 persons died less in that year, than in the healthy year of 1792. to account for this, it will be necessary to recollect that the inhabitants of philadelphia were reduced in number upwards of 4000, in the year 1793, and of course that the proportion of deaths was greater in 1794 than it was in 1792, although the number was less. it is remarkable that the burials in the strangers' grave-yard amounted in the year 1792 to but 201, whereas in 1794 they were 676. from this it appears, that the deaths must have been very numerous among new comers (as they are sometimes called) in the year 1794, compared with common years. now this will easily be accounted for, when we recollect that these people, who were chiefly labourers, were exposed to the constantly exciting causes of the disease, and that, in all countries, they are the principal sufferers by it. but in order to do justice to this comparative view of the mortality induced by the yellow fever in the year 1794, it will be necessary to examine the bill of mortality of the succeeding year. by this it appears that 2274 persons died in 1795, making 1139 more than died in 1794. the greatness of this mortality, i well recollect, surprized many of the citizens of philadelphia, who had just passed an autumn which was not unusually sickly, and who had forgotten the uncommon mortality of the months of january, february, and march, which succeeded the autumn of 1794. it will probably be asked, how it came to pass that i attended so many more patients in this fever than any of my brethren. to this i answer, that, since the year 1793, a great proportion of my patients have consisted of strangers, and of the poor; and as they are more exposed to the disease than other people, it follows, that of the persons affected by the fever, a greater proportion must have fallen to my share as patients, than to other physicians. my ability to attend a greater number of patients than most of my brethren, was facilitated by my having, at the time of the fever, several ingenious and active pupils, who assisted me in visiting and prescribing for the sick. these pupils were, ashton alexander and nathaniel potter (now physicians at baltimore), john otto (now physician in philadelphia), and gilbert watson (since dead of the yellow fever). the antiphlogistic remedies were not successful in philadelphia, in the yellow fever, in my hands alone. they were equally, and perhaps more so, in the hands of my friends dr. griffitts, dr. physick, dr. dewees, and dr. woodhouse. they were moreover successful at the same time in new haven, baltimore, and in charleston, in south-carolina. eighteen out of twenty died of all who took bark and wine in new-haven, but only one in ten of those who used the depleting medicines. in a letter from dr. brown, a physician of eminence in baltimore, dated november 27th, 1794, he says, "of the many cases which fell to my care, two only proved mortal where i was called on the first day of the disease, and had an uncontrouled opportunity to follow my judgment. where salivation took place, i had no case of mortality; and in two of those cases, a black vomiting occurred." dr. ramsay, of charleston, in a letter to one of his friends in this city, dated october 14th, 1794, subscribes to the efficacy of the same practice in a fever which prevailed at that time in charleston, and which, he says, resembled the yellow fever of philadelphia in the year 1793. but the success of the depleting system was not confined to the united states. in a letter before quoted, which i received from dr. davidson, of st. vincents, dated july 22d, 1794, there is the following testimony in favour of evacuations from the blood-vessels, bowels, and salivary glands: "where the fever comes on with great determination to the head, and an affection of the stomach, in consequence of that determination, violent head-ach, redness of the eyes, turgescence of the face, impatience of light, &c. attended with a full and hard pulse, _blood-letting_ should be employed _freely_ and _repeatedly_, cold applications should be applied to the head, and purging medicines should be employed. as a purge, _calomel_ has been used with the greatest advantage, sometimes by itself, but most frequently combined with some active purgative medicine, such as jalap. from some peculiarity in the disease, an uncommon quantity of the calomel is necessary to affect the bowels and salivary glands. as i found a small quantity of it did not produce the effect i wished for promptly, i have gradually increased the quantity, until i now venture to give _ten_ grains of it, combined with five of jalap, every _two_ hours until stools are procured. the calomel is then given by itself. "the patients have generally an aversion to wine. the bark is seldom found of much advantage in this state of the fever, and frequently brought on a return of the vomiting. i preferred to it, in a remission of the symptoms, a vinous infusion of the quassia, which sat better upon the stomach." in the island of jamaica, the depleting system has been divided. it appears, from several publications in the kingston papers, that dr. grant had adopted blood-letting, while most of the physicians of the island rest the cure of the yellow fever upon strong mercurial purges. the ill effects of _moderate_ bleeding probably threw the lancet into disrepute, for the balance of success, from those publications, is evidently in favour of simple purging. i have no doubt of the truth of the above statement of the controversy between the exclusive advocates for bleeding and purging; or perhaps the superior efficacy of the latter remedy may be explained in the following manner. in warm climates, the yellow fever is generally, as it was in philadelphia in the month of august and in the beginning of september, 1793, a disease of but two or three paroxysms. it is sometimes, i believe, only a simple ephemera. in these cases, purging alone is sufficient to reduce the system, without the aid of bleeding. it was found to be so until the beginning of september, in 1793, in most cases in philadelphia. the great prostration of the system in the yellow fever, in warm weather and in hot climates, renders the restoration of it to a healthy state of action more gradual, and of course more safe, by means of purging than bleeding. the latter remedy does harm, from the system being below the point of re-action, after the pressure of the blood is taken from it, or by restoring the blood-vessels too suddenly to preternatural action, without reducing them afterwards. had bleeding been practised agreeably to the method described by riverius (mentioned in the history of the fever of 1793), or had the fever in jamaica run on to more than four or five paroxysms, it is probable the loss of blood would have been not only safe, but generally beneficial. i have, in the same history, given my reasons why _moderate_ bleeding in this, as well as many other diseases, does harm. in those cases where it has occurred in large quantities from natural hæmorrhages, it has always done service in the west-indies. the inefficacy, and, in some cases, the evils, of _moderate_ blood-letting are not confined to the yellow fever. it is equally ineffectual, and, in some instances, equally hurtful, in apoplexy, internal dropsy of the brain, pleurisy, and pulmonary consumption. where all the different states of the pulse which indicate the loss of blood are perfectly understood, and blood-letting conformed in _time_ and in _quantity_ to them, it never can do harm, in any disease. it is only when it is prescribed empirically, without the direction of just principles, that it has ever proved hurtful. thus the fertilizing vapours of heaven, when they fall only in dew, or in profuse showers of rain, are either insufficient to promote vegetation, or altogether destructive to it. there may be habits in which great and long protracted debility may have so far exhausted the active powers of the system, as to render bleeding altogether improper in this disease, in a west-india climate. such habits are sometimes produced in soldiers and sailors, by the hardships of a military and naval life. bleeding in such cases, dr. davidson assures me, in a letter dated from martinique, february 29th, 1796, did no good. the cure was effected, under these circumstances, by purges, and large doses of calomel. but where this chronic debility does not occur, bleeding, when properly used, can never be injurious, even in a tropical climate, in the yellow fever. of this there are many proofs in the writings of the most respectable english and french physicians. in spite of the fears and clamours which have been lately excited against it in jamaica, my late friend and contemporary at the college of edinburgh, dr. broadbelt, in a letter from spanish town, dated january 6th, 1795, and my former pupil, dr. weston, in a letter from st. ann's bay, dated june 17th, 1795, both assure me, that they have used it in this fever with great success. dr. weston says that he bled "_copiously_ three times in twenty-four hours, and thereby saved his patient." the superior advantages of the north-american mode of treating the yellow fever, by means of _all_ the common antiphlogistic remedies, will appear from comparing its success with that of the west-india physicians, under all the modes of practice which have been adopted in the islands. dr. desportes lost one half of all the patients he attended in the yellow fever in one season in st. domingo[126]. his remedies were _moderate_ bleeding and purging, and the copious use of diluting drinks. dr. bisset says, "the yellow fever is often under particular circumstances very fatal, carrying off four or five in seven whom it attacks, and sometimes, but seldom, it is so favourable as to carry off only one patient in five or six[127]." the doctor does not describe the practice under which this mortality takes place. [126] vol. i. p. 55. [127] medical essays and observations, p. 29. dr. home, i have elsewhere remarked[128], lost "one out of four of his patients in jamaica." his remedies were _moderate_ bleeding and purging, and afterwards bark, wine, and external applications of blankets dipped in hot vinegar. [128] account of the yellow fever of 1793. dr. blane pronounces the yellow fever to be "one of the most fatal diseases to which the human body is subject, and in which human art is the most unavailing." his remedies were bleeding, bark, blisters, acid drinks, saline draughts, and camomile tea. dr. chisholm acknowledges that he lost one in twelve of all the patients he attended in the fever of grenada. his principal remedy was a salivation. i shall hereafter show the inferiority of this single mode of depleting, to a combination of it with bleeding and purging. in philadelphia and baltimore, where bleeding, purging, and salivation were used in due time, and after the manner that has been described, not more than one in fifty died of the yellow fever. it is probable that greater certainty and success in the treatment of this disease will not easily be attained, for idiosyncracy, and habits of intemperance which resist or divert the operation of the most proper remedies, a dread of the lancet, or the delay of an hour in the use of it, the partial application of that or any other remedy, the unexpected recurrence of a paroxysm of fever in the middle of the night, or the clandestine exhibition of wine or laudanum by friends or neighbours, often defeat the best concerted plans of cure by a physician. heaven in this, as in other instances, kindly limits human power and benevolence, that in all situations man may remember his dependence upon the power and goodness of his creator. an account of sporadic cases of _bilious yellow fever_, in philadelphia, in the years 1795 and 1796. in my account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in the year 1794, i took notice of several cases of it which occurred in the spring of the year 1795. before i proceed to deliver the history of this disease as it appeared in 1797, i shall mention the diseases and state of the weather which occurred during the remaining part of the year 1795, and the whole of the year 1796. this detail of facts, apparently uninteresting to the reader in the present state of our knowledge of epidemics, may possibly lead to principles at a future day. the month in of april, 1795, was wet and cold. all the diseases of this month partook of the inflammatory character of the preceding winter and autumn, except the measles, which were unusually mild. the weather in may was alternately wet, cool, and warm. a few cases of malignant fever occurred this month, but with moderate symptoms. in june the weather was cool and pleasant. the measles put on more inflammatory symptoms than in the preceding months. i had two cases of mania under my care this month, and one of rheumatism, which were attended with intermissions and exacerbations every other day. the weather on the 19th, 20th, 21st, and 22d days of july was very warm, the mercury being at 90° in fahrenheit's thermometer. the fevers of this month were all accompanied with black discharges from the bowels. mr. kittera, one of the representatives of pennsylvania in the congress of the united states, in consequence of great fatigue on a warm day, was affected with the usual symptoms of the yellow fever. during his illness he constantly complained of more pain in the left, than in the right side of his head. his pulse was more tense in his left, than in his right arm. during his convalescence, it was more quick in the left arm, than it was in the right. he was cured by a salivation and the loss of above 100 ounces of blood. his head-ach was relieved by the application of a bladder half filled with ice to his forehead. most of the cases of bilious fever, which came under my notice, were attended with quotidian, tertian, or quartan intermissions. in a few of my patients there was a universal rash. dr. woodhouse informed me, that he had seen several instances in which the yellow fever appeared in the same place in which some soldiers had laboured under the dysentery. these facts show the unity of fever, and the impracticability of a nosological arrangement of diseases. the cholera infantum was severe and fatal, in many instances, during this month. it yielded to blood-letting in a child of mr. conyngham, which was but four months old. in a child of seven weeks old which came under my care, i observed the coldness, chills, hot fits, and remissions of the bilious fever to be as distinctly marked as ever i had seen them in adult patients. in a child of mr. darrach, aged 5 months, the discharges from the bowels were of a black colour. i mention these facts in support of an opinion i formerly published, that the cholera infantum is a bilious fever, and that it rises and falls in its violence with the bilious fever of grown persons. about the latter end of this month and the beginning of august, there were heavy showers of rain, which carried away fences, bridges, barns, mills, and dwelling-houses in many places. several cases of bilious yellow fever occurred in the month of august. in one of them it was accompanied with that morbid affection in the wind-pipe which has been called cynanche trachealis. it was remarkable that sweating became a more frequent symptom of the fevers of this month than it had been in july. hippocrates ascribes this change in the character of bilious fevers to rainy weather. perhaps it was induced by the rain which fell in the beginning of the month, in the fevers which have been named. among the persons affected with the yellow fever during this month, was william bradford, esq. the attorney-general of the united states. from a dread of the lancet he objected to being bled in the early stage of his disease, in consequence of which he died on the 23d of august, in the 39th year of his age, amidst the tears of numerous friends, and the lamentations of his whole country. on the 30th and 31st of august, there was a fall of rain, which suddenly checked the fever of the season, insomuch that the succeeding autumnal months were uncommonly healthy. several showers of rain had nearly the same effect in new-york, where this fever carried off, in a few weeks, above 700 persons. it prevailed, at the same time, and with great mortality, in the city of norfolk, in virginia. in both those cities, as well as in philadelphia, the disease was evidently derived from putrid exhalation. in the same month, the dysentery prevailed in newhaven, in connecticut, and in the same part of the town in which the yellow fever had prevailed the year before. the latter disease was said to have been imported, but the prevalence of the dysentery, under the above circumstances, proved that both diseases were of domestic origin. the fever, as it appeared in philadelphia, yielded in most cases to depleting remedies. after purging and blood-letting, i gave bark, where the fever intermitted, with advantage. it was effectual only when given in large doses. in one instance, it induced a spitting of blood, which obliged me to lay it aside. the winter of 1796 was uncommonly moderate. there fell a good deal of rain, but little snow. the navigation of the delaware was stopped but two or three days during the whole season. catarrhs were frequent, but very few violent or acute diseases occurred in my practice. the month of march and the first week in april were uncommonly dry. several cases of malignant bilious fever came under my care during these months. a little girl, of five years old, whom i lost in this fever, became yellow in two hours after her death. the measles prevailed in april, and were of a most inflammatory nature. the weather in may and june was uncommonly wet. the fruit was much injured, and a great deal of hay destroyed by it. on the 14th of june, general stewart died, with all the usual symptoms of a fatal yellow fever. several other cases of it, in this and in the succeeding month, proved mortal, but they excited no alarm in the city, as the physicians who attended them called them by other names. the rain which fell about the middle of july checked this fever. august, september, and october were unusually healthy. a few cases of malignant sore throat appeared in november. they were, in all the patients that came under my notice, attended with bilious discharges from the stomach and bowels. so little rain fell during the autumnal months, that the wheat perished in many places. the weather in december was extremely cold. the lamps of the city were, in several instances, extinguished by it, on the night of the 23d of the month, at which time the mercury stood at 2° below 0 in the thermometer. the yellow fever prevailed this year in charleston, in south-carolina, where it was produced by putrid exhalations from the cellars of houses which had been lately burnt. it was said by the physicians of that place not to be contagious. the same fever prevailed, at the same time, at wilmington, in north-carolina, and at newburyport, in the state of massachusetts. in the latter place, it was produced by the exhalation of putrid fish, which had been carelessly thrown upon a wharf. end of volume iii. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. arthur mervyn; or, memoirs of the year 1793. by charles brockden brown. "fielding, richardson, and scott occupied pedestals. in a niche was deposited the bust of our countryman, the author of 'arthur mervyn.'" nathaniel hawthorne. philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, 23 south ninth street. 1889. preface. the evils of pestilence by which this city has lately been afflicted will probably form an era in its history. the schemes of reformation and improvement to which they will give birth, or, if no efforts of human wisdom can avail to avert the periodical visitations of this calamity, the change in manners and population which they will produce, will be, in the highest degree, memorable. they have already supplied new and copious materials for reflection to the physician and the political economist. they have not been less fertile of instruction to the moral observer, to whom they have furnished new displays of the influence of human passions and motives. amidst the medical and political discussions which are now afloat in the community relative to this topic, the author of these remarks has ventured to methodize his own reflections, and to weave into an humble narrative such incidents as appeared to him most instructive and remarkable among those which came within the sphere of his own observation. it is every one's duty to profit by all opportunities of inculcating on mankind the lessons of justice and humanity. the influences of hope and fear, the trials of fortitude and constancy, which took place in this city in the autumn of 1793, have, perhaps, never been exceeded in any age. it is but just to snatch some of these from oblivion, and to deliver to posterity a brief but faithful sketch of the condition of this metropolis during that calamitous period. men only require to be made acquainted with distress for their compassion and their charity to be awakened. he that depicts, in lively colours, the evils of disease and poverty, performs an eminent service to the sufferers, by calling forth benevolence in those who are able to afford relief; and he who portrays examples of disinterestedness and intrepidity confers on virtue the notoriety and homage that are due to it, and rouses in the spectators the spirit of salutary emulation. in the following tale a particular series of adventures is brought to a close; but these are necessarily connected with the events which happened subsequent to the period here described. these events are not less memorable than those which form the subject of the present volume, and may hereafter be published, either separately or in addition to this. c.b.b. arthur mervyn. chapter i. i was resident in this city during the year 1793. many motives contributed to detain me, though departure was easy and commodious, and my friends were generally solicitous for me to go. it is not my purpose to enumerate these motives, or to dwell on my present concerns and transactions, but merely to compose a narrative of some incidents with which my situation made me acquainted. returning one evening, somewhat later than usual, to my own house, my attention was attracted, just as i entered the porch, by the figure of a man reclining against the wall at a few paces distant. my sight was imperfectly assisted by a far-off lamp; but the posture in which he sat, the hour, and the place, immediately suggested the idea of one disabled by sickness. it was obvious to conclude that his disease was pestilential. this did not deter me from approaching and examining him more closely. he leaned his head against the wall; his eyes were shut, his hands clasped in each other, and his body seemed to be sustained in an upright position merely by the cellar-door against which he rested his left shoulder. the lethargy into which he was sunk seemed scarcely interrupted by my feeling his hand and his forehead. his throbbing temples and burning skin indicated a fever, and his form, already emaciated, seemed to prove that it had not been of short duration. there was only one circumstance that hindered me from forming an immediate determination in what manner this person should be treated. my family consisted of my wife and a young child. our servant-maid had been seized, three days before, by the reigning malady, and, at her own request, had been conveyed to the hospital. we ourselves enjoyed good health, and were hopeful of escaping with our lives. our measures for this end had been cautiously taken and carefully adhered to. they did not consist in avoiding the receptacles of infection, for my office required me to go daily into the midst of them; nor in filling the house with the exhalations of gunpowder, vinegar, or tar. they consisted in cleanliness, reasonable exercise, and wholesome diet. custom had likewise blunted the edge of our apprehensions. to take this person into my house, and bestow upon him the requisite attendance, was the scheme that first occurred to me. in this, however, the advice of my wife was to govern me. i mentioned the incident to her. i pointed out the danger which was to be dreaded from such an inmate. i desired her to decide with caution, and mentioned my resolution to conform myself implicitly to her decision. should we refuse to harbour him, we must not forget that there was a hospital to which he would, perhaps, consent to be carried, and where he would be accommodated in the best manner the times would admit. "nay," said she, "talk not of hospitals. at least, let him have his choice. i have no fear about me, for my part, in a case where the injunctions of duty are so obvious. let us take the poor, unfortunate wretch into our protection and care, and leave the consequences to heaven." i expected and was pleased with this proposal. i returned to the sick man, and, on rousing him from his stupor, found him still in possession of his reason. with a candle near, i had an opportunity of viewing him more accurately. his garb was plain, careless, and denoted rusticity. his aspect was simple and ingenuous, and his decayed visage still retained traces of uncommon but manlike beauty. he had all the appearances of mere youth, unspoiled by luxury and uninured to misfortune. i scarcely ever beheld an object which laid so powerful and sudden a claim to my affection and succour. "you are sick," said i, in as cheerful a tone as i could assume. "cold bricks and night-airs are comfortless attendants for one in your condition. rise, i pray you, and come into the house. we will try to supply you with accommodations a little more suitable." at this address he fixed his languid eyes upon me. "what would you have?" said he. "i am very well as i am. while i breathe, which will not be long, i shall breathe with more freedom here than elsewhere. let me alone--i am very well as i am." "nay," said i, "this situation is unsuitable to a sick man. i only ask you to come into my house, and receive all the kindness that it is in our power to bestow. pluck up courage, and i will answer for your recovery, provided you submit to directions, and do as we would have you. rise, and come along with me. we will find you a physician and a nurse, and all we ask in return is good spirits and compliance." "do you not know," he replied, "what my disease is? why should you risk your safety for the sake of one whom your kindness cannot benefit, and who has nothing to give in return?" there was something in the style of this remark, that heightened my prepossession in his favour, and made me pursue my purpose with more zeal. "let us try what we can do for you," i answered. "if we save your life, we shall have done you some service, and, as for recompense, we will look to that." it was with considerable difficulty that he was persuaded to accept our invitation. he was conducted to a chamber, and, the criticalness of his case requiring unusual attention, i spent the night at his bedside. my wife was encumbered with the care both of her infant and her family. the charming babe was in perfect health, but her mother's constitution was frail and delicate. we simplified the household duties as much as possible, but still these duties were considerably burdensome to one not used to the performance, and luxuriously educated. the addition of a sick man was likely to be productive of much fatigue. my engagements would not allow me to be always at home, and the state of my patient, and the remedies necessary to be prescribed, were attended with many noxious and disgustful circumstances. my fortune would not allow me to hire assistance. my wife, with a feeble frame and a mind shrinking, on ordinary occasions, from such offices, with fastidious scrupulousness, was to be his only or principal nurse. my neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, and loud in their remonstrances on the imprudence and rashness of my conduct. they called me presumptuous and cruel in exposing my wife and child, as well as myself, to such imminent hazard, for the sake of one, too, who most probably was worthless, and whose disease had doubtless been, by negligence or mistreatment, rendered incurable. i did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. i was aware of all the inconveniences and perils to which i thus spontaneously exposed myself. no one knew better the value of that woman whom i called mine, or set a higher price upon her life, her health, and her ease. the virulence and activity of this contagion, the dangerous condition of my patient, and the dubiousness of his character, were not forgotten by me; but still my conduct in this affair received my own entire approbation. all objections on the score of my friends were removed by her own willingness and even solicitude to undertake the province. i had more confidence than others in the vincibility of this disease, and in the success of those measures which we had used for our defence against it. but, whatever were the evils to accrue to us, we were sure of one thing: namely, that the consciousness of having neglected this unfortunate person would be a source of more unhappiness than could possibly redound from the attendance and care that he would claim. the more we saw of him, indeed, the more did we congratulate ourselves on our proceeding. his torments were acute and tedious; but, in the midst even of delirium, his heart seemed to overflow with gratitude, and to be actuated by no wish but to alleviate our toil and our danger. he made prodigious exertions to perform necessary offices for himself. he suppressed his feelings and struggled to maintain a cheerful tone and countenance, that he might prevent that anxiety which the sight of his sufferings produced in us. he was perpetually furnishing reasons why his nurse should leave him alone, and betrayed dissatisfaction whenever she entered his apartment. in a few days, there were reasons to conclude him out of danger; and, in a fortnight, nothing but exercise and nourishment were wanting to complete his restoration. meanwhile nothing was obtained from him but general information, that his place of abode was chester county, and that some momentous engagement induced him to hazard his safety by coming to the city in the height of the epidemic. he was far from being talkative. his silence seemed to be the joint result of modesty and unpleasing remembrances. his features were characterized by pathetic seriousness, and his deportment by a gravity very unusual at his age. according to his own representation, he was no more than eighteen years old, but the depth of his remarks indicated a much greater advance. his name was arthur mervyn. he described himself as having passed his life at the plough-tail and the threshing-floor; as being destitute of all scholastic instruction; and as being long since bereft of the affectionate regards of parents and kinsmen. when questioned as to the course of life which he meant to pursue upon his recovery, he professed himself without any precise object. he was willing to be guided by the advice of others, and by the lights which experience should furnish. the country was open to him, and he supposed that there was no part of it in which food could not be purchased by his labour. he was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal profession. his poverty was likewise an insuperable impediment. he could afford to spend no time in the acquisition of a trade. he must labour, not for future emolument, but for immediate subsistence. the only pursuit which his present circumstances would allow him to adopt was that which, he was inclined to believe, was likewise the most eligible. without doubt his experience was slender, and it seemed absurd to pronounce concerning that of which he had no direct knowledge; but so it was, he could not outroot from his mind the persuasion that to plough, to sow, and to reap, were employments most befitting a reasonable creature, and from which the truest pleasure and the least pollution would flow. he contemplated no other scheme than to return, as soon as his health should permit, into the country, seek employment where it was to be had, and acquit himself in his engagements with fidelity and diligence. i pointed out to him various ways in which the city might furnish employment to one with his qualifications. he had said that he was somewhat accustomed to the pen. there were stations in which the possession of a legible hand was all that was requisite. he might add to this a knowledge of accounts, and thereby procure himself a post in some mercantile or public office. to this he objected, that experience had shown him unfit for the life of a penman. this had been his chief occupation for a little while, and he found it wholly incompatible with his health. he must not sacrifice the end for the means. starving was a disease preferable to consumption. besides, he laboured merely for the sake of living, and he lived merely for the sake of pleasure. if his tasks should enable him to live, but, at the same time, bereave him of all satisfaction, they inflicted injury, and were to be shunned as worse evils than death. i asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with which the business of a clerk was inconsistent. he answered that he scarcely knew how to describe it. he read books when they came in his way. he had lighted upon few, and, perhaps, the pleasure they afforded him was owing to their fewness; yet he confessed that a mode of life which entirely forbade him to read was by no means to his taste. but this was trivial. he knew how to value the thoughts of other people, but he could not part with the privilege of observing and thinking for himself. he wanted business which would suffer at least nine-tenths of his attention to go free. if it afforded agreeable employment to that part of his attention which it applied to its own use, so much the better; but, if it did not, he should not repine. he should be content with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nine are to one. he had tried the trade of a copyist, and in circumstances more favourable than it was likely he should ever again have an opportunity of trying it, and he had found that it did not fulfil the requisite conditions. whereas the trade of ploughman was friendly to health, liberty, and pleasure. the pestilence, if it may so be called, was now declining. the health of my young friend allowed him to breathe the fresh air and to walk. a friend of mine, by name wortley, who had spent two months from the city, and to whom, in the course of a familiar correspondence, i had mentioned the foregoing particulars, returned from his rural excursion. he was posting, on the evening of the day of his arrival, with a friendly expedition, to my house, when he overtook mervyn going in the same direction. he was surprised to find him go before him into my dwelling, and to discover, which he speedily did, that this was the youth whom i had so frequently mentioned to him. i was present at their meeting. there was a strange mixture in the countenance of wortley when they were presented to each other. his satisfaction was mingled with surprise, and his surprise with anger. mervyn, in his turn, betrayed considerable embarrassment. wortley's thoughts were too earnest on some topic to allow him to converse. he shortly made some excuse for taking leave, and, rising, addressed himself to the youth with a request that he would walk home with him. this invitation, delivered in a tone which left it doubtful whether a compliment or menace were meant, augmented mervyn's confusion. he complied without speaking, and they went out together;--my wife and i were left to comment upon the scene. it could not fail to excite uneasiness. they were evidently no strangers to each other. the indignation that flashed from the eyes of wortley, and the trembling consciousness of mervyn, were unwelcome tokens. the former was my dearest friend, and venerable for his discernment and integrity. the latter appeared to have drawn upon himself the anger and disdain of this man. we already anticipated the shock which the discovery of his unworthiness would produce. in a half-hour mervyn returned. his embarrassment had given place to dejection. he was always serious, but his features were now overcast by the deepest gloom. the anxiety which i felt would not allow me to hesitate long. "arthur," said i, "something is the matter with you. will you not disclose it to us? perhaps you have brought yourself into some dilemma out of which we may help you to escape. has any thing of an unpleasant nature passed between you and wortley?" the youth did not readily answer. he seemed at a loss for a suitable reply. at length he said that something disagreeable had indeed passed between him and wortley. he had had the misfortune to be connected with a man by whom wortley conceived himself to be injured. he had borne no part in inflicting this injury, but had nevertheless been threatened with ill treatment if he did not make disclosures which, indeed, it was in his power to make, but which he was bound, by every sanction, to withhold. this disclosure would be of no benefit to wortley. it would rather operate injuriously than otherwise; yet it was endeavoured to be wrested from him by the heaviest menaces. there he paused. we were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these menaces; but mervyn entreated us to forbear any further discussion of this topic. he foresaw the difficulties to which his silence would subject him. one of its most fearful consequences would be the loss of our good opinion. he knew not what he had to dread from the enmity of wortley. mr. wortley's violence was not without excuse. it was his mishap to be exposed to suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his faith. but, indeed, he knew not whether any degree of explicitness would confute the charges that were made against him; whether, by trampling on his sacred promise, he should not multiply his perils instead of lessening their number. a difficult part had been assigned to him; by much too difficult for one young, improvident, and inexperienced as he was. sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. perhaps, after having had an opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude to adopt it; meanwhile he entreated permission to retire to his chamber. he was unable to exclude from his mind ideas which yet could, with no propriety, at least at present, be made the theme of conversation. these words were accompanied with simplicity and pathos, and with tokens of unaffected distress. "arthur," said i, "you are master of your actions and time in this house. retire when you please; but you will naturally suppose us anxious to dispel this mystery. whatever shall tend to obscure or malign your character will of course excite our solicitude. wortley is not short-sighted or hasty to condemn. so great is my confidence in his integrity that i will not promise my esteem to one who has irrecoverably lost that of wortley. i am not acquainted with your motives to concealment, or what it is you conceal; but take the word of one who possesses that experience which you complain of wanting, that sincerity is always safest." as soon as he had retired, my curiosity prompted me to pay an immediate visit to wortley. i found him at home. he was no less desirous of an interview, and answered my inquiries with as much eagerness as they were made. "you know," said he, "my disastrous connection with thomas welbeck. you recollect his sudden disappearance last july, by which i was reduced to the brink of ruin. nay, i am, even now, far from certain that i shall survive that event. i spoke to you about the youth who lived with him, and by what means that youth was discovered to have crossed the river in his company on the night of his departure. this is that very youth. "this will account for my emotion at meeting him at your house; i brought him out with me. his confusion sufficiently indicated his knowledge of transactions between welbeck and me. i questioned him as to the fate of that man. to own the truth, i expected some well-digested lie; but he merely said that he had promised secrecy on that subject, and must therefore be excused from giving me any information. i asked him if he knew that his master, or accomplice, or whatever was his relation to him, absconded in my debt? he answered that he knew it well; but still pleaded a promise of inviolable secrecy as to his hiding-place. this conduct justly exasperated me, and i treated him with the severity which he deserved. i am half ashamed to confess the excesses of my passion; i even went so far as to strike him. he bore my insults with the utmost patience. no doubt the young villain is well instructed in his lesson. he knows that he may safely defy my power. from threats i descended to entreaties. i even endeavoured to wind the truth from him by artifice. i promised him a part of the debt if he would enable me to recover the whole. i offered him a considerable reward if he would merely afford me a clue by which i might trace him to his retreat; but all was insufficient. he merely put on an air of perplexity and shook his head in token of non-compliance." such was my friend's account of this interview. his suspicions were unquestionably plausible; but i was disposed to put a more favourable construction on mervyn's behaviour. i recollected the desolate and penniless condition in which i found him, and the uniform complacency and rectitude of his deportment for the period during which we had witnessed it. these ideas had considerable influence on my judgment, and indisposed me to follow the advice of my friend, which was to turn him forth from my doors that very night. my wife's prepossessions were still more powerful advocates of this youth. she would vouch, she said, before any tribunal, for his innocence; but she willingly concurred with me in allowing him the continuance of our friendship on no other condition than that of a disclosure of the truth. to entitle ourselves to this confidence we were willing to engage, in our turn, for the observance of secrecy, so far that no detriment should accrue from this disclosure to himself or his friend. next morning, at breakfast, our guest appeared with a countenance less expressive of embarrassment than on the last evening. his attention was chiefly engaged by his own thoughts, and little was said till the breakfast was removed. i then reminded him of the incidents of the former day, and mentioned that the uneasiness which thence arose to us had rather been increased than diminished by time. "it is in your power, my young friend," continued i, "to add still more to this uneasiness, or to take it entirely away. i had no personal acquaintance with thomas welbeck. i have been informed by others that his character, for a certain period, was respectable, but that, at length, he contracted large debts, and, instead of paying them, absconded. you, it seems, lived with him. on the night of his departure you are known to have accompanied him across the river, and this, it seems, is the first of your reappearance on the stage. welbeck's conduct was dishonest. he ought doubtless to be pursued to his asylum and be compelled to refund his winnings. you confess yourself to know his place of refuge, but urge a promise of secrecy. know you not that to assist or connive at the escape of this man was wrong? to have promised to favour his concealment and impunity by silence was only an aggravation of this wrong. that, however, is past. your youth, and circumstances, hitherto unexplained, may apologize for that misconduct; but it is certainly your duty to repair it to the utmost of your power. think whether, by disclosing what you know, you will not repair it." "i have spent most of last night," said the youth, "in reflecting on this subject. i had come to a resolution, before you spoke, of confiding to you my simple tale. i perceive in what circumstances i am placed, and that i can keep my hold of your good opinion only by a candid deportment. i have indeed given a promise which it was wrong, or rather absurd, in another to exact, and in me to give; yet none but considerations of the highest importance would persuade me to break my promise. no injury will accrue from my disclosure to welbeck. if there should, dishonest as he was, that would be a sufficient reason for my silence. wortley will not, in any degree, be benefited by any communication that i can make. whether i grant or withhold information, my conduct will have influence only on my own happiness, and that influence will justify me in granting it. "i received your protection when i was friendless and forlorn. you have a right to know whom it is that you protected. my own fate is connected with the fate of welbeck, and that connection, together with the interest you are pleased to take in my concerns, because they are mine, will render a tale worthy of attention which will not be recommended by variety of facts or skill in the display of them. "wortley, though passionate, and, with regard to me, unjust, may yet be a good man; but i have no desire to make him one of my auditors. you, sir, may, if you think proper, relate to him afterwards what particulars concerning welbeck it may be of importance for him to know; but at present it will be well if your indulgence shall support me to the end of a tedious but humble tale." the eyes of my eliza sparkled with delight at this proposal. she regarded this youth with a sisterly affection, and considered his candour, in this respect, as an unerring test of his rectitude. she was prepared to hear and to forgive the errors of inexperience and precipitation. i did not fully participate in her satisfaction, but was nevertheless most zealously disposed to listen to his narrative. my engagements obliged me to postpone this rehearsal till late in the evening. collected then round a cheerful hearth, exempt from all likelihood of interruption from without, and our babe's unpractised senses shut up in the sweetest and profoundest sleep, mervyn, after a pause of recollection, began. chapter ii. my natal soil is chester county. my father had a small farm, on which he has been able, by industry, to maintain himself and a numerous family. he has had many children, but some defect in the constitution of our mother has been fatal to all of them but me. they died successively as they attained the age of nineteen or twenty, and, since i have not yet reached that age, i may reasonably look for the same premature fate. in the spring of last year my mother followed her fifth child to the grave, and three months afterwards died herself. my constitution has always been frail, and, till the death of my mother, i enjoyed unlimited indulgence. i cheerfully sustained my portion of labour, for that necessity prescribed; but the intervals were always at my own disposal, and, in whatever manner i thought proper to employ them, my plans were encouraged and assisted. fond appellations, tones of mildness, solicitous attendance when i was sick, deference to my opinions, and veneration for my talents, compose the image which i still retain of my mother. i had the thoughtlessness and presumption of youth, and, now that she is gone, my compunction is awakened by a thousand recollections of my treatment of her. i was indeed guilty of no flagrant acts of contempt or rebellion. perhaps her deportment was inevitably calculated to instil into me a froward and refractory spirit. my faults, however, were speedily followed by repentance, and, in the midst of impatience and passion, a look of tender upbraiding from her was always sufficient to melt me into tears and make me ductile to her will. if sorrow for her loss be an atonement for the offences which i committed during her life, ample atonement has been made. my father is a man of slender capacity, but of a temper easy and flexible. he was sober and industrious by habit. he was content to be guided by the superior intelligence of his wife. under this guidance he prospered; but, when that was withdrawn, his affairs soon began to betray marks of unskilfulness and negligence. my understanding, perhaps, qualified me to counsel and assist my father, but i was wholly unaccustomed to the task of superintendence. besides, gentleness and fortitude did not descend to me from my mother, and these were indispensable attributes in a boy who desires to dictate to his gray-headed parent. time, perhaps, might have conferred dexterity on me, or prudence on him, had not a most unexpected event given a different direction to my views. betty lawrence was a wild girl from the pine-forests of new jersey. at the age of ten years she became a bound servant in this city, and, after the expiration of her time, came into my father's neighbourhood in search of employment. she was hired in our family as milkmaid and market-woman. her features were coarse, her frame robust, her mind totally unlettered, and her morals defective in that point in which female excellence is supposed chiefly to consist. she possessed super-abundant health and good-humour, and was quite a supportable companion in the hay-field or the barnyard. on the death of my mother, she was exalted to a somewhat higher station. the same tasks fell to her lot; but the time and manner of performing them were, in some degree, submitted to her own choice. the cows and the dairy were still her province; but in this no one interfered with her or pretended to prescribe her measures. for this province she seemed not unqualified, and, as long as my father was pleased with her management, i had nothing to object. this state of things continued, without material variation, for several months. there were appearances in my father's deportment to betty, which excited my reflections, but not my fears. the deference which was occasionally paid to the advice or the claims of this girl was accounted for by that feebleness of mind which degraded my father, in whatever scene he should be placed, to be the tool of others. i had no conception that her claims extended beyond a temporary or superficial gratification. at length, however, a visible change took place in her manners. a scornful affectation and awkward dignity began to be assumed. a greater attention was paid to dress, which was of gayer hues and more fashionable texture. i rallied her on these tokens of a sweetheart, and amused myself with expatiating to her on the qualifications of her lover. a clownish fellow was frequently her visitant. his attentions did not appear to be discouraged. he therefore was readily supposed to be the man. when pointed out as the favourite, great resentment was expressed, and obscure insinuations were made that her aim was not quite so low as that. these denials i supposed to be customary on such occasions, and considered the continuance of his visits as a sufficient confutation of them. i frequently spoke of betty, her newly-acquired dignity, and of the probable cause of her change of manners, to my father. when this theme was started, a certain coldness and reserve overspread his features. he dealt in monosyllables, and either laboured to change the subject or made some excuse for leaving me. this behaviour, though it occasioned surprise, was never very deeply reflected on. my father was old, and the mournful impressions which were made upon him by the death of his wife, the lapse of almost half a year seemed scarcely to have weakened. betty had chosen her partner, and i was in daily expectation of receiving a summons to the wedding. one afternoon this girl dressed herself in the gayest manner and seemed making preparations for some momentous ceremony. my father had directed me to put the horse to the chaise. on my inquiring whither he was going, he answered me, in general terms, that he had some business at a few miles' distance. i offered to go in his stead, but he said that was impossible. i was proceeding to ascertain the possibility of this when he left me to go to a field where his workmen were busy, directing me to inform him when the chaise was ready, to supply his place, while absent, in overlooking the workmen. this office was performed; but before i called him from the field i exchanged a few words with the milkmaid, who sat on a bench, in all the primness of expectation, and decked with the most gaudy plumage. i rated her imaginary lover for his tardiness, and vowed eternal hatred to them both for not making me a bride's attendant. she listened to me with an air in which embarrassment was mingled sometimes with exultation and sometimes with malice. i left her at length, and returned to the house not till a late hour. as soon as i entered, my father presented betty to me as his wife, and desired she might receive that treatment from me which was due to a mother. it was not till after repeated and solemn declarations from both of them that i was prevailed upon to credit this event. its effect upon my feelings may be easily conceived. i knew the woman to be rude, ignorant, and licentious. had i suspected this event, i might have fortified my father's weakness and enabled him to shun the gulf to which he was tending; but my presumption had been careless of the danger. to think that such a one should take the place of my revered mother was intolerable. to treat her in any way not squaring with her real merits; to hinder anger and scorn from rising at the sight of her in her new condition, was not in my power. to be degraded to the rank of her servant, to become the sport of her malice and her artifices, was not to be endured. i had no independent provision; but i was the only child of my father, and had reasonably hoped to succeed to his patrimony. on this hope i had built a thousand agreeable visions. i had meditated innumerable projects which the possession of this estate would enable me to execute. i had no wish beyond the trade of agriculture, and beyond the opulence which a hundred acres would give. these visions were now at an end. no doubt her own interest would be, to this woman, the supreme law, and this would be considered as irreconcilably hostile to mine. my father would easily be moulded to her purpose, and that act easily extorted from him which should reduce me to beggary. she had a gross and perverse taste. she had a numerous kindred, indigent and hungry. on these his substance would speedily be lavished. me she hated, because she was conscious of having injured me, because she knew that i held her in contempt, and because i had detected her in an illicit intercourse with the son of a neighbour. the house in which i lived was no longer my own, nor even my father's. hitherto i had thought and acted in it with the freedom of a master; but now i was become, in my own conceptions, an alien and an enemy to the roof under which i was born. every tie which had bound me to it was dissolved or converted into something which repelled me to a distance from it. i was a guest whose presence was borne with anger and impatience. i was fully impressed with the necessity of removal, but i knew not whither to go, or what kind of subsistence to seek. my father had been a scottish emigrant, and had no kindred on this side of the ocean. my mother's family lived in new hampshire, and long separation had extinguished all the rights of relationship in her offspring. tilling the earth was my only profession, and, to profit by my skill in it, it would be necessary to become a day-labourer in the service of strangers; but this was a destiny to which i, who had so long enjoyed the pleasures of independence and command, could not suddenly reconcile myself. it occurred to me that the city might afford me an asylum. a short day's journey would transport me into it. i had been there twice or thrice in my life, but only for a few hours each time. i knew not a human face, and was a stranger to its modes and dangers. i was qualified for no employment, compatible with a town life, but that of the pen. this, indeed, had ever been a favourite tool with me; and, though it may appear somewhat strange, it is no less true that i had had nearly as much practice at the quill as at the mattock. but the sum of my skill lay in tracing distinct characters. i had used it merely to transcribe what others had written, or to give form to my own conceptions. whether the city would afford me employment, as a mere copyist, sufficiently lucrative, was a point on which i possessed no means of information. my determination was hastened by the conduct of my new mother. my conjectures as to the course she would pursue with regard to me had not been erroneous. my father's deportment, in a short time, grew sullen and austere. directions were given in a magisterial tone, and any remissness in the execution of his orders was rebuked with an air of authority. at length these rebukes were followed by certain intimations that i was now old enough to provide for myself; that it was time to think of some employment by which i might secure a livelihood; that it was a shame for me to spend my youth in idleness; that what he had gained was by his own labour; and i must be indebted for my living to the same source. these hints were easily understood. at first, they excited indignation and grief. i knew the source whence they sprung, and was merely able to suppress the utterance of my feelings in her presence. my looks, however, were abundantly significant, and my company became hourly more insupportable. abstracted from these considerations, my father's remonstrances were not destitute of weight. he gave me being, but sustenance ought surely to be my own gift. in the use of that for which he had been indebted to his own exertions, he might reasonably consult his own choice. he assumed no control over me; he merely did what he would with his own, and, so far from fettering my liberty, he exhorted me to use it for my own benefit, and to make provision for myself. i now reflected that there were other manual occupations besides that of the plough. among these none had fewer disadvantages than that of carpenter or cabinet-maker. i had no knowledge of this art; but neither custom, nor law, nor the impenetrableness of the mystery, required me to serve a seven years' apprenticeship to it. a master in this trade might possibly be persuaded to take me under his tuition; two or three years would suffice to give me the requisite skill. meanwhile my father would, perhaps, consent to bear the cost of my maintenance. nobody could live upon less than i was willing to do. i mentioned these ideas to my father; but he merely commended my intentions without offering to assist me in the execution of them. he had full employment, he said, for all the profits of his ground. no doubt, if i would bind myself to serve four or five years, my master would be at the expense of my subsistence. be that as it would, i must look for nothing from him. i had shown very little regard for his happiness; i had refused all marks of respect to a woman who was entitled to it from her relation to him. he did not see why he should treat as a son one who refused what was due to him as a father. he thought it right that i should henceforth maintain myself. he did not want my services on the farm, and the sooner i quitted his house the better. i retired from this conference with a resolution to follow the advice that was given. i saw that henceforth i must be my own protector, and wondered at the folly that detained me so long under his roof. to leave it was now become indispensable, and there could be no reason for delaying my departure for a single hour. i determined to bend my course to the city. the scheme foremost in my mind was to apprentice myself to some mechanical trade. i did not overlook the evils of constraint and the dubiousness as to the character of the master i should choose. i was not without hopes that accident would suggest a different expedient, and enable me to procure an immediate subsistence without forfeiting my liberty. i determined to commence my journey the next morning. no wonder the prospect of so considerable a change in my condition should deprive me of sleep. i spent the night ruminating on the future, and in painting to my fancy the adventures which i should be likely to meet. the foresight of man is in proportion to his knowledge. no wonder that, in my state of profound ignorance, not the faintest preconception should be formed of the events that really befell me. my temper was inquisitive, but there was nothing in the scene to which i was going from which my curiosity expected to derive gratification. discords and evil smells, unsavoury food, unwholesome labour, and irksome companions, were, in my opinion, the unavoidable attendants of a city. my best clothes were of the homeliest texture and shape. my whole stock of linen consisted of three check shirts. part of my winter evenings' employment, since the death of my mother, consisted in knitting my own stockings. of these i had three pair, one of which i put on, and the rest i formed, together with two shirts, into a bundle. three quarter-dollar pieces composed my whole fortune in money. chapter iii. i rose at the dawn, and, without asking or bestowing a blessing, sallied forth into the highroad to the city, which passed near the house. i left nothing behind, the loss of which i regretted. i had purchased most of my own books with the product of my own separate industry, and, their number being, of course, small, i had, by incessant application, gotten the whole of them by rote. they had ceased, therefore, to be of any further use. i left them, without reluctance, to the fate for which i knew them to be reserved, that of affording food and habitation to mice. i trod this unwonted path with all the fearlessness of youth. in spite of the motives to despondency and apprehension incident to my state, my heels were light and my heart joyous. "now," said i, "i am mounted into man. i must build a name and a fortune for myself. strange if this intellect and these hands will not supply me with an honest livelihood. i will try the city in the first place; but, if that should fail, resources are still left to me. i will resume my post in the cornfield and threshing-floor, to which i shall always have access, and where i shall always be happy." i had proceeded some miles on my journey, when i began to feel the inroads of hunger. i might have stopped at any farm-house, and have breakfasted for nothing. it was prudent to husband, with the utmost care, my slender stock; but i felt reluctance to beg as long as i had the means of buying, and i imagined that coarse bread and a little milk would cost little even at a tavern, when any farmer was willing to bestow them for nothing. my resolution was further influenced by the appearance of a signpost. what excuse could i make for begging a breakfast with an inn at hand and silver in my pocket? i stopped, accordingly, and breakfasted. the landlord was remarkably attentive and obliging, but his bread was stale, his milk sour, and his cheese the greenest imaginable. i disdained to animadvert on these defects, naturally supposing that his house could furnish no better. having finished my meal, i put, without speaking, one of my pieces into his hand. this deportment i conceived to be highly becoming, and to indicate a liberal and manly spirit. i always regarded with contempt a scrupulous maker of bargains. he received the money with a complaisant obeisance. "right," said he. "_just_ the money, sir. you are on foot, sir. a pleasant way of travelling, sir. i wish you a good day, sir." so saying, he walked away. this proceeding was wholly unexpected. i conceived myself entitled to at least three-fourths of it in change. the first impulse was to call him back, and contest the equity of his demand; but a moment's reflection showed me the absurdity of such conduct. i resumed my journey with spirits somewhat depressed. i have heard of voyagers and wanderers in deserts, who were willing to give a casket of gems for a cup of cold water. i had not supposed my own condition to be, in any respect, similar; yet i had just given one-third of my estate for a breakfast. i stopped at noon at another inn. i counted on purchasing a dinner for the same price, since i meant to content myself with the same fare. a large company was just sitting down to a smoking banquet. the landlord invited me to join them. i took my place at the table, but was furnished with bread and milk. being prepared to depart, i took him aside. "what is to pay?" said i.--"did you drink any thing, sir?"--"certainly. i drank the milk which was furnished."--"but any liquors, sir?"---"no." he deliberated a moment, and then, assuming an air of disinterestedness, "'tis our custom to charge dinner and club; but, as you drank nothing, we'll let the club go. a mere dinner is half a dollar, sir." he had no leisure to attend to my fluctuations. after debating with myself on what was to be done, i concluded that compliance was best, and, leaving the money at the bar, resumed my way. i had not performed more than half my journey, yet my purse was entirely exhausted. this was a specimen of the cost incurred by living at an inn. if i entered the city, a tavern must, at least for some time, be my abode; but i had not a farthing remaining to defray my charges. my father had formerly entertained a boarder for a dollar per week, and, in case of need, i was willing to subsist upon coarser fare and lie on a harder bed than those with which our guest had been supplied. these facts had been the foundation of my negligence on this occasion. what was now to be done? to return to my paternal mansion was impossible. to relinquish my design of entering the city and to seek a temporary asylum, if not permanent employment, at some one of the plantations within view, was the most obvious expedient. these deliberations did not slacken my pace. i was almost unmindful of my way, when i found i had passed schuylkill at the upper bridge. i was now within the precincts of the city, and night was hastening. it behooved me to come to a speedy decision. suddenly i recollected that i had not paid the customary toll at the bridge; neither had i money wherewith to pay it. a demand of payment would have suddenly arrested my progress; and so slight an incident would have precluded that wonderful destiny to which i was reserved. the obstacle that would have hindered my advance now prevented my return. scrupulous honesty did not require me to turn back and awaken the vigilance of the toll-gatherer. i had nothing to pay, and by returning i should only double my debt. "let it stand," said i, "where it does. all that honour enjoins is to pay when i am able." i adhered to the crossways, till i reached market street. night had fallen, and a triple row of lamps presented a spectacle enchanting and new. my personal cares were, for a time, lost in the tumultuous sensations with which i was now engrossed. i had never visited the city at this hour. when my last visit was paid, i was a mere child. the novelty which environed every object was, therefore, nearly absolute. i proceeded with more cautious steps, but was still absorbed in attention to passing objects. i reached the market-house, and, entering it, indulged myself in new delight and new wonder. i need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and splendour are merely comparative; yet you may be prompted to smile when i tell you that, in walking through this avenue, i, for a moment, conceived myself transported to the hall "pendent with many a row of starry lamps and blazing crescents fed by naphtha and asphaltos." that this transition from my homely and quiet retreat had been effected in so few hours wore the aspect of miracle or magic. i proceeded from one of these buildings to another, till i reached their termination in front street. here my progress was checked, and i sought repose to my weary limbs by seating myself on a stall. no wonder some fatigue was felt by me, accustomed as i was to strenuous exertions, since, exclusive of the minutes spent at breakfast and dinner, i had travelled fifteen hours and forty-five miles. i began now to reflect, with some earnestness, on my condition. i was a stranger, friendless and moneyless. i was unable to purchase food and shelter, and was wholly unused to the business of begging. hunger was the only serious inconvenience to which i was immediately exposed. i had no objection to spend the night in the spot where i then sat. i had no fear that my visions would be troubled by the officers of police. it was no crime to be without a home; but how should i supply my present cravings and the cravings of to-morrow? at length it occurred to me that one of our country neighbours was probably at this time in the city. he kept a store as well as cultivated a farm. he was a plain and well-meaning man, and, should i be so fortunate as to meet him, his superior knowledge of the city might be of essential benefit to me in my present forlorn circumstances. his generosity might likewise induce him to lend me so much as would purchase one meal. i had formed the resolution to leave the city next day, and was astonished at the folly that had led me into it; but, meanwhile, my physical wants must be supplied. where should i look for this man? in the course of conversation i recollected him to have referred to the place of his temporary abode. it was an inn; but the sign or the name of the keeper for some time withstood all my efforts to recall them. at length i lighted on the last. it was lesher's tavern. i immediately set out in search of it. after many inquiries, i at last arrived at the door. i was preparing to enter the house when i perceived that my bundle was gone. i had left it on the stall where i had been sitting. people were perpetually passing to and fro. it was scarcely possible not to have been noticed. no one that observed it would fail to make it his prey. yet it was of too much value to me to allow me to be governed by a bare probability. i resolved to lose not a moment in returning. with some difficulty i retraced my steps, but the bundle had disappeared. the clothes were, in themselves, of small value, but they constituted the whole of my wardrobe; and i now reflected that they were capable of being transmuted, by the pawn or sale of them, into food. there were other wretches as indigent as i was, and i consoled myself by thinking that my shirts and stockings might furnish a seasonable covering to their nakedness; but there was a relic concealed within this bundle, the loss of which could scarcely be endured by me. it was the portrait of a young man who died three years ago at my father's house, drawn by his own hand. he was discovered one morning in the orchard with many marks of insanity upon him. his air and dress bespoke some elevation of rank and fortune. my mother's compassion was excited, and, as his singularities were harmless, an asylum was afforded him, though he was unable to pay for it. he was constantly declaiming, in an incoherent manner, about some mistress who had proved faithless. his speeches seemed, however, like the rantings of an actor, to be rehearsed by rote or for the sake of exercise. he was totally careless of his person and health, and, by repeated negligences of this kind, at last contracted a fever of which he speedily died. the name which he assumed was clavering. he gave no distinct account of his family, but stated, in loose terms, that they were residents in england, high-born and wealthy. that they had denied him the woman whom he loved and banished him to america, under penalty of death if he should dare to return, and that they had refused him all means of subsistence in a foreign land. he predicted, in his wild and declamatory way, his own death. he was very skilful at the pencil, and drew this portrait a short time before his dissolution, presented it to me, and charged me to preserve it in remembrance of him. my mother loved the youth because he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly because she fancied a very powerful resemblance between his countenance and mine. i was too young to build affection on any rational foundation. i loved him, for whatever reason, with an ardour unusual at my age, and which this portrait had contributed to prolong and to cherish. in thus finally leaving my home, i was careful not to leave this picture behind. i wrapped it in paper in which a few elegiac stanzas were inscribed in my own hand, and with my utmost elegance of penmanship. i then placed it in a leathern case, which, for greater security, was deposited in the centre of my bundle. it will occur to you, perhaps, that it would be safer in some fold or pocket of the clothes which i wore. i was of a different opinion, and was now to endure the penalty of my error. it was in vain to heap execrations on my negligence, or to consume the little strength left to me in regrets. i returned once more to the tavern and made inquiries for mr. capper, the person whom i have just mentioned as my father's neighbour. i was informed that capper was now in town; that he had lodged, on the last night, at this house; that he had expected to do the same to-night, but a gentleman had called ten minutes ago, whose invitation to lodge with him to-night had been accepted. they had just gone out together. who, i asked, was the gentleman? the landlord had no knowledge of him; he knew neither his place of abode nor his name. was mr. capper expected to return hither in the morning? no; he had heard the stranger propose to mr. capper to go with him into the country to-morrow, and mr. capper, he believed, had assented. this disappointment was peculiarly severe. i had lost, by my own negligence, the only opportunity that would offer of meeting my friend. had even the recollection of my loss been postponed for three minutes, i should have entered the house, and a meeting would have been secured. i could discover no other expedient to obviate the present evil. my heart began now, for the first time, to droop. i looked back, with nameless emotions, on the days of my infancy. i called up the image of my mother. i reflected on the infatuation of my surviving parent, and the usurpation of the detestable betty, with horror. i viewed myself as the most calamitous and desolate of human beings. at this time i was sitting in the common room. there were others in the same apartment, lounging, or whistling, or singing. i noticed them not, but, leaning my head upon my hand, i delivered myself up to painful and intense meditation. from this i was roused by some one placing himself on the bench near me and addressing me thus:--"pray, sir, if you will excuse me, who was the person whom you were looking for just now? perhaps i can give you the information you want. if i can, you will be very welcome to it." i fixed my eyes with some eagerness on the person that spoke. he was a young man, expensively and fashionably dressed, whose mien was considerably prepossessing, and whose countenance bespoke some portion of discernment. i described to him the man whom i sought. "i am in search of the same man myself," said he, "but i expect to meet him here. he may lodge elsewhere, but he promised to meet me here at half after nine. i have no doubt he will fulfil his promise, so that you will meet the gentleman." i was highly gratified by this information, and thanked my informant with some degree of warmth. my gratitude he did not notice, but continued: "in order to beguile expectation, i have ordered supper; will you do me the favour to partake with me, unless indeed you have supped already?" i was obliged, somewhat awkwardly, to decline his invitation, conscious as i was that the means of payment were not in my power. he continued, however, to urge my compliance till at length it was, though reluctantly, yielded. my chief motive was the certainty of seeing capper. my new acquaintance was exceedingly conversible, but his conversation was chiefly characterized by frankness and good-humour. my reserve gradually diminished, and i ventured to inform him, in general terms, of my former condition and present views. he listened to my details with seeming attention, and commented on them with some judiciousness. his statements, however, tended to discourage me from remaining in the city. meanwhile the hour passed and capper did not appear. i noticed this circumstance to him with no little solicitude. he said that possibly he might have forgotten or neglected his engagement. his affair was not of the highest importance, and might be readily postponed to a future opportunity. he perceived that my vivacity was greatly damped by this intelligence. he importuned me to disclose the cause. he made himself very merry with my distress, when it was at length discovered. as to the expense of supper, i had partaken of it at his invitation; he therefore should of course be charged with it. as to lodging, he had a chamber and a bed, which he would insist upon my sharing with him. my faculties were thus kept upon the stretch of wonder. every new act of kindness in this man surpassed the fondest expectation that i had formed. i saw no reason why i should be treated with benevolence. i should have acted in the same manner if placed in the same circumstances; yet it appeared incongruous and inexplicable. i know whence my ideas of human nature were derived. they certainly were not the offspring of my own feelings. these would have taught me that interest and duty were blended in every act of generosity. i did not come into the world without my scruples and suspicions. i was more apt to impute kindnesses to sinister and hidden than to obvious and laudable motives. i paused to reflect upon the possible designs of this person. what end could be served by this behaviour? i was no subject of violence or fraud. i had neither trinket nor coin to stimulate the treachery of others. what was offered was merely lodging for the night. was this an act of such transcendent disinterestedness as to be incredible? my garb was meaner than that of my companion, but my intellectual accomplishments were at least upon a level with his. why should he be supposed to be insensible to my claims upon his kindness? i was a youth destitute of experience, money, and friends; but i was not devoid of all mental and personal endowments. that my merit should be discovered, even on such slender intercourse, had surely nothing in it that shocked belief. while i was thus deliberating, my new friend was earnest in his solicitations for my company. he remarked my hesitation, but ascribed it to a wrong cause. "come," said he, "i can guess your objections and can obviate them. you are afraid of being ushered into company; and people who have passed their lives like you have a wonderful antipathy to strange faces; but this is bedtime with our family, so that we can defer your introduction to them till to-morrow. we may go to our chamber without being seen by any but servants." i had not been aware of this circumstance. my reluctance flowed from a different cause, but, now that the inconveniences of ceremony were mentioned, they appeared to me of considerable weight. i was well pleased that they should thus be avoided, and consented to go along with him. we passed several streets and turned several corners. at last we turned into a kind of court which seemed to be chiefly occupied by stables. "we will go," said he, "by the back way into the house. we shall thus save ourselves the necessity of entering the parlour, where some of the family may still be." my companion was as talkative as ever, but said nothing from which i could gather any knowledge of the number, character, and condition of his family. chapter iv. we arrived at a brick wall, through which we passed by a gate into an extensive court or yard. the darkness would allow me to see nothing but outlines. compared with the pigmy dimensions of my father's wooden hovel, the buildings before me were of gigantic loftiness. the horses were here far more magnificently accommodated than i had been. by a large door we entered an elevated hall. "stay here," said he, "just while i fetch a light." he returned, bearing a candle, before i had time to ponder on my present situation. we now ascended a staircase, covered with painted canvas. no one whose inexperience is less than mine can imagine to himself the impressions made upon me by surrounding objects. the height to which this stair ascended, its dimensions, and its ornaments, appeared to me a combination of all that was pompous and superb. we stopped not till we had reached the third story. here my companion unlocked and led the way into a chamber. "this," said he, "is my room; permit me to welcome you into it." i had no time to examine this room before, by some accident, the candle was extinguished. "curse upon my carelessness!" said he. "i must go down again and light the candle. i will return in a twinkling. meanwhile you may undress yourself and go to bed." he went out, and, as i afterwards recollected, locked the door behind him. i was not indisposed to follow his advice, but my curiosity would first be gratified by a survey of the room. its height and spaciousness were imperfectly discernible by starlight, and by gleams from a street-lamp. the floor was covered with a carpet, the walls with brilliant hangings; the bed and windows were shrouded by curtains of a rich texture and glossy hues. hitherto i had merely read of these things. i knew them to be the decorations of opulence; and yet, as i viewed them, and remembered where and what i was on the same hour the preceding day, i could scarcely believe myself awake, or that my senses were not beguiled by some spell. "where," said i, "will this adventure terminate? i rise on the morrow with the dawn and speed into the country. when this night is remembered, how like a vision will it appear! if i tell the tale by a kitchen-fire, my veracity will be disputed. i shall be ranked with the story-tellers of shiraz and bagdad." though busied in these reflections, i was not inattentive to the progress of time. methought my companion was remarkably dilatory. he went merely to relight his candle, but certainly he might, during this time, have performed the operation ten times over. some unforeseen accident might occasion his delay. another interval passed, and no tokens of his coming. i began now to grow uneasy. i was unable to account for his detention. was not some treachery designed? i went to the door, and found that it was locked. this heightened my suspicions. i was alone, a stranger, in an upper room of the house. should my conductor have disappeared, by design or by accident, and some one of the family should find me here, what would be the consequence? should i not be arrested as a thief, and conveyed to prison? my transition from the street to this chamber would not be more rapid than my passage hence to a jail. these ideas struck me with panic. i revolved them anew, but they only acquired greater plausibility. no doubt i had been the victim of malicious artifice. inclination, however, conjured up opposite sentiments, and my fears began to subside. what motive, i asked, could induce a human being to inflict wanton injury? i could not account for his delay; but how numberless were the contingencies that might occasion it! i was somewhat comforted by these reflections, but the consolation they afforded was short-lived. i was listening with the utmost eagerness to catch the sound of a foot, when a noise was indeed heard, but totally unlike a step. it was human breath struggling, as it were, for passage. on the first effort of attention, it appeared like a groan. whence it arose i could not tell. he that uttered it was near; perhaps in the room. presently the same noise was again heard, and now i perceived that it came from the bed. it was accompanied with a motion like some one changing his posture. what i at first conceived to be a groan appeared now to be nothing more than the expiration of a sleeping man. what should i infer from this incident? my companion did not apprize me that the apartment was inhabited. was his imposture a jestful or a wicked one? there was no need to deliberate. there were no means of concealment or escape. the person would some time awaken and detect me. the interval would only be fraught with agony, and it was wise to shorten it. should i not withdraw the curtain, awake the person, and encounter at once all the consequences of my situation? i glided softly to the bed, when the thought occurred, may not the sleeper be a female? i cannot describe the mixture of dread and of shame which glowed in my veins. the light in which such a visitant would be probably regarded by a woman's fears, the precipitate alarms that might be given, the injury which i might unknowingly inflict or undeservedly suffer, threw my thoughts into painful confusion. my presence might pollute a spotless reputation, or furnish fuel to jealousy. still, though it were a female, would not less injury be done by gently interrupting her slumber? but the question of sex still remained to be decided. for this end i once more approached the bed, and drew aside the silk. the sleeper was a babe. this i discovered by the glimmer of a street-lamp. part of my solicitudes were now removed. it was plain that this chamber belonged to a nurse or a mother. she had not yet come to bed. perhaps it was a married pair, and their approach might be momently expected. i pictured to myself their entrance and my own detection. i could imagine no consequence that was not disastrous and horrible, and from which i would not at any price escape. i again examined the door, and found that exit by this avenue was impossible. there were other doors in this room. any practicable expedient in this extremity was to be pursued. one of these was bolted. i unfastened it and found a considerable space within. should i immure myself in this closet? i saw no benefit that would finally result from it. i discovered that there was a bolt on the inside, which would somewhat contribute to security. this being drawn, no one could enter without breaking the door. i had scarcely paused, when the long-expected sound of footsteps was heard in the entry. was it my companion, or a stranger? if it were the latter, i had not yet mustered courage sufficient to meet him. i cannot applaud the magnanimity of my proceeding; but no one can expect intrepid or judicious measures from one in my circumstances. i stepped into the closet, and closed the door. some one immediately after unlocked the chamber door. he was unattended with a light. the footsteps, as they moved along the carpet, could scarcely be heard. i waited impatiently for some token by which i might be governed. i put my ear to the keyhole, and at length heard a voice, but not that of my companion, exclaim, somewhat above a whisper, "smiling cherub! safe and sound, i see. would to god my experiment may succeed, and that thou mayest find a mother where i have found a wife!" there he stopped. he appeared to kiss the babe, and, presently retiring, locked the door after him. these words were capable of no consistent meaning. they served, at least, to assure me that i had been treacherously dealt with. this chamber, it was manifest, did not belong to my companion. i put up prayers to my deity that he would deliver me from these toils. what a condition was mine! immersed in palpable darkness! shut up in this unknown recess! lurking like a robber! my meditations were disturbed by new sounds. the door was unlocked, more than one person entered the apartment, and light streamed through the keyhole. i looked; but the aperture was too small and the figures passed too quickly to permit me the sight of them. i bent my ear, and this imparted some more authentic information. the man, as i judged by the voice, was the same who had just departed. rustling of silk denoted his companion to be female. some words being uttered by the man, in too low a key to be overheard, the lady burst into a passion of tears. he strove to comfort her by soothing tones and tender appellations. "how can it be helped?" said he. "it is time to resume your courage. your duty to yourself and to me requires you to subdue this unreasonable grief." he spoke frequently in this strain, but all he said seemed to have little influence in pacifying the lady. at length, however, her sobs began to lessen in vehemence and frequency. he exhorted her to seek for some repose. apparently she prepared to comply, and conversation was, for a few minutes, intermitted. i could not but advert to the possibility that some occasion to examine the closet, in which i was immured, might occur. i knew not in what manner to demean myself if this should take place. i had no option at present. by withdrawing myself from view i had lost the privilege of an upright deportment. yet the thought of spending the night in this spot was not to be endured. gradually i began to view the project of bursting from the closet, and trusting to the energy of truth and of an artless tale, with more complacency. more than once my hand was placed upon the bolt, but withdrawn by a sudden faltering of resolution. when one attempt failed, i recurred once more to such reflections as were adapted to renew my purpose. i preconcerted the address which i should use. i resolved to be perfectly explicit; to withhold no particular of my adventures from the moment of my arrival. my description must necessarily suit some person within their knowledge. all i should want was liberty to depart; but, if this were not allowed, i might at least hope to escape any ill treatment, and to be confronted with my betrayer. in that case i did not fear to make him the attester of my innocence. influenced by these considerations, i once more touched the lock. at that moment the lady shrieked, and exclaimed, "good god! what is here?" an interesting conversation ensued. the object that excited her astonishment was the child. i collected from what passed that the discovery was wholly unexpected by her. her husband acted as if equally unaware of this event. he joined in all her exclamations of wonder and all her wild conjectures. when these were somewhat exhausted, he artfully insinuated the propriety of bestowing care upon the little foundling. i now found that her grief had been occasioned by the recent loss of her own offspring. she was, for some time, averse to her husband's proposal, but at length was persuaded to take the babe to her bosom and give it nourishment. this incident had diverted my mind from its favourite project, and filled me with speculations on the nature of the scene. one explication was obvious, that the husband was the parent of this child, and had used this singular expedient to procure for it the maternal protection of his wife. it would soon claim from her all the fondness which she entertained for her own progeny. no suspicion probably had yet, or would hereafter, occur with regard to its true parent. if her character be distinguished by the usual attributes of women, the knowledge of this truth may convert her love into hatred. i reflected with amazement on the slightness of that thread by which human passions are led from their true direction. with no less amazement did i remark the complexity of incidents by which i had been empowered to communicate to her this truth. how baseless are the structures of falsehood, which we build in opposition to the system of eternal nature! if i should escape undetected from this recess, it will be true that i never saw the face of either of these persons, and yet i am acquainted with the most secret transaction of their lives. my own situation was now more critical than before. the lights were extinguished, and the parties had sought repose. to issue from the closet now would be imminently dangerous. my councils were again at a stand and my designs frustrated. meanwhile the persons did not drop their discourse, and i thought myself justified in listening. many facts of the most secret and momentous nature were alluded to. some allusions were unintelligible. to others i was able to affix a plausible meaning, and some were palpable enough. every word that was uttered on that occasion is indelibly imprinted on my memory. perhaps the singularity of my circumstances, and my previous ignorance of what was passing in the world, contributed to render me a greedy listener. most that was said i shall overlook; but one part of the conversation it will be necessary to repeat. a large company had assembled that evening at their house. they criticized the character and manners of several. at last the husband said, "what think you of the nabob? especially when he talked about riches? how artfully he encourages the notion of his poverty! yet not a soul believes him. i cannot for my part account for that scheme of his. i half suspect that his wealth flows from a bad source, since he is so studious of concealing it." "perhaps, after all," said the lady, "you are mistaken as to his wealth." "impossible," exclaimed the other. "mark how he lives. have i not seen his bank-account? his deposits, since he has been here, amount to no less than half a million." "heaven grant that it be so!" said the lady, with a sigh. "i shall think with less aversion of your scheme. if poor tom's fortune be made, and he not the worse, or but little the worse on that account, i shall think it on the whole best." "that," replied he, "is what reconciles me to the scheme. to him thirty thousand are nothing." "but will he not suspect you of some hand in it?" "how can he? will i not appear to lose as well as himself? tom is my brother, but who can be supposed to answer for a brother's integrity? but he cannot suspect either of us. nothing less than a miracle can bring our plot to light. besides, this man is not what he ought to be. he will, some time or other, come out to be a grand impostor. he makes money by other arts than bargain and sale. he has found his way, by some means, to the portuguese treasury." here the conversation took a new direction, and, after some time, the silence of sleep ensued. who, thought i, is this nabob who counts his dollars by half-millions, and on whom it seems as if some fraud was intended to be practised? amidst their wariness and subtlety, how little are they aware that their conversation has been overheard! by means as inscrutable as those which conducted me hither, i may hereafter be enabled to profit by this detection of a plot. but, meanwhile, what was i to do? how was i to effect my escape from this perilous asylum? after much reflection, it occurred to me that to gain the street without exciting their notice was not utterly impossible. sleep does not commonly end of itself, unless at a certain period. what impediments were there between me and liberty which i could not remove, and remove with so much caution as to escape notice? motion and sound inevitably go together; but every sound is not attended to. the doors of the closet and the chamber did not creak upon their hinges. the latter might be locked. this i was able to ascertain only by experiment. if it were so, yet the key was probably in the lock, and might be used without much noise. i waited till their slow and hoarser inspirations showed them to be both asleep. just then, on changing my position, my head struck against some things which depended from the ceiling of the closet. they were implements of some kind which rattled against each other in consequence of this unlucky blow. i was fearful lest this noise should alarm, as the closet was little distant from the bed. the breathing of one instantly ceased, and a motion was made as if the head were lifted from the pillow. this motion, which was made by the husband, awaked his companion, who exclaimed, "what is the matter?" "something, i believe," replied he, "in the closet. if i was not dreaming, i heard the pistols strike against each other as if some one was taking them down." this intimation was well suited to alarm the lady. she besought him to ascertain the matter. this, to my utter dismay, he at first consented to do, but presently observed that probably his ears had misinformed him. it was hardly possible that the sound proceeded from them. it might be a rat, or his own fancy might have fashioned it. it is not easy to describe my trepidations while this conference was holding. i saw how easily their slumber was disturbed. the obstacles to my escape were less surmountable than i had imagined. in a little time all was again still. i waited till the usual tokens of sleep were distinguishable. i once more resumed my attempt. the bolt was withdrawn with all possible slowness; but i could by no means prevent all sound. my state was full of inquietude and suspense; my attention being painfully divided between the bolt and the condition of the sleepers. the difficulty lay in giving that degree of force which was barely sufficient. perhaps not less than fifteen minutes were consumed in this operation. at last it was happily effected, and the door was cautiously opened. emerging as i did from utter darkness, the light admitted into three windows produced, to my eyes, a considerable illumination. objects which, on my first entrance into this apartment, were invisible, were now clearly discerned. the bed was shrouded by curtains, yet i shrunk back into my covert, fearful of being seen. to facilitate my escape, i put off my shoes. my mind was so full of objects of more urgent moment, that the propriety of taking them along with me never occurred. i left them in the closet. i now glided across the apartment to the door. i was not a little discouraged by observing that the key was wanting. my whole hope depended on the omission to lock it. in my haste to ascertain this point, i made some noise which again roused one of the sleepers. he started, and cried, "who is there?" i now regarded my case as desperate, and detection as inevitable. my apprehensions, rather than my caution, kept me mute. i shrunk to the wall, and waited in a kind of agony for the moment that should decide my fate. the lady was again roused. in answer to her inquiries, her husband said that some one, he believed, was at the door, but there was no danger of their entering, for he had locked it, and the key was in his pocket. my courage was completely annihilated by this piece of intelligence. my resources were now at an end. i could only remain in this spot till the morning light, which could be at no great distance, should discover me. my inexperience disabled me from estimating all the perils of my situation. perhaps i had no more than temporary inconveniences to dread. my intention was innocent, and i had been betrayed into my present situation, not by my own wickedness, but the wickedness of others. i was deeply impressed with the ambiguousness which would necessarily rest upon my motives, and the scrutiny to which they would be subjected. i shuddered at the bare possibility of being ranked with thieves. these reflections again gave edge to my ingenuity in search of the means of escape. i had carefully attended to the circumstances of their entrance. possibly the act of locking had been unnoticed; but was it not likewise possible that this person had been mistaken? the key was gone. would this have been the case if the door were unlocked? my fears, rather than my hopes, impelled me to make the experiment. i drew back the latch, and, to my unspeakable joy, the door opened. i passed through and explored my way to the staircase. i descended till i reached the bottom. i could not recollect with accuracy the position of the door leading into the court, but, by carefully feeling along the wall with my hands, i at length discovered it. it was fastened by several bolts and a lock. the bolts were easily withdrawn, but the key was removed. i knew not where it was deposited. i thought i had reached the threshold of liberty, but here was an impediment that threatened to be insurmountable. but, if doors could not be passed, windows might be unbarred. i remembered that my companion had gone into a door on the left hand, in search of a light. i searched for this door. fortunately it was fastened only by a bolt. it admitted me into a room which i carefully explored till i reached a window. i will not dwell on my efforts to unbar this entrance. suffice it to say that, after much exertion and frequent mistakes, i at length found my way into the yard, and thence passed into the court. chapter v. now i was once more on public ground. by so many anxious efforts had i disengaged myself from the perilous precincts of private property. as many stratagems as are usually made to enter a house had been employed by me to get out of it. i was urged to the use of them by my fears; yet, so far from carrying off spoil, i had escaped with the loss of an essential part of my dress. i had now leisure to reflect. i seated myself on the ground and reviewed the scenes through which i had just passed. i began to think that my industry had been misemployed. suppose i had met the person on his first entrance into his chamber? was the truth so utterly wild as not to have found credit? since the door was locked, and there was no other avenue, what other statement but the true one would account for my being found there? this deportment had been worthy of an honest purpose. my betrayer probably expected that this would be the issue of his jest. my rustic simplicity, he might think, would suggest no more ambiguous or elaborate expedient. he might likewise have predetermined to interfere if my safety had been really endangered. on the morrow the two doors of the chamber and the window below would be found unclosed. they will suspect a design to pillage, but their searches will terminate in nothing but in the discovery of a pair of clumsy and dusty shoes in the closet. now that i was safe i could not help smiling at the picture which my fancy drew of their anxiety and wonder. these thoughts, however, gave place to more momentous considerations. i could not imagine to myself a more perfect example of indigence than i now exhibited. there was no being in the city on whose kindness i had any claim. money i had none, and what i then wore comprised my whole stock of movables. i had just lost my shoes, and this loss rendered my stockings of no use. my dignity remonstrated against a barefoot pilgrimage, but to this, necessity now reconciled me. i threw my stockings between the bars of a stable-window, belonging, as i thought, to the mansion i had just left. these, together with my shoes, i left to pay the cost of my entertainment. i saw that the city was no place for me. the end that i had had in view, of procuring some mechanical employment, could only be obtained by the use of means, but what means to pursue i knew not. this night's perils and deceptions gave me a distaste to a city life, and my ancient occupations rose to my view enhanced by a thousand imaginary charms, i resolved forthwith to strike into the country. the day began now to dawn. it was sunday, and i was desirous of eluding observation. i was somewhat recruited by rest, though the languors of sleeplessness oppressed me. i meant to throw myself on the first lap of verdure i should meet, and indulge in sleep that i so much wanted. i knew not the direction of the streets; but followed that which i first entered from the court, trusting that, by adhering steadily to one course, i should some time reach the fields. this street, as i afterwards found, tended to schuylkill, and soon extricated me from houses. i could not cross this river without payment of toll. it was requisite to cross it in order to reach that part of the country whither i was desirous of going; but how should i effect my passage? i knew of no ford, and the smallest expense exceeded my capacity. ten thousand guineas and a farthing were equally remote from nothing, and nothing was the portion allotted to me. while my mind was thus occupied, i turned up one of the streets which tend northward. it was, for some length, uninhabited and unpaved. presently i reached a pavement, and a painted fence, along which a row of poplars was planted. it bounded a garden into which a knot-hole permitted me to pry. the enclosure was a charming green, which i saw appended to a house of the loftiest and most stately order. it seemed like a recent erection, had all the gloss of novelty, and exhibited, to my unpractised eyes, the magnificence of palaces. my father's dwelling did not equal the height of one story, and might be easily comprised in one-fourth of those buildings which here were designed to accommodate the menials. my heart dictated the comparison between my own condition and that of the proprietors of this domain. how wide and how impassable was the gulf by which we were separated! this fair inheritance had fallen to one who, perhaps, would only abuse it to the purposes of luxury, while i, with intentions worthy of the friend of mankind, was doomed to wield the flail and the mattock. i had been entirely unaccustomed to this strain of reflection. my books had taught me the dignity and safety of the middle path, and my darling writer abounded with encomiums on rural life. at a distance from luxury and pomp, i viewed them, perhaps, in a just light. a nearer scrutiny confirmed my early prepossessions; but, at the distance at which i now stood, the lofty edifices, the splendid furniture, and the copious accommodations of the rich excited my admiration and my envy. i relinquished my station, and proceeded, in a heartless mood, along the fence. i now came to the mansion itself. the principal door was entered by a staircase of marble. i had never seen the stone of carrara, and wildly supposed this to have been dug from italian quarries. the beauty of the poplars, the coolness exhaled from the dew-besprent bricks, the commodiousness of the seat which these steps afforded, and the uncertainty into which i was plunged respecting my future conduct, all combined to make me pause. i sat down on the lower step and began to meditate. by some transition it occurred to me that the supply of my most urgent wants might be found in some inhabitant of this house. i needed at present a few cents; and what were a few cents to the tenant of a mansion like this? i had an invincible aversion to the calling of a beggar, but i regarded with still more antipathy the vocation of a thief; to this alternative, however, i was now reduced. i must either steal or beg; unless, indeed, assistance could be procured under the notion of a loan. would a stranger refuse to lend the pittance that i wanted? surely not, when the urgency of my wants was explained. i recollected other obstacles. to summon the master of the house from his bed, perhaps, for the sake of such an application, would be preposterous. i should be in more danger of provoking his anger than exciting his benevolence. this request might, surely, with more propriety be preferred to a passenger. i should, probably, meet several before i should arrive at schuylkill. a servant just then appeared at the door, with bucket and brush. this obliged me, much sooner than i intended, to decamp. with some reluctance i rose and proceeded. this house occupied the corner of the street, and i now turned this corner towards the country. a person, at some distance before me, was approaching in an opposite direction. "why," said i, "may i not make my demand of the first man i meet? this person exhibits tokens of ability to lend. there is nothing chilling or austere in his demeanour." the resolution to address this passenger was almost formed; but the nearer he advanced my resolves grew less firm. he noticed me not till he came within a few paces. he seemed busy in reflection; and, had not my figure caught his eye, or had he merely bestowed a passing glance upon me, i should not have been sufficiently courageous to have detained him. the event, however, was widely different. he looked at me and started. for an instant, as it were, and till he had time to dart at me a second glance, he checked his pace. this behaviour decided mine, and he stopped on perceiving tokens of a desire to address him. i spoke, but my accents and air sufficiently denoted my embarrassments:-"i am going to solicit a favour which my situation makes of the highest importance to me, and which i hope it will be easy for you, sir, to grant. it is not an alms, but a loan, that i seek; a loan that i will repay the moment i am able to do it. i am going to the country, but have not wherewith to pay my passage over schuylkill, or to buy a morsel of bread. may i venture to request of you, sir, the loan of sixpence? as i told you, it is my intention to repay it." i delivered this address, not without some faltering, but with great earnestness. i laid particular stress upon my intention to refund the money. he listened with a most inquisitive air. his eye perused me from head to foot. after some pause, he said, in a very emphatic manner, "why into the country? have you family? kindred? friends?" "no," answered i, "i have neither. i go in search of the means of subsistence. i have passed my life upon a farm, and propose to die in the same condition." "whence have you come?" "i came yesterday from the country, with a view to earn my bread in some way, but have changed my plan and propose now to return." "why have you changed it? in what way are you capable of earning your bread?" "i hardly know," said i. "i can, as yet, manage no tool, that can be managed in the city, but the pen. my habits have, in some small degree, qualified me for a writer. i would willingly accept employment of that kind." he fixed his eyes upon the earth, and was silent for some minutes. at length, recovering himself, he said, "follow me to my house. perhaps something may be done for you. if not, i will lend you sixpence." it may be supposed that i eagerly complied with the invitation. my companion said no more, his air bespeaking him to be absorbed by his own thoughts, till he reached his house, which proved to be that at the door of which i had been seated. we entered a parlour together. unless you can assume my ignorance and my simplicity, you will be unable to conceive the impressions that were made by the size and ornaments of this apartment. i shall omit these impressions, which, indeed, no description could adequately convey, and dwell on incidents of greater moment. he asked me to give him a specimen of my penmanship. i told you that i had bestowed very great attention upon this art. implements were brought, and i sat down to the task. by some inexplicable connection a line in shakspeare occurred to me, and i wrote,- "my poverty, but not my will, consents." the sentiment conveyed in this line powerfully affected him, but in a way which i could not then comprehend. i collected from subsequent events that the inference was not unfavourable to my understanding or my morals. he questioned me as to my history. i related my origin and my inducements to desert my father's house. with respect to last night's adventures i was silent. i saw no useful purpose that could be answered by disclosure, and i half suspected that my companion would refuse credit to my tale. there were frequent intervals of abstraction and reflection between his questions. my examination lasted not much less than an hour. at length he said, "i want an amanuensis or copyist. on what terms will you live with me?" i answered that i knew not how to estimate the value of my services. i knew not whether these services were agreeable or healthful. my life had hitherto been active. my constitution was predisposed to diseases of the lungs, and the change might be hurtful. i was willing, however, to try and to content myself for a month or a year, with so much as would furnish me with food, clothing, and lodging. "'tis well," said he. "you remain with me as long and no longer than both of us please. you shall lodge and eat in this house. i will supply you with clothing, and your task will be to write what i dictate. your person, i see, has not shared much of your attention. it is in my power to equip you instantly in the manner which becomes a resident in this house. come with me." he led the way into the court behind and thence into a neat building, which contained large wooden vessels and a pump: "there," said he, "you may wash yourself; and, when that is done, i will conduct you to your chamber and your wardrobe." this was speedily performed, and he accordingly led the way to the chamber. it was an apartment in the third story, finished and furnished in the same costly and superb style with the rest of the house. he opened closets and drawers which overflowed with clothes and linen of all and of the best kinds. "these are yours," said he, "as long as you stay with me. dress yourself as likes you best. here is every thing your nakedness requires. when dressed, you may descend to breakfast." with these words he left me. the clothes were all in the french style, as i afterwards, by comparing my garb with that of others, discovered. they were fitted to my shape with the nicest precision. i bedecked myself with all my care. i remembered the style of dress used by my beloved clavering. my locks were of shining auburn, flowing and smooth like his. having wrung the wet from them, and combed, i tied them carelessly in a black riband. thus equipped, i surveyed myself in a mirror. you may imagine, if you can, the sensations which this instantaneous transformation produced. appearances are wonderfully influenced by dress. check shirt, buttoned at the neck, an awkward fustian coat, check trowsers and bare feet, were now supplanted by linen and muslin, nankeen coat striped with green, a white silk waistcoat elegantly needle-wrought, cassimere pantaloons, stockings of variegated silk, and shoes that in their softness, pliancy, and polished surface vied with satin. i could scarcely forbear looking back to see whether the image in the glass, so well proportioned, so gallant, and so graceful, did not belong to another. i could scarcely recognise any lineaments of my own. i walked to the window. "twenty minutes ago," said i, "i was traversing that path a barefoot beggar; now i am thus." again i surveyed myself. "surely some insanity has fastened on my understanding. my senses are the sport of dreams. some magic that disdains the cumbrousness of nature's progress has wrought this change." i was roused from these doubts by a summons to breakfast, obsequiously delivered by a black servant. i found welbeck (for i shall henceforth call him by his true name) at the breakfast-table. a superb equipage of silver and china was before him. he was startled at my entrance. the change in my dress seemed for a moment to have deceived him. his eye was frequently fixed upon me with unusual steadfastness. at these times there was inquietude and wonder in his features. i had now an opportunity of examining my host. there was nicety but no ornament in his dress. his form was of the middle height, spare, but vigorous and graceful. his face was cast, i thought, in a foreign mould. his forehead receded beyond the usual degree in visages which i had seen. his eyes large and prominent, but imparting no marks of benignity and habitual joy. the rest of his face forcibly suggested the idea of a convex edge. his whole figure impressed me with emotions of veneration and awe. a gravity that almost amounted to sadness invariably attended him when we were alone together. he whispered the servant that waited, who immediately retired. he then said, turning to me, "a lady will enter presently, whom you are to treat with the respect due to my daughter. you must not notice any emotion she may betray at the sight of you, nor expect her to converse with you; for she does not understand your language." he had scarcely spoken when she entered. i was seized with certain misgivings and flutterings which a clownish education may account for. i so far conquered my timidity, however, as to snatch a look at her. i was not born to execute her portrait. perhaps the turban that wreathed her head, the brilliant texture and inimitable folds of her drapery, and nymphlike port, more than the essential attributes of her person, gave splendour to the celestial vision. perhaps it was her snowy hues, and the cast rather than the position of her features, that were so prolific of enchantment; or perhaps the wonder originated only in my own ignorance. she did not immediately notice me. when she did she almost shrieked with surprise. she held up her hands, and, gazing upon me, uttered various exclamations which i could not understand. i could only remark that her accents were thrillingly musical. her perturbations refused to be stilled. it was with difficulty that she withdrew her regards from me. much conversation passed between her and welbeck, but i could comprehend no part of it. i was at liberty to animadvert on the visible part of their intercourse. i diverted some part of my attention from my own embarrassments, and fixed it on their looks. in this art, as in most others, i was an unpractised simpleton. in the countenance of welbeck, there was somewhat else than sympathy with the astonishment and distress of the lady; but i could not interpret these additional tokens. when her attention was engrossed by welbeck, her eyes were frequently vagrant or downcast; her cheeks contracted a deeper hue; and her breathing was almost prolonged into a sigh. these were marks on which i made no comments at the time. my own situation was calculated to breed confusion in my thoughts and awkwardness in my gestures. breakfast being finished, the lady, apparently at the request of welbeck, sat down to a piano-forte. here again i must be silent. i was not wholly destitute of musical practice and musical taste. i had that degree of knowledge which enabled me to estimate the transcendent skill of this performer. as if the pathos of her touch were insufficient, i found after some time that the lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by her own more liquid notes. she played without a book, and, though her bass might be preconcerted, it was plain that her right-hand notes were momentary and spontaneous inspirations. meanwhile welbeck stood, leaning his arms on the back of a chair near her, with his eyes fixed on her face. his features were fraught with a meaning which i was eager to interpret, but unable. i have read of transitions effected by magic; i have read of palaces and deserts which were subject to the dominion of spells; poets may sport with their power, but i am certain that no transition was ever conceived more marvellous and more beyond the reach of foresight than that which i had just experienced. heaths vexed by a midnight storm may be changed into a hall of choral nymphs and regal banqueting; forest glades may give sudden place to colonnades and carnivals; but he whose senses are deluded finds himself still on his natal earth. these miracles are contemptible when compared with that which placed me under this roof and gave me to partake in this audience. i know that my emotions are in danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those who cannot figure to themselves the consequences of a limited and rustic education. chapter vi. in a short time the lady retired. i naturally expected that some comments would be made on her behaviour, and that the cause of her surprise and distress on seeing me would be explained; but welbeck said nothing on that subject. when she had gone, he went to the window and stood for some time occupied, as it seemed, with his own thoughts. then he turned to me, and, calling me by my name, desired me to accompany him up-stairs. there was neither cheerfulness nor mildness in his address, but neither was there any thing domineering or arrogant. we entered an apartment on the same floor with my chamber, but separated from it by a spacious entry. it was supplied with bureaus, cabinets, and bookcases. "this," said he, "is your room and mine; but we must enter it and leave it together. i mean to act not as your master but your friend. my maimed hand" (so saying, he showed me his right hand, the forefinger of which was wanting) "will not allow me to write accurately or copiously. for this reason i have required your aid, in a work of some moment. much haste will not be requisite, and, as to the hours and duration of employment, these will be seasonable and short. "your present situation is new to you, and we will therefore defer entering on our business. meanwhile you may amuse yourself in what manner you please. consider this house as your home and make yourself familiar with it. stay within or go out, be busy or be idle, as your fancy shall prompt: only you will conform to our domestic system as to eating and sleep; the servants will inform you of this. next week we will enter on the task for which i designed you. you may now withdraw." i obeyed this mandate with some awkwardness and hesitation. i went into my own chamber not displeased with an opportunity of loneliness. i threw myself on a chair and resigned myself to those thoughts which would naturally arise in this situation. i speculated on the character and views of welbeck. i saw that he was embosomed in tranquillity and grandeur. riches, therefore, were his; but in what did his opulence consist, and whence did it arise? what were the limits by which it was confined, and what its degree of permanence? i was unhabituated to ideas of floating or transferable wealth. the rent of houses and lands was the only species of property which was, as yet, perfectly intelligible. my previous ideas led me to regard welbeck as the proprietor of this dwelling and of numerous houses and farms. by the same cause i was fain to suppose him enriched by inheritance, and that his life had been uniform. i next adverted to his social condition. this mansion appeared to have but two inhabitants besides servants. who was the nymph who had hovered for a moment in my sight? had he not called her his daughter? the apparent difference in their ages would justify this relation; but her guise, her features, and her accents, were foreign. her language i suspected strongly to be that of italy. how should he be the father of an italian? but were there not some foreign lineaments in his countenance? this idea seemed to open a new world to my view. i had gained, from my books, confused ideas of european governments and manners. i knew that the present was a period of revolution and hostility. might not these be illustrious fugitives from provence or the milanese? their portable wealth, which may reasonably be supposed to be great, they have transported hither. thus may be explained the sorrow that veils their countenance. the loss of estates and honours; the untimely death of kindred, and perhaps of his wife, may furnish eternal food for regrets. welbeck's utterance, though rapid and distinct, partook, as i conceived, in some very slight degree of a foreign idiom. such was the dream that haunted my undisciplined and unenlightened imagination. the more i revolved it, the more plausible it seemed. on due supposition every appearance that i had witnessed was easily solved,--unless it were their treatment of me. this, at first, was a source of hopeless perplexity. gradually, however, a clue seemed to be afforded. welbeck had betrayed astonishment on my first appearance. the lady's wonder was mingled with distress. perhaps they discovered a remarkable resemblance between me and one who stood in the relation of son to welbeck, and of brother to the lady. this youth might have perished on the scaffold or in war. these, no doubt, were his clothes. this chamber might have been reserved for him, but his death left it to be appropriated to another. i had hitherto been unable to guess at the reason why all this kindness had been lavished on me. will not this conjecture sufficiently account for it? no wonder that this resemblance was enhanced by assuming his dress. taking all circumstances into view, these ideas were not, perhaps, destitute of probability. appearances naturally suggested them to me. they were, also, powerfully enforced by inclination. they threw me into transports of wonder and hope. when i dwelt upon the incidents of my past life, and traced the chain of events, from the death of my mother to the present moment, i almost acquiesced in the notion that some beneficent and ruling genius had prepared my path for me. events which, when foreseen, would most ardently have been deprecated, and when they happened were accounted in the highest degree luckless, were now seen to be propitious. hence i inferred the infatuation of despair, and the folly of precipitate conclusions. but what was the fate reserved for me? perhaps welbeck would adopt me for his own son. wealth has ever been capriciously distributed. the mere physical relation of birth is all that entitles us to manors and thrones. identity itself frequently depends upon a casual likeness or an old nurse's imposture. nations have risen in arms, as in the case of the stuarts, in the cause of one the genuineness of whose birth has been denied and can never be proved. but if the cause be trivial and fallacious, the effects are momentous and solid. it ascertains our portion of felicity and usefulness, and fixes our lot among peasants or princes. something may depend upon my own deportment. will it not behoove me to cultivate all my virtues and eradicate all my defects? i see that the abilities of this man are venerable. perhaps he will not lightly or hastily decide in my favour. he will be governed by the proofs that i shall give of discernment and integrity. i had always been exempt from temptation, and was therefore undepraved; but this view of things had a wonderful tendency to invigorate my virtuous resolutions. all within me was exhilaration and joy. there was but one thing wanting to exalt me to a dizzy height and give me place among the stars of heaven. my resemblance to her brother had forcibly affected this lady; but i was not her brother. i was raised to a level with her and made a tenant of the same mansion. some intercourse would take place between us. time would lay level impediments and establish familiarity, and this intercourse might foster love and terminate in--_marriage_! these images were of a nature too glowing and expansive to allow me to be longer inactive. i sallied forth into the open air. this tumult of delicious thoughts in some time subsided, and gave way to images relative to my present situation. my curiosity was awake. as yet i had seen little of the city, and this opportunity for observation was not to be neglected. i therefore coursed through several streets, attentively examining the objects that successively presented themselves. at length, it occurred to me to search out the house in which i had lately been immured. i was not without hopes that at some future period i should be able to comprehend the allusions and brighten the obscurities that hung about the dialogue of last night. the house was easily discovered. i reconnoitred the court and gate through which i had passed. the mansion was of the first order in magnitude and decoration. this was not the bound of my present discovery, for i was gifted with that confidence which would make me set on foot inquiries in the neighbourhood. i looked around for a suitable medium of intelligence. the opposite and adjoining houses were small, and apparently occupied by persons of an indigent class. at one of these was a sign denoting it to be the residence of a tailor. seated on a bench at the door was a young man, with coarse uncombed locks, breeches knee-unbuttoned, stockings ungartered, shoes slipshod and unbuckled, and a face unwashed, gazing stupidly from hollow eyes. his aspect was embellished with good nature, though indicative of ignorance. this was the only person in sight. he might be able to say something concerning his opulent neighbour. to him, therefore, i resolved to apply. i went up to him, and, pointing to the house in question, asked him who lived there. he answered, "mr. matthews." "what is his profession,--his way of life?" "a gentleman. he does nothing but walk about." "how long has he been married?" "married! he is not married as i know on. he never has been married. he is a bachelor." this intelligence was unexpected. it made me pause to reflect whether i had not mistaken the house. this, however, seemed impossible. i renewed my questions. "a bachelor, say you? are you not mistaken?" "no. it would be an odd thing if he was married. an old fellow, with one foot in the grave--comical enough for him to _git_ a _vife_!" "an old man? does he live alone? what is his family?" "no, he does not live alone. he has a niece that lives with him. she is married, and her husband lives there too." "what is his name?" "i don't know. i never heard it as i know on." "what is his trade?" "he's a merchant; he keeps a store somewhere or other; but i don't know where." "how long has he been married?" "about two years. they lost a child lately. the young woman was in a huge taking about it. they say she was quite crazy some days for the death of the child; and she is not quite out of _the dumps_ yet. to-be-sure, the child was a sweet little thing; but they need not make such a rout about it. i'll war'n' they'll have enough of them before they die." "what is the character of the young man? where was he born and educated? has he parents or brothers?" my companion was incapable of answering these questions, and i left him with little essential addition to the knowledge i already possessed. chapter vii. after viewing various parts of the city, intruding into churches, and diving into alleys, i returned. the rest of the day i spent chiefly in my chamber, reflecting on my new condition; surveying my apartment, its presses and closets; and conjecturing the causes of appearances. at dinner and supper i was alone. venturing to inquire of the servant where his master and mistress were, i was answered that they were engaged. i did not question him as to the nature of their engagement, though it was a fertile source of curiosity. next morning, at breakfast, i again met welbeck and the lady. the incidents were nearly those of the preceding morning, if it were not that the lady exhibited tokens of somewhat greater uneasiness. when she left us, welbeck sank into apparent meditation. i was at a loss whether to retire or remain where i was. at last, however, i was on the point of leaving the room, when he broke silence and began a conversation with me. he put questions to me, the obvious scope of which was to know my sentiments on moral topics. i had no motives to conceal my opinions, and therefore delivered them with frankness. at length he introduced allusions to my own history, and made more particular inquiries on that head. here i was not equally frank; yet i did not feign any thing, but merely dealt in generals. i had acquired notions of propriety on this head, perhaps somewhat fastidious. minute details, respecting our own concerns, are apt to weary all but the narrator himself. i said thus much, and the truth of my remark was eagerly assented to. with some marks of hesitation and after various preliminaries, my companion hinted that my own interest, as well as his, enjoined upon me silence to all but himself, on the subject of my birth and early adventures. it was not likely that, while in his service, my circle of acquaintance would be large or my intercourse with the world frequent; but in my communication with others he requested me to speak rather of others than of myself. this request, he said, might appear singular to me, but he had his reasons for making it, which it was not necessary, at present, to disclose, though, when i should know them, i should readily acknowledge their validity. i scarcely knew what answer to make. i was willing to oblige him. i was far from expecting that any exigence would occur, making disclosure my duty. the employment was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and the curiosity that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life was no less impertinent than the loquacity that would uselessly communicate that knowledge. i readily promised, therefore, to adhere to his advice. this assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it did not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. he repeated, in stronger terms, the necessity there was for caution. he was far from suspecting me to possess an impertinent and talkative disposition, or that, in my eagerness to expatiate on my own concerns, i should overstep the limits of politeness. but this was not enough. i was to govern myself by a persuasion that the interests of my friend and myself would be materially affected by my conduct. perhaps i ought to have allowed these insinuations to breed suspicion in my mind; but, conscious as i was of the benefits which i had received from this man; prone, from my inexperience, to rely upon professions and confide in appearances; and unaware that i could be placed in any condition in which mere silence respecting myself could be injurious or criminal, i made no scruple to promise compliance with his wishes. nay, i went further than this; i desired to be accurately informed as to what it was proper to conceal. he answered that my silence might extend to every thing anterior to my arrival in the city and my being incorporated with his family. here our conversation ended, and i retired to ruminate on what had passed. i derived little satisfaction from my reflections. i began now to perceive inconveniences that might arise from this precipitate promise. whatever should happen in consequence of my being immured in the chamber, and of the loss of my clothes and of the portrait of my friend, i had bound myself to silence. these inquietudes, however, were transient. i trusted that these events would operate auspiciously; but my curiosity was now awakened as to the motives which _welbeck_ could have for exacting from me this concealment. to act under the guidance of another, and to wander in the dark, ignorant whither my path tended and what effects might flow from my agency, was a new and irksome situation. from these thoughts i was recalled by a message from welbeck. he gave me a folded paper, which he requested me to carry to no.--south fourth street. "inquire," said he, "for mrs. wentworth, in order merely to ascertain the house, for you need not ask to see her; merely give the letter to the servant and retire. excuse me for imposing this service upon you. it is of too great moment to be trusted to a common messenger; i usually perform it myself, but am at present otherwise engaged." i took the letter and set out to deliver it. this was a trifling circumstance, yet my mind was full of reflections on the consequences that might flow from it. i remembered the directions that were given, but construed them in a manner different, perhaps, from welbeck's expectations or wishes. he had charged me to leave the billet with the servant who happened to answer my summons; but had he not said that the message was important, insomuch that it could not be intrusted to common hands? he had permitted, rather than enjoined, me to dispense with seeing the lady; and this permission i conceived to be dictated merely by regard to my convenience. it was incumbent on me, therefore, to take some pains to deliver the script into her own hands. i arrived at the house and knocked. a female servant appeared. "her mistress was up-stairs; she would tell her if i wished to see her," and meanwhile invited me to enter the parlour; i did so; and the girl retired to inform her mistress that one waited for her. i ought to mention that my departure from the directions which i had received was, in some degree, owing to an inquisitive temper; i was eager after knowledge, and was disposed to profit by every opportunity to survey the interior of dwellings and converse with their inhabitants. i scanned the walls, the furniture, the pictures. over the fireplace was a portrait in oil of a female. she was elderly and matron-like. perhaps she was the mistress of this habitation, and the person to whom i should immediately be introduced. was it a casual suggestion, or was there an actual resemblance between the strokes of the pencil which executed this portrait and that of clavering? however that be, the sight of this picture revived the memory of my friend and called up a fugitive suspicion that this was the production of his skill. i was busily revolving this idea when the lady herself entered. it was the same whose portrait i had been examining. she fixed scrutinizing and powerful eyes upon me. she looked at the superscription of the letter which i presented, and immediately resumed her examination of me. i was somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation, and gave tokens of this state of mind which did not pass unobserved. they seemed instantly to remind her that she behaved with too little regard to civility. she recovered herself and began to peruse the letter. having done this, her attention was once more fixed upon me. she was evidently desirous of entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss in what manner to begin. this situation was new to me and was productive of no small embarrassment. i was preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though not without considerable hesitation:-"this letter is from mr. welbeck--you are his friend--i presume--perhaps--a relation?" i was conscious that i had no claim to either of these titles, and that i was no more than his servant. my pride would not allow me to acknowledge this, and i merely said, "i live with him at present, madam." i imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her; yet she received it with a certain air of acquiescence. she was silent for a few minutes, and then, rising, said, "excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. i will write a few words to mr. welbeck." so saying, she withdrew. i returned to the contemplation of the picture. from this, however, my attention was quickly diverted by a paper that lay on the mantel. a single glance was sufficient to put my blood into motion. i started and laid my hand upon the well-known packet. it was that which enclosed the portrait of clavering! i unfolded and examined it with eagerness. by what miracle came it hither? it was found, together with my bundle, two nights before. i had despaired of ever seeing it again, and yet here was the same portrait enclosed in the selfsame paper! i have forborne to dwell upon the regret, amounting to grief, with which i was affected in consequence of the loss of this precious relic. my joy on thus speedily and unexpectedly regaining it is not easily described. for a time i did not reflect that to hold it thus in my hand was not sufficient to entitle me to repossession. i must acquaint this lady with the history of this picture, and convince her of my ownership. but how was this to be done? was she connected in any way, by friendship or by consanguinity, with that unfortunate youth? if she were, some information as to his destiny would be anxiously sought. i did not, just then, perceive any impropriety in imparting it. if it came into her hands by accident, still, it will be necessary to relate the mode in which it was lost in order to prove my title to it. i now heard her descending footsteps, and hastily replaced the picture on the mantel. she entered, and, presenting me a letter, desired me to deliver it to mr. welbeck. i had no pretext for deferring my departure, but was unwilling to go without obtaining possession of the portrait. an interval of silence and irresolution succeeded. i cast significant glances at the spot where it lay, and at length mustered up my strength of mind, and, pointing to the paper,--"madam," said i, "_there_ is something which i recognise to be mine: i know not how it came into your possession, but so lately as the day before yesterday it was in mine. i lost it by a strange accident, and, as i deem it of inestimable value, i hope you will have no objection to restore it." during this speech the lady's countenance exhibited marks of the utmost perturbation. "your picture!" she exclaimed; "you lost it! how? where? did you know that person? what has become of him?" "i knew him well," said i. "that picture was executed by himself. he gave it to me with his own hands; and, till the moment i unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and perpetual companion." "good heaven!" she exclaimed, with increasing vehemence; "where did you meet with him? what has become of him? is he dead, or alive?" these appearances sufficiently showed me that clavering and this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness. i answered that he was dead; that my mother and myself were his attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was his legacy to me. this intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some time before she recovered strength enough to resume the conversation. she then inquired, "when and where was it that he died? how did you lose this portrait? it was found wrapped in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the market-house, on saturday evening. two negro women, servants of one of my friends, strolling through the market, found it and brought it to their mistress, who, recognising the portrait, sent it to me. to whom did that bundle belong? was it yours?" these questions reminded me of the painful predicament in which i now stood. i had promised welbeck to conceal from every one my former condition; but to explain in what manner this bundle was lost, and how my intercourse with clavering had taken place, was to violate this promise. it was possible, perhaps, to escape the confession of the truth by equivocation. falsehoods were easily invented, and might lead her far away from my true condition; but i was wholly unused to equivocation. never yet had a lie polluted my lips. i was not weak enough to be ashamed of my origin. this lady had an interest in the fate of clavering, and might justly claim all the information which i was able to impart. yet to forget the compact which i had so lately made, and an adherence to which might possibly be in the highest degree beneficial to me and to welbeck; i was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood could be avoided. these thoughts rendered me silent. the pain of my embarrassment amounted almost to agony. i felt the keenest regret at my own precipitation in claiming the picture. its value to me was altogether imaginary. the affection which this lady had borne the original, whatever was the source of that affection, would prompt her to cherish the copy, and, however precious it was in my eyes, i should cheerfully resign it to her. in the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested itself sufficiently inartificial and bold. "it is true, madam, what i have said. i saw him breathe his last. this is his only legacy. if you wish it i willingly resign it; but this is all that i can now disclose. i am placed in circumstances which render it improper to say more." these words were uttered not very distinctly, and the lady's vehemence hindered her from noticing them. she again repeated her interrogations, to which i returned the same answer. at first she expressed the utmost surprise at my conduct. from this she descended to some degree of asperity. she made rapid allusions to the history of clavering. he was the son of the gentleman who owned the house in which welbeck resided. he was the object of immeasurable fondness and indulgence. he had sought permission to travel, and, this being refused by the absurd timidity of his parents, he had twice been frustrated in attempting to embark for europe clandestinely. they ascribed his disappearance to a third and successful attempt of this kind, and had exercised anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavouring to trace his footsteps. all their efforts had failed. one motive for their returning to europe was the hope of discovering some traces of him, as they entertained no doubt of his having crossed the ocean. the vehemence of mrs. wentworth's curiosity as to those particulars of his life and death may be easily conceived. my refusal only heightened this passion. finding me refractory to all her efforts, she at length dismissed me in anger. chapter viii. this extraordinary interview was now past. pleasure as well as pain attended my reflections on it. i adhered to the promise i had improvidently given to welbeck, but had excited displeasure, and perhaps suspicion, in the lady. she would find it hard to account for my silence. she would probably impute it to perverseness, or imagine it to flow from some incident connected with the death of clavering, calculated to give a new edge to her curiosity. it was plain that some connection subsisted between her and welbeck. would she drop the subject at the point which it had now attained? would she cease to exert herself to extract from me the desired information, or would she not rather make welbeck a party in the cause, and prejudice my new friend against me? this was an evil proper, by all lawful means, to avoid. i knew of no other expedient than to confess to him the truth with regard to clavering, and explain to him the dilemma in which my adherence to my promise had involved me. i found him on my return home, and delivered him the letter with which i was charged. at the sight of it, surprise, mingled with some uneasiness, appeared in his looks. "what!" said he, in a tone of disappointment, "you then saw the lady?" i now remembered his directions to leave my message at the door, and apologized for my neglecting them by telling my reasons. his chagrin vanished, but not without an apparent effort, and he said that all was well; the affair was of no moment. after a pause of preparation, i entreated his attention to something which i had to relate. i then detailed the history of clavering and of my late embarrassments. as i went on, his countenance betokened increasing solicitude. his emotion was particularly strong when i came to the interrogatories of mrs. wentworth in relation to clavering; but this emotion gave way to profound surprise when i related the manner in which i had eluded her inquiries. i concluded with observing that, when i promised forbearance on the subject of my own adventures, i had not foreseen any exigence which would make an adherence to my promise difficult or inconvenient; that, if his interest was promoted by my silence, i was still willing to maintain it, and requested his directions how to conduct myself on this occasion. he appeared to ponder deeply and with much perplexity on what i had said. when he spoke there was hesitation in his manner and circuity in his expressions, that proved him to have something in his thoughts which he knew not how to communicate. he frequently paused; but my answers and remarks, occasionally given, appeared to deter him from the revelation of his purpose. our discourse ended, for the present, by his desiring me to persist in my present plan; i should suffer no inconveniences from it, since it would be my own fault if an interview again took place between the lady and me; meanwhile he should see her and effectually silence her inquiries. i ruminated not superficially or briefly on this dialogue. by what means would he silence her inquiries? he surely meant not to mislead her by fallacious representations. some inquietude now crept into my thoughts. i began to form conjectures as to the nature of the scheme to which my suppression of the truth was to be thus made subservient. it seemed as if i were walking in the dark and might rush into snares or drop into pits before i was aware of my danger. each moment accumulated my doubts, and i cherished a secret foreboding that the event would prove my new situation to be far less fortunate than i had, at first, fondly believed. the question now occurred, with painful repetition, who and what was welbeck? what was his relation to this foreign lady? what was the service for which i was to be employed? i could not be contented without a solution of these mysteries. why should i not lay my soul open before my new friend? considering my situation, would he regard my fears and my surmises as criminal? i felt that they originated in laudable habits and views. my peace of mind depended on the favourable verdict which conscience should pass on my proceedings. i saw the emptiness of fame and luxury, when put in the balance against the recompense of virtue. never would i purchase the blandishments of adulation and the glare of opulence at the price of my honesty. amidst these reflections the dinner-hour arrived. the lady and welbeck were present. a new train of sentiments now occupied my mind. i regarded them both with inquisitive eyes. i cannot well account for the revolution which had taken place in my mind. perhaps it was a proof of the capriciousness of my temper, or it was merely the fruit of my profound ignorance of life and manners. whencesoever it arose, certain it is that i contemplated the scene before me with altered eyes. its order and pomp was no longer the parent of tranquillity and awe. my wild reveries of inheriting this splendour and appropriating the affections of this nymph, i now regarded as lunatic hope and childish folly. education and nature had qualified me for a different scene. this might be the mask of misery and the structure of vice. my companions as well as myself were silent during the meal. the lady retired as soon as it was finished. my inexplicable melancholy increased. it did not pass unnoticed by welbeck, who inquired, with an air of kindness, into the cause of my visible dejection. i am almost ashamed to relate to what extremes my folly transported me. instead of answering him, i was weak enough to shed tears. this excited afresh his surprise and his sympathy. he renewed his inquiries; my heart was full, but how to disburden it i knew not. at length, with some difficulty, i expressed my wishes to leave his house and return into the country. what, he asked, had occurred to suggest this new plan? what motive could incite me to bury myself in rustic obscurity? how did i purpose to dispose of myself? had some new friend sprung up more able or more willing to benefit me than he had been? "no," i answered, "i have no relation who would own me, or friend who would protect. if i went into the country it would be to the toilsome occupations of a day-labourer; but even that was better than my present situation." this opinion, he observed, must be newly formed. what was there irksome or offensive in my present mode of life? that this man condescended to expostulate with me; to dissuade me from my new plan; and to enumerate the benefits which he was willing to confer, penetrated my heart with gratitude. i could not but acknowledge that leisure and literature, copious and elegant accommodation, were valuable for their own sake; that all the delights of sensation and refinements of intelligence were comprised within my present sphere, and would be nearly wanting in that to which i was going. i felt temporary compunction for my folly, and determined to adopt a different deportment. i could not prevail upon myself to unfold the true cause of my dejection, and permitted him therefore to ascribe it to a kind of homesickness; to inexperience; and to that ignorance which, on being ushered into a new scene, is oppressed with a sensation of forlornness. he remarked that these chimeras would vanish before the influence of time, and company, and occupation. on the next week he would furnish me with employment; meanwhile he would introduce me into company, where intelligence and vivacity would combine to dispel my glooms. as soon as we separated, my disquietudes returned. i contended with them in vain, and finally resolved to abandon my present situation. when and how this purpose was to be effected i knew not. that was to be the theme of future deliberation. evening having arrived, welbeck proposed to me to accompany me on a visit to one of his friends. i cheerfully accepted the invitation, and went with him to your friend mr. wortley's. a numerous party was assembled, chiefly of the female sex. i was introduced by welbeck by the title of _a young friend of his_. notwithstanding my embarrassment, i did not fail to attend to what passed on this occasion. i remarked that the utmost deference was paid to my companion, on whom his entrance into this company appeared to operate like magic. his eyes sparkled; his features expanded into a benign serenity; and his wonted reserve gave place to a torrent-like and overflowing elocution. i marked this change in his deportment with the utmost astonishment. so great was it, that i could hardly persuade myself that it was the same person. a mind thus susceptible of new impressions must be, i conceived, of a wonderful texture. nothing was further from my expectations than that this vivacity was mere dissimulation and would take its leave of him when he left the company; yet this i found to be the case. the door was no sooner closed after him than his accustomed solemnity returned. he spake little, and that little was delivered with emphatical and monosyllabic brevity. we returned home at a late hour, and i immediately retired to my chamber, not so much from the desire of repose as in order to enjoy and pursue my own reflections without interruption. the condition of my mind was considerably remote from happiness. i was placed in a scene that furnished fuel to my curiosity. this passion is a source of pleasure, provided its gratification be practicable. i had no reason, in my present circumstances, to despair of knowledge; yet suspicion and anxiety beset me. i thought upon the delay and toil which the removal of my ignorance would cost, and reaped only pain and fear from the reflection. the air was remarkably sultry. lifted sashes and lofty ceilings were insufficient to attemper it. the perturbation of my thoughts affected my body, and the heat which oppressed me was aggravated, by my restlessness, almost into fever. some hours were thus painfully past, when i recollected that the bath, erected in the court below, contained a sufficient antidote to the scorching influence of the atmosphere. i rose, and descended the stairs softly, that i might not alarm welbeck and the lady, who occupied the two rooms on the second floor. i proceeded to the bath, and, filling the reservoir with water, speedily dissipated the heat that incommoded me. of all species of sensual gratification, that was the most delicious; and i continued for a long time laving my limbs and moistening my hair. in the midst of this amusement, i noticed the approach of day, and immediately saw the propriety of returning to my chamber. i returned with the same caution which i had used in descending; my feet were bare, so that it was easy to proceed unattended by the smallest signal of my progress. i had reached the carpeted staircase, and was slowly ascending, when i heard, within the chamber that was occupied by the lady, a noise, as of some one moving. though not conscious of having acted improperly, yet i felt reluctance to be seen. there was no reason to suppose that this sound was connected with the detection of me in this situation; yet i acted as if this reason existed, and made haste to pass the door and gain the second flight of steps. i was unable to accomplish my design, when the chamber door slowly opened, and welbeck, with a light in his hand, came out. i was abashed and disconcerted at this interview. he started at seeing me; but, discovering in an instant who it was, his face assumed an expression in which shame and anger were powerfully blended. he seemed on the point of opening his mouth to rebuke me; but, suddenly checking himself, he said, in a tone of mildness, "how is this? whence come you?" his emotion seemed to communicate itself, with an electrical rapidity, to my heart. my tongue faltered while i made some answer. i said, "i had been seeking relief from the heat of the weather, in the bath." he heard my explanation in silence; and, after a moment's pause, passed into his own room, and shut himself in. i hastened to my chamber. a different observer might have found in these circumstances no food for his suspicion or his wonder. to me, however, they suggested vague and tumultuous ideas. as i strode across the room i repeated, "this woman is his daughter. what proof have i of that? he once asserted it; and has frequently uttered allusions and hints from which no other inference could be drawn. the chamber from which he came, in an hour devoted to sleep, was hers. for what end could a visit like this be paid? a parent may visit his child at all seasons, without a crime. on seeing me, methought his features indicated more than surprise. a keen interpreter would be apt to suspect a consciousness of wrong. what if this woman be not his child! how shall their relationship be ascertained?" i was summoned at the customary hour to breakfast. my mind was full of ideas connected with this incident. i was not endowed with sufficient firmness to propose the cool and systematic observation of this man's deportment. i felt as if the state of my mind could not but be evident to him; and experienced in myself all the confusion which this discovery was calculated to produce in him. i would have willingly excused myself from meeting him; but that was impossible. at breakfast, after the usual salutations, nothing was said. for a time i scarcely lifted my eyes from the table. stealing a glance at welbeck, i discovered in his features nothing but his wonted gravity. he appeared occupied with thoughts that had no relation to last night's adventure. this encouraged me; and i gradually recovered my composure. their inattention to me allowed me occasionally to throw scrutinizing and comparing glances at the face of each. the relationship of parent and child is commonly discovered in the visage; but the child may resemble either of its parents, yet have no feature in common with both. here outlines, surfaces, and hues were in absolute contrariety. that kindred subsisted between them was possible, notwithstanding this dissimilitude; but this circumstance contributed to envenom my suspicions. breakfast being finished, welbeck cast an eye of invitation to the piano-forte. the lady rose to comply with his request. my eye chanced to be, at that moment, fixed on her. in stepping to the instrument, some motion or appearance awakened a thought in my mind which affected my feelings like the shock of an earthquake. i have too slight acquaintance with the history of the passions to truly explain the emotion which now throbbed in my veins. i had been a stranger to what is called love. from subsequent reflection, i have contracted a suspicion that the sentiment with which i regarded this lady was not untinctured from this source, and that hence arose the turbulence of my feelings on observing what i construed into marks of pregnancy. the evidence afforded me was slight; yet it exercised an absolute sway over my belief. it was well that this suspicion had not been sooner excited. now civility did not require my stay in the apartment, and nothing but flight could conceal the state of my mind. i hastened, therefore, to a distance, and shrouded myself in the friendly secrecy of my own chamber. the constitution of my mind is doubtless singular and perverse; yet that opinion, perhaps, is the fruit of my ignorance. it may by no means be uncommon for men to _fashion_ their conclusions in opposition to evidence and _probability_, and so as to feed their malice and subvert their happiness. thus it was, in an eminent degree, in my case. the simple fact was connected, in my mind, with a train of the most hateful consequences. the depravity of welbeck was inferred from it. the charms of this angelic woman were tarnished and withered. i had formerly surveyed her as a precious and perfect monument, but now it was a scene of ruin and blast. this had been a source of sufficient anguish; but this was not all. i recollected that the claims of a parent had been urged. will you believe that these claims were now admitted, and that they heightened the iniquity of welbeck into the blackest and most stupendous of all crimes? these ideas were necessarily transient. conclusions more conformable to appearances succeeded. this lady might have been lately reduced to widowhood. the recent loss of a beloved companion would sufficiently account for her dejection, and make her present situation compatible with duty. by this new train of ideas i was somewhat comforted. i saw the folly of precipitate inferences and the injustice of my atrocious imputations, and acquired some degree of patience in my present state of uncertainty. my heart was lightened of its wonted burden, and i laboured to invent some harmless explication of the scene that i had witnessed the preceding night. at dinner welbeck appeared as usual, but not the lady. i ascribed her absence to some casual indisposition, and ventured to inquire into the state of her health. my companion said she was well, but that she had left the city for a month or two, finding the heat of summer inconvenient where she was. this was no unplausible reason for retirement. a candid mind would have acquiesced in this representation, and found in it nothing inconsistent with a supposition respecting the cause of appearances favourable to her character; but otherwise was i affected. the uneasiness which had flown for a moment returned, and i sunk into gloomy silence. from this i was roused by my patron, who requested me to deliver a billet, which he put into my hand, at the counting-house of mr. thetford, and to bring him an answer. this message was speedily performed. i entered a large building by the river-side. a spacious apartment presented itself, well furnished with pipes and hogsheads. in one corner was a smaller room, in which a gentleman was busy at writing. i advanced to the door of the room, but was there met by a young person, who received my paper and delivered it to him within. i stood still at the door; but was near enough to overhear what would pass between them. the letter was laid upon the desk, and presently he that sat at it lifted his eyes and glanced at the superscription. he scarcely spoke above a whisper; but his words, nevertheless, were clearly distinguishable. i did not call to mind the sound of his voice, but his words called up a train of recollections. "lo!" said he, carelessly, "this from the _nabob_!" an incident so slight as this was sufficient to open a spacious scene of meditation. this little word, half whispered in a thoughtless mood, was a key to unlock an extensive cabinet of secrets. thetford was probably indifferent whether his exclamation were overheard. little did he think on the inferences which would be built upon it. "the nabob!" by this appellation had some one been denoted in the chamber dialogue of which i had been an unsuspected auditor. the man who pretended poverty, and yet gave proofs of inordinate wealth; whom it was pardonable to defraud of thirty thousand dollars; first, because the loss of that sum would be trivial to one opulent as he; and, secondly, because he was imagined to have acquired this opulence by other than honest methods. instead of forthwith returning home, i wandered into the fields, to indulge myself in the new thoughts which were produced by this occurrence. i entertained no doubt that the person alluded to was my patron. no new light was thrown upon his character; unless something were deducible from the charge vaguely made, that his wealth was the fruit of illicit practices. he was opulent, and the sources of his wealth were unknown, if not to the rest of the community, at least to thetford. but here had a plot been laid. the fortune of thetford's brother was to rise from the success of artifices of which the credulity of welbeck was to be the victim. to detect and to counterwork this plot was obviously my duty. my interference might now indeed be too late to be useful; but this was at least to be ascertained by experiment. how should my intention be effected? i had hitherto concealed from welbeck my adventures at thetford's house. these it was now necessary to disclose, and to mention the recent occurrence. my deductions, in consequence of my ignorance, might be erroneous; but of their truth his knowledge of his own affairs would enable him to judge. it was possible that thetford and he whose chamber conversation i had overheard were different persons. i endeavoured in vain to ascertain their identity by a comparison of their voices. the words lately heard, my remembrance did not enable me certainly to pronounce to be uttered by the same organs. this uncertainty was of little moment. it sufficed that welbeck was designated by this appellation, and that therefore he was proved to be the subject of some fraudulent proceeding. the information that i possessed it was my duty to communicate as expeditiously as possible. i was resolved to employ the first opportunity that offered for this end. my meditations had been ardently pursued, and, when i recalled my attention, i found myself bewildered among fields and fences. it was late before i extricated myself from unknown paths, and reached home. i entered the parlour; but welbeck was not there. a table, with tea-equipage for one person, was set; from which i inferred that welbeck was engaged abroad. this belief was confirmed by the report of the servant. he could not inform me where his master was, but merely that he should not take tea at home. this incident was a source of vexation and impatience. i knew not but that delay would be of the utmost moment to the safety of my friend. wholly unacquainted as i was with the nature of his contracts with thetford, i could not decide whether a single hour would not avail to obviate the evils that threatened him. had i known whither to trace his footsteps, i should certainly have sought an immediate interview; but, as it was, i was obliged to wait, with what patience i could collect, for his return to his own house. i waited hour after hour in vain. the sun declined, and the shades of evening descended; but welbeck was still at a distance. chapter ix. welbeck did not return, though hour succeeded hour till the clock struck ten. i inquired of the servants, who informed me that their master was not accustomed to stay out so late. i seated myself at a table, in a parlour, on which there stood a light, and listened for the signal of his coming, either by the sound of steps on the pavement without or by a peal from the bell. the silence was uninterrupted and profound, and each minute added to my sum of impatience and anxiety. to relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which was aggravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well as to beguile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me to betake myself to the bath. i left the candle where it stood, and imagined that even in the bath i should hear the sound of the bell which would be rung upon his arrival at the door. no such signal occurred, and, after taking this refreshment, i prepared to return to my post. the parlour was still unoccupied, but this was not all; the candle i had left upon the table was gone. this was an inexplicable circumstance. on my promise to wait for their master, the servants had retired to bed. no signal of any one's entrance had been given. the street door was locked, and the key hung at its customary place upon the wall. what was i to think? it was obvious to suppose that the candle had been removed by a domestic; but their footsteps could not be traced, and i was not sufficiently acquainted with the house to find the way, especially immersed in darkness, to their chamber. one measure, however, it was evidently proper to take, which was to supply myself, anew, with a light. this was instantly performed; but what was next to be done? i was weary of the perplexities in which i was embroiled. i saw no avenue to escape from them but that which led me to the bosom of nature and to my ancient occupations. for a moment i was tempted to resume my rustic garb, and, on that very hour, to desert this habitation. one thing only detained me; the desire to apprize my patron of the treachery of thetford. for this end i was anxious to obtain an interview; but now i reflected that this information could by other means be imparted. was it not sufficient to write him briefly these particulars, and leave him to profit by the knowledge? thus i might, likewise, acquaint him with my motives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his service. to the execution of this scheme pen and paper were necessary. the business of writing was performed in the chamber on the third story. i had been hitherto denied access to this room. in it was a show of papers and books. here it was that the task, for which i had been retained, was to be performed; but i was to enter it and leave it only in company with welbeck. for what reasons, i asked, was this procedure to be adopted? the influence of prohibitions and an appearance of disguise in awakening curiosity is well known. my mind fastened upon the idea of this room with an unusual degree of intenseness. i had seen it but for a moment. many of welbeck's hours were spent in it. it was not to be inferred that they were consumed in idleness: what then was the nature of his employment over which a veil of such impenetrable secrecy was cast? will you wonder that the design of entering this recess was insensibly formed? possibly it was locked, but its accessibleness was likewise possible. i meant not the commission of any crime. my principal purpose was to procure the implements of writing, which were elsewhere not to be found. i should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. i would merely take a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects that spontaneously presented themselves to my view. in this there surely was nothing criminal or blameworthy. meanwhile i was not unmindful of the sudden disappearance of the candle. this incident filled my bosom with the inquietudes of fear and the perturbations of wonder. once more i paused to catch any sound that might arise from without. all was still. i seized the candle and prepared to mount the stairs. i had not reached the first landing when i called to mind my midnight meeting with welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. the chamber was now desolate; perhaps it was accessible; if so, no injury was done by entering it. my curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no precise object. three steps would bear me to the door. the trial, whether it was fastened, might be made in a moment; and i readily imagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble of examination. the door yielded to my hand, and i entered. no remarkable object was discoverable. the apartment was supplied with the usual furniture. i bent my steps towards a table over which a mirror was suspended. my glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. i scrutinized it with eagerness. it was impossible to overlook its resemblance to my own visage. this was so great that for a moment i imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn. this flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of similitude between me and the genuine original. the thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by a new object. a small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. i opened it, and found it to contain some of the dramas of apostolo zeno. i turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted my sight. a single glance informed me that it was english. for the present i was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. i seized the paper with an intention to peruse it. at that moment a stunning report was heard. it was loud enough to shake the walls of the apartment, and abrupt enough to throw me into tremors. i dropped the book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise. from what quarter it came, i was unable accurately to determine; but there could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was near, and even in the house. it was no less manifest that the sound arose from the discharge of a pistol. some hand must have drawn the trigger. i recollected the disappearance of the candle from the room below. instantly a supposition darted into my mind which made my hair rise and my teeth chatter. "this," i said, "is the deed of welbeck. he entered while i was absent from the room; he hied to his chamber; and, prompted by some unknown instigation, has inflicted on himself death!" this idea had a tendency to palsy my limbs and my thoughts. some time passed in painful and tumultuous fluctuation. my aversion to this catastrophe, rather than a belief of being, by that means, able to prevent or repair the evil, induced me to attempt to enter his chamber. it was possible that my conjectures were erroneous. the door of his room was locked. i knocked; i demanded entrance in a low voice; i put my eye and my ear to the keyhole and the crevices; nothing could be heard or seen. it was unavoidable to conclude that no one was within; yet the effluvia of gunpowder was perceptible. perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe. i ascended the second flight of stairs. i approached the door. no sound could be caught by my most vigilant attention. i put out the light that i carried, and was then able to perceive that there was light within the room. i scarcely knew how to act. for some minutes i paused at the door. i spoke, and requested permission to enter. my words were succeeded by a death-like stillness. at length i ventured softly to withdraw the bolt, to open and to advance within the room. nothing could exceed the horror of my expectation; yet i was startled by the scene that i beheld. in a chair, whose back was placed against the front wall, sat welbeck. my entrance alarmed him not, nor roused him from the stupor into which he was plunged. he rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes were riveted to something that lay, at the distance of a few feet before him, on the floor. a second glance was sufficient to inform me of what nature this object was. it was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, and still exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony! i shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like this communicated to my unpractised senses. i was nearly as panic-struck and powerless as welbeck himself. i gazed, without power of speech, at one time, at welbeck; then i fixed terrified eyes on the distorted features of the dead. at length, welbeck, recovering from his reverie, looked up, as if to see who it was that had entered. no surprise, no alarm, was betrayed by him on seeing me. he manifested no desire or intention to interrupt the fearful silence. my thoughts wandered in confusion and terror. the first impulse was to fly from the scene; but i could not be long insensible to the exigences of the moment. i saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain in their present situation. the insensibility or despair of welbeck required consolation and succour. how to communicate my thoughts, or offer my assistance, i knew not. what led to this murderous catastrophe; who it was whose breathless corpse was before me; what concern welbeck had in producing his death; were as yet unknown. at length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with faltering, and then with more steadfast steps, across the floor. this motion seemed to put him in possession of himself. he seemed now, for the first time, to recognise my presence. he turned to me, and said, in a tone of severity,-"how now? what brings you here?" this rebuke was unexpected. i stammered out, in reply, that the report of the pistol had alarmed me, and that i came to discover the cause of it. he noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed steps, and his anxious but abstracted looks. suddenly he checked himself, and, glancing a furious eye at the corpse, he muttered, "yes, the die is cast. this worthless and miserable scene shall last no longer. i will at once get rid of life and all its humiliations." here succeeded a new pause. the course of his thoughts seemed now to become once more tranquil. sadness, rather than fury, overspread his features; and his accent, when he spoke to me, was not faltering, but solemn. "mervyn," said he, "you comprehend not this scene. your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful and flagitious world. you know me not. it is time that this ignorance should vanish. the knowledge of me and of my actions may be of use to you. it may teach you to avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my peace have been wrecked; but to the rest of mankind it can be of no use. the ruin of my fame is, perhaps, irretrievable; but the height of my iniquity need not be known. i perceive in you a rectitude and firmness worthy to be trusted; promise me, therefore, that not a syllable of what i tell you shall ever pass your lips." i had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise; but i was now confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as to the nature of this scene, and unapprized of the motives that might afterwards occur, persuading or compelling me to disclosure. the promise which he exacted was given. he resumed:-"i have detained you in my service, partly for your own benefit, but chiefly for mine. i intended to inflict upon you injury and to do you good. neither of these ends can i now accomplish, unless the lessons which my example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude and arm you with caution. "what it was that made me thus, i know not. i am not destitute of understanding. my thirst of knowledge, though irregular, is ardent. i can talk and can feel as virtue and justice prescribe; yet the tenor of my actions has been uniform. one tissue of iniquity and folly has been my life; while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened and disinterested principles. scorn and detestation i have heaped upon myself. yesterday is remembered with remorse. to-morrow is contemplated with anguish and fear; yet every day is productive of the same crimes and of the same follies. "i was left, by the insolvency of my father, (a trader of liverpool,) without any means of support but such as labour should afford me. whatever could generate pride, and the love of independence, was my portion. whatever can incite to diligence was the growth of my condition; yet my indolence was a cureless disease; and there were no arts too sordid for me to practise. "i was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. his family was numerous, and his revenue small. he forbore to upbraid me, or even to insinuate the propriety of providing for myself; but he empowered me to pursue any liberal or mechanical profession which might suit my taste. i was insensible to every generous motive. i laboured to forget my dependent and disgraceful condition, because the remembrance was a source of anguish, without being able to inspire me with a steady resolution to change it. "i contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was unchaste, perverse, and malignant. me, however, she found it no difficult task to deceive. my uncle remonstrated against the union. he took infinite pains to unveil my error, and to convince me that wedlock was improper for one destitute, as i was, of the means of support, even if the object of my choice were personally unexceptionable. "his representations were listened to with anger. that he thwarted my will in this respect, even by affectionate expostulation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude which i owed to him. i rewarded him for all his kindness by invective and disdain, and hastened to complete my ill-omened marriage. i had deceived the woman's father by assertions of possessing secret resources. to gratify my passion, i descended to dissimulation and falsehood. he admitted me into his family, as the husband of his child; but the character of my wife and the fallacy of my assertions were quickly discovered. he denied me accommodation under his roof, and i was turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of my rashness and my indolence. "temptation would have moulded me into any villanous shape. my virtuous theories and comprehensive erudition would not have saved me from the basest of crimes. luckily for me, i was, for the present, exempted from temptation. i had formed an acquaintance with a young american captain. on being partially informed of my situation, he invited me to embark with him for his own country. my passage was gratuitous. i arrived, in a short time, at charleston, which was the place of his abode. "he introduced me to his family, every member of which was, like himself, imbued with affection and benevolence. i was treated like their son and brother. i was hospitably entertained until i should be able to select some path of lucrative industry. such was my incurable depravity, that i made no haste to select my pursuit. an interval of inoccupation succeeded, which i applied to the worst purposes. "my friend had a sister, who was married, but during the absence of her husband resided with her family. hence originated our acquaintance. the purest of human hearts and the most vigorous understanding were hers. she idolized her husband, who well deserved to be the object of her adoration. her affection for him, and her general principles, appeared to be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. i sought her intercourse without illicit views; i delighted in the effusions of her candour and the flashes of her intelligence; i conformed, by a kind of instinctive hypocrisy, to her views; i spoke and felt from the influence of immediate and momentary conviction. she imagined she had found in me a friend worthy to partake in all her sympathies and forward all her wishes. we were mutually deceived. she was the victim of self-delusion; but i must charge myself with practising deceit both upon myself and her. "i reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which led to her degradation and to my calamity. in the high career of passion all consequences were overlooked. she was the dupe of the most audacious sophistry and the grossest delusion. i was the slave of sensual impulses and voluntary blindness. the effect may be easily conceived. not till symptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes opened to the ruin which impended over us. "then i began to revolve the consequences, which the mist of passion had hitherto concealed. i was tormented by the pangs of remorse, and pursued by the phantom of ingratitude. to complete my despair, this unfortunate lady was apprized of my marriage with another woman; a circumstance which i had anxiously concealed from her. she fled from her father's house at a time when her husband and brother were hourly expected. what became of her i knew not. she left behind her a letter to her father, in which the melancholy truth was told. "shame and remorse had no power over my life. to elude the storm of invective and upbraiding, to quiet the uproar of my mind, i did not betake myself to voluntary death. my pusillanimity still clung to this wretched existence. i abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing to the port, embarked in the first vessel which appeared. the ship chanced to belong to wilmington, in delaware, and here i sought out an obscure and cheap abode. "i possessed no means of subsistence. i was unknown to my neighbours, and desired to remain unknown. i was unqualified for manual labour by all the habits of my life; but there was no choice between penury and diligence,--between honest labour and criminal inactivity. i mused incessantly on the forlornness of my condition. hour after hour passed, and the horrors of want began to encompass me. i sought with eagerness for an avenue by which i might escape from it. the perverseness of my nature led me on from one guilty thought to another. i took refuge in my customary sophistries, and reconciled myself at length to a scheme of--_forgery_!" chapter x. "having ascertained my purpose, it was requisite to search out the means by which i might effect it. these were not clearly or readily suggested. the more i contemplated my project, the more numerous and arduous its difficulties appeared. i had no associates in my undertaking. a due regard to my safety, and the unextinguished sense of honour, deterred me from seeking auxiliaries and co-agents. the esteem of mankind was the spring of all my activity, the parent of all my virtue and all my vice. to preserve this, it was necessary that my guilty projects should have neither witness nor partaker. "i quickly discovered that to execute this scheme demanded time, application, and money, none of which my present situation would permit me to devote to it. at first it appeared that an attainable degree of skill and circumspection would enable me to arrive, by means of counterfeit bills, to the pinnacle of affluence and honour. my error was detected by a closer scrutiny, and i finally saw nothing in this path but enormous perils and insurmountable impediments. "yet what alternative was offered me? to maintain myself by the labour of my hands, to perform any toilsome or prescribed task, was incompatible with my nature. my habits debarred me from country occupations. my pride regarded as vile and ignominious drudgery any employment which the town could afford. meanwhile, my wants were as urgent as ever, and my funds were exhausted. "there are few, perhaps, whose external situation resembled mine, who would have found in it any thing but incitements to industry and invention. a thousand methods of subsistence, honest but laborious, were at my command, but to these i entertained an irreconcilable aversion. ease and the respect attendant upon opulence i was willing to purchase at the price of ever-wakeful suspicion and eternal remorse; but, even at this price, the purchase was impossible. "the desperateness of my condition became hourly more apparent. the further i extended my view, the darker grew the clouds which hung over futurity. anguish and infamy appeared to be the inseparable conditions of my existence. there was one mode of evading the evils that impended. to free myself from self-upbraiding and to shun the persecutions of my fortune was possible only by shaking off life itself. "one evening, as i traversed the bank of the creek, these dismal meditations were uncommonly intense. they at length terminated in a resolution to throw myself into the stream. the first impulse was to rush instantly to my death; but the remembrance of papers, lying at my lodgings, which might unfold more than i desired to the curiosity of survivors, induced me to postpone this catastrophe till the next morning. "my purpose being formed, i found my heart lightened of its usual weight. by you it will be thought strange, but it is nevertheless true, that i derived from this new prospect not only tranquillity but cheerfulness. i hastened home. as soon as i entered, my landlord informed me that a person had been searching for me in my absence. this was an unexampled incident, and foreboded me no good. i was strongly persuaded that my visitant had been led hither not by friendly but hostile purposes. this persuasion was confirmed by the description of the stranger's guise and demeanour given by my landlord. my fears instantly recognised the image of watson, the man by whom i had been so eminently benefited, and whose kindness i had compensated by the ruin of his sister and the confusion of his family. "an interview with this man was less to be endured than to look upon the face of an avenging deity. i was determined to avoid this interview, and, for this end, to execute my fatal purpose within the hour. my papers were collected with a tremulous hand, and consigned to the flames. i then bade my landlord inform all visitants that i should not return till the next day, and once more hastened towards the river. "my way led past the inn where one of the stages from baltimore was accustomed to stop. i was not unaware that watson had possibly been brought in the coach which had recently arrived, and which now stood before the door of the inn. the danger of my being descried or encountered by him as i passed did not fail to occur. this was to be eluded by deviating from the main street. "scarcely had i turned a corner for this purpose when i was accosted by a young man whom i knew to be an inhabitant of the town, but with whom i had hitherto had no intercourse but what consisted in a transient salutation. he apologized for the liberty of addressing me, and, at the same time, inquired if i understood the french language. "being answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell me that in the stage, just arrived, had come a passenger, a youth who appeared to be french, who was wholly unacquainted with our language, and who had been seized with a violent disease. "my informant had felt compassion for the forlorn condition of the stranger, and had just been seeking me at my lodgings, in hope that my knowledge of french would enable me to converse with the sick man, and obtain from him a knowledge of his situation and views. "the apprehensions i had precipitately formed were thus removed, and i readily consented to perform this service. the youth was, indeed, in a deplorable condition. besides the pains of his disease, he was overpowered by dejection. the innkeeper was extremely anxious for the removal of his guest. he was by no means willing to sustain the trouble and expense of a sick or a dying man, for which it was scarcely probable that he should ever be reimbursed. the traveller had no baggage, and his dress betokened the pressure of many wants. "my compassion for this stranger was powerfully awakened. i was in possession of a suitable apartment, for which i had no power to pay the rent that was accruing; but my inability in this respect was unknown, and i might enjoy my lodgings unmolested for some weeks. the fate of this youth would be speedily decided, and i should be left at liberty to execute my first intentions before my embarrassments should be visibly increased. "after a moment's pause, i conducted the stranger to my home, placed him in my own bed, and became his nurse. his malady was such as is known in the tropical islands by the name of the yellow or malignant fever, and the physician who was called speedily pronounced his case desperate. "it was my duty to warn him of the death that was hastening, and to promise the fulfilment of any of his wishes not inconsistent with my present situation. he received my intelligence with fortitude, and appeared anxious to communicate some information respecting his own state. his pangs and his weakness scarcely allowed him to be intelligible. from his feeble efforts and broken narrative i collected thus much concerning his family and fortune. "his father's name was vincentio lodi. from a merchant at leghorn, he had changed himself into a planter in the island of guadaloupe. his son had been sent, at an early age, for the benefits of education, to europe. the young vincentio was, at length, informed by his father, that, being weary of his present mode of existence, he had determined to sell his property and transport himself to the united states. the son was directed to hasten home, that he might embark, with his father, on this voyage. "the summons was cheerfully obeyed. the youth, on his arrival at the island, found preparation making for the funeral of his father. it appeared that the elder lodi had flattered one of his slaves with the prospect of his freedom, but had, nevertheless, included this slave in the sale that he had made of his estate. actuated by revenge, the slave assassinated lodi in the open street, and resigned himself, without a struggle, to the punishment which the law had provided for such a deed. "the property had been recently transferred, and the price was now presented to young vincentio by the purchaser. he was by no means inclined to adopt his father's project, and was impatient to return with his inheritance to france. before this could be done, the conduct of his father had rendered a voyage to the continent indispensable. "lodi had a daughter, whom, a few weeks previous to his death, he had intrusted to an american captain for whom he had contracted a friendship. the vessel was bound to philadelphia; but the conduct she was to pursue, and the abode she was to select, on her arrival, were known only to the father, whose untimely death involved the son in considerable uncertainty with regard to his sister's fate. his anxiety on this account induced him to seize the first conveyance that offered. in a short time he landed at baltimore. "as soon as he recovered from the fatigues of his voyage, he prepared to go to philadelphia. thither his baggage was immediately sent under the protection of a passenger and countryman. his money consisted in portuguese gold, which, in pursuance of advice, he had changed into bank-notes. he besought me, in pathetic terms, to search out his sister, whose youth and poverty, and ignorance of the language and manners of the country, might expose her to innumerable hardships. at the same time, he put a pocket-book and small volume into my hand, indicating, by his countenance and gestures, his desire that i would deliver them to his sister. "his obsequies being decently performed, i had leisure to reflect upon the change in my condition which this incident had produced. in the pocket-book were found bills to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. the volume proved to be a manuscript, written by the elder lodi in italian, and contained memoirs of the ducal house of visconti, from whom the writer believed himself to have lineally descended. "thus had i arrived, by an avenue so much beyond my foresight, at the possession of wealth. the evil which impelled me to the brink of suicide, and which was the source, though not of all, yet of the larger portion, of my anguish, was now removed. what claims to honour or to ease were consequent on riches were, by an extraordinary fortune, now conferred upon me. "such, for a time, were my new-born but transitory raptures. i forgot that this money was not mine. that it had been received, under every sanction of fidelity, for another's use. to retain it was equivalent to robbery. the sister of the deceased was the rightful claimant; it was my duty to search her out, and perform my tacit but sacred obligations, by putting the whole into her possession. "this conclusion was too adverse to my wishes not to be strenuously combated. i asked what it was that gave man the power of ascertaining the successor to his property. during his life, he might transfer the actual possession; but, if vacant at his death, he into whose hands accident should cast it was the genuine proprietor. it is true, that the law had sometimes otherwise decreed, but in law there was no validity further than it was able, by investigation and punishment, to enforce its decrees: but would the law extort this money from me? "it was rather by gesture than by words that the will of lodi was imparted. it was the topic of remote inferences and vague conjecture rather than of explicit and unerring declarations. besides, if the lady were found, would not prudence dictate the reservation of her fortune to be administered by me, for her benefit? of this her age and education had disqualified herself. it was sufficient for the maintenance of both. she would regard me as her benefactor and protector. by supplying all her wants and watching over her safety without apprizing her of the means by which i shall be enabled to do this, i shall lay irresistible claims to her love and her gratitude. "such were the sophistries by which reason was seduced and my integrity annihilated. i hastened away from my present abode. i easily traced the baggage of the deceased to an inn, and gained possession of it. it contained nothing but clothes and books. i then instituted the most diligent search after the young lady. for a time, my exertions were fruitless. "meanwhile, the possessor of this house thought proper to embark with his family for europe. the sum which he demanded for his furniture, though enormous, was precipitately paid by me. his servants were continued in their former stations, and in the day at which he relinquished the mansion, i entered on possession. "there was no difficulty in persuading the world that welbeck was a personage of opulence and rank. my birth and previous adventures it was proper to conceal. the facility with which mankind are misled in their estimate of characters, their proneness to multiply inferences and conjectures, will not be readily conceived by one destitute of my experience. my sudden appearance on the stage, my stately reserve, my splendid habitation, and my circumspect deportment, were sufficient to entitle me to homage. the artifices that were used to unveil the truth, and the guesses that were current respecting me, were adapted to gratify my ruling passion. "i did not remit my diligence to discover the retreat of mademoiselle lodi. i found her, at length, in the family of a kinsman of the captain under whose care she had come to america. her situation was irksome and perilous. she had already experienced the evils of being protectorless and indigent, and my seasonable interference snatched her from impending and less supportable ills. "i could safely unfold all that i knew of her brother's history, except the legacy which he had left. i ascribed the diligence with which i had sought her to his death-bed injunctions, and prevailed upon her to accept from me the treatment which she would have received from her brother if he had continued to live, and if his power to benefit had been equal to my own. "though less can be said in praise of the understanding than of the sensibilities of this woman, she is one whom no one could refrain from loving, though placed in situations far less favourable to the generation of that sentiment than mine. in habits of domestic and incessant intercourse, in the perpetual contemplation of features animated by boundless gratitude and ineffable sympathies, it could not be expected that either she or i should escape enchantment. "the poison was too sweet not to be swallowed with avidity by me. too late i remembered that i was already enslaved by inextricable obligations. it was easy to have hidden this impediment from the eyes of my companion, but here my integrity refused to yield. i can, indeed, lay claim to little merit on account of this forbearance. if there had been no alternative between deceit and the frustration of my hopes, i should doubtless have dissembled the truth with as little scruple on this as on a different occasion; but i could not be blind to the weakness of her with whom i had to contend. chapter xi. "meanwhile large deductions had been made from my stock of money, and the remnant would be speedily consumed by my present mode of life. my expenses far exceeded my previous expectations. in no long time i should be reduced to my ancient poverty, which the luxurious existence that i now enjoyed, and the regard due to my beloved and helpless companion, would render more irksome than ever. some scheme to rescue me from this fate was indispensable; but my aversion to labour, to any pursuit the end of which was merely gain, and which would require application and attention, continued undiminished. "i was plunged anew into dejection and perplexity. from this i was somewhat relieved by a plan suggested by mr. thetford. i thought i had experience of his knowledge and integrity, and the scheme that he proposed seemed liable to no possibility of miscarriage. a ship was to be purchased, supplied with a suitable cargo, and despatched to a port in the west indies. loss from storms and enemies was to be precluded by insurance. every hazard was to be enumerated, and the ship and cargo valued at the highest rate. should the voyage be safely performed, the profits would be double the original expense. should the ship be taken or wrecked, the insurers would have bound themselves to make ample, speedy, and certain indemnification. thetford's brother, a wary and experienced trader, was to be the supercargo. "all my money was laid out upon this scheme. scarcely enough was reserved to supply domestic and personal wants. large debts were likewise incurred. our caution had, as we conceived, annihilated every chance of failure. too much could not be expended on a project so infallible; and the vessel, amply fitted and freighted, departed on her voyage. "an interval, not devoid of suspense and anxiety, succeeded. my mercantile inexperience made me distrust the clearness of my own discernment, and i could not but remember that my utter and irretrievable destruction was connected with the failure of my scheme. time added to my distrust and apprehensions. the time at which tidings of the ship were to be expected elapsed without affording any information of her destiny. my anxieties, however, were to be carefully hidden from the world. i had taught mankind to believe that this project had been adopted more for amusement than gain; and the debts which i had contracted seemed to arise from willingness to adhere to established maxims, more than from the pressure of necessity. "month succeeded month, and intelligence was still withheld. the notes which i had given for one-third of the cargo, and for the premium of insurance, would shortly become due. for the payment of the former, and the cancelling of the latter, i had relied upon the expeditious return or the demonstrated loss of the vessel. neither of these events had taken place. "my cares were augmented from another quarter. my companion's situation now appeared to be such as, if our intercourse had been sanctified by wedlock, would have been regarded with delight. as it was, no symptoms were equally to be deplored. consequences, as long as they were involved in uncertainty, were extenuated or overlooked; but now, when they became apparent and inevitable, were fertile of distress and upbraiding. "indefinable fears, and a desire to monopolize all the meditations and affections of this being, had induced me to perpetuate her ignorance of any but her native language, and debar her from all intercourse with the world. my friends were of course inquisitive respecting her character, adventures, and particularly her relation to me. the consciousness how much the truth redounded to my dishonour made me solicitous to lead conjecture astray. for this purpose i did not discountenance the conclusion that was adopted by some,--that she was my daughter. i reflected that all dangerous surmises would be effectually precluded by this belief. "these precautions afforded me some consolation in my present difficulties. it was requisite to conceal the lady's condition from the world. if this should be ineffectual, it would not be difficult to divert suspicion from my person. the secrecy that i had practised would be justified, in the apprehension of those to whom the personal condition of clemenza should be disclosed, by the feelings of a father. "meanwhile, it was an obvious expedient to remove the unhappy lady to a distance from impertinent observers. a rural retreat, lonely and sequestered, was easily procured, and hither she consented to repair. this arrangement being concerted, i had leisure to reflect upon the evils which every hour brought nearer, and which threatened to exterminate me. "my inquietudes forbade me to sleep, and i was accustomed to rise before day and seek some respite in the fields. returning from one of these unseasonable rambles, i chanced to meet you. your resemblance to the deceased lodi, in person and visage, is remarkable. when you first met my eye, this similitude startled me. your subsequent appeal to my compassion was clothed in such terms as formed a powerful contrast with your dress, and prepossessed me greatly in favour of your education and capacity. "in my present hopeless condition, every incident, however trivial, was attentively considered, with a view to extract from it some means of escaping from my difficulties. my love for the italian girl, in spite of all my efforts to keep it alive, had begun to languish. marriage was impossible; and had now, in some degree, ceased to be desirable. we are apt to judge of others by ourselves. the passion i now found myself disposed to ascribe chiefly to fortuitous circumstances; to the impulse of gratitude, and the exclusion of competitors; and believed that your resemblance to her brother, your age and personal accomplishments, might, after a certain time, and in consequence of suitable contrivances on my part, give a new direction to her feelings. to gain your concurrence, i relied upon your simplicity, your gratitude, and your susceptibility to the charms of this bewitching creature. "i contemplated, likewise, another end. mrs. wentworth is rich. a youth who was once her favourite, and designed to inherit her fortunes, has disappeared, for some years, from the scene. his death is most probable, but of that there is no satisfactory information. the life of this person, whose name is clavering, is an obstacle to some designs which had occurred to me in relation to this woman. my purposes were crude and scarcely formed. i need not swell the catalogue of my errors by expatiating upon them. suffice it to say that the peculiar circumstances of your introduction to me led me to reflections on the use that might be made of your agency, in procuring this lady's acquiescence in my schemes. you were to be ultimately persuaded to confirm her in the belief that her nephew was dead. to this consummation it was indispensable to lead you by slow degrees and circuitous paths. meanwhile, a profound silence, with regard to your genuine history, was to be observed; and to this forbearance your consent was obtained with more readiness than i expected. "there was an additional motive for the treatment you received from me. my personal projects and cares had hitherto prevented me from reading lodi's manuscript; a slight inspection, however, was sufficient to prove that the work was profound and eloquent. my ambition has panted, with equal avidity, after the reputation of literature and opulence. to claim the authorship of this work was too harmless and specious a stratagem not to be readily suggested. i meant to translate it into english, and to enlarge it by enterprising incidents of my own invention. my scruples to assume the merit of the original composer might thus be removed. for this end, your assistance as an amanuensis would be necessary. "you will perceive that all these projects depended on the seasonable arrival of intelligence from ----. the delay of another week would seal my destruction. the silence might arise from the foundering of the ship and the destruction of all on board. in this case, the insurance was not forfeited, but payment could not be obtained within a year. meanwhile, the premium and other debts must be immediately discharged, and this was beyond my power. meanwhile, i was to live in a manner that would not belie my pretensions; but my coffers were empty. "i cannot adequately paint the anxieties with which i have been haunted. each hour has added to the burden of my existence, till, in consequence of the events of this day, it has become altogether insupportable. some hours ago, i was summoned by thetford to his house. the messenger informed me that tidings had been received of my ship. in answer to my eager interrogations, he could give no other information than that she had been captured by the british. he was unable to relate particulars. "news of her safe return would, indeed, have been far more acceptable; but even this information was a source of infinite congratulation. it precluded the demand of my insurers. the payment of other debts might be postponed for a month, and my situation be the same as before the adoption of this successless scheme. hope and joy were reinstated in my bosom, and i hasted to thetford's counting-house. "he received me with an air of gloomy dissatisfaction. i accounted for his sadness by supposing him averse to communicate information which was less favourable than our wishes had dictated. he confirmed, with visible reluctance, the news of her capture. he had just received letters from his brother, acquainting him with all particulars, and containing the official documents of this transaction. "this had no tendency to damp my satisfaction, and i proceeded to peruse with eagerness the papers which he put into my hand. i had not proceeded far, when my joyous hopes vanished. two french mulattoes had, after much solicitation, and the most solemn promises to carry with them no articles which the laws of war decree to be contraband, obtained a passage in the vessel. she was speedily encountered by a privateer, by whom every receptacle was ransacked. in a chest, belonging to the frenchmen, and which they had affirmed to contain nothing but their clothes, were found two sabres, and other accoutrements of an officer of cavalry. under this pretence, the vessel was captured and condemned, and this was a cause of forfeiture which had not been provided against in the contract of insurance. "by this untoward event my hopes were irreparably blasted. the utmost efforts were demanded to conceal my thoughts from my companion. the anguish that preyed upon my heart was endeavoured to be masked by looks of indifference. i pretended to have been previously informed by the messenger not only of the capture, but of the cause that led to it, and forbore to expatiate upon my loss, or to execrate the authors of my disappointment. my mind, however, was the theatre of discord and agony, and i waited with impatience for an opportunity to leave him. "for want of other topics, i asked by whom this information had been brought. he answered, that the bearer was captain amos watson, whose vessel had been forfeited, at the same time, under a different pretence. he added that, my name being mentioned accidentally to watson, the latter had betrayed marks of great surprise, and been very earnest in his inquiries respecting my situation. having obtained what knowledge thetford was able to communicate, the captain had departed, avowing a former acquaintance with me, and declaring his intention of paying me a visit. "these words operated on my frame like lightning. all within me was tumult and terror, and i rushed precipitately out of the house. i went forward with unequal steps, and at random. some instinct led me into the fields, and i was not apprized of the direction of my steps, till, looking up, i found myself upon the shore of schuylkill. "thus was i, a second time, overborne by hopeless and incurable evils. an interval of motley feelings, of specious artifice and contemptible imposture, had elapsed since my meeting with the stranger at wilmington. then my forlorn state had led me to the brink of suicide. a brief and feverish respite had been afforded me, but now was i transported to the verge of the same abyss. "amos watson was the brother of the angel whom i had degraded and destroyed. what but fiery indignation and unappeasable vengeance could lead him into my presence? with what heart could i listen to his invectives? how could i endure to look upon the face of one whom i had loaded with such atrocious and intolerable injuries? "i was acquainted with his loftiness of mind; his detestation of injustice, and the whirlwind passions that ingratitude and villany like mine were qualified to awaken in his bosom. i dreaded not his violence. the death that he might be prompted to inflict was no object of aversion. it was poverty and disgrace, the detection of my crimes, the looks and voice of malediction and upbraiding, from which my cowardice shrunk. "why should i live? i must vanish from that stage which i had lately trodden. my flight must be instant and precipitate. to be a fugitive from exasperated creditors, and from the industrious revenge of watson, was an easy undertaking; but whither could i fly, where i should not be pursued by the phantoms of remorse, by the dread of hourly detection, by the necessities of hunger and thirst? in what scene should i be exempt from servitude and drudgery? was my existence embellished with enjoyments that would justify my holding it, encumbered with hardships and immersed in obscurity? "there was no room for hesitation. to rush into the stream before me, and put an end at once to my life and the miseries inseparably linked with it, was the only proceeding which fate had left to my choice. my muscles were already exerted for this end, when the helpless condition of clemenza was remembered. what provision could i make against the evils that threatened her? should i leave her utterly forlorn and friendless? mrs. wentworth's temper was forgiving and compassionate. adversity had taught her to participate and her wealth enabled her to relieve distress. who was there by whom such powerful claims to succour and protection could be urged as by this desolate girl? might i not state her situation in a letter to this lady, and urge irresistible pleas for the extension of her kindness to this object? "these thoughts made me suspend my steps. i determined to seek my habitation once more, and, having written and deposited this letter, to return to the execution of my fatal purpose. i had scarcely reached my own door, when some one approached along the pavement. the form, at first, was undistinguishable, but, by coming, at length, within the illumination of a lamp, it was perfectly recognised. "to avoid this detested interview was now impossible. watson approached and accosted me. in this conflict of tumultuous feelings i was still able to maintain an air of intrepidity. his demeanour was that of a man who struggles with his rage. his accents were hurried, and scarcely articulate. 'i have ten words to say to you,' said he; 'lead into the house, and to some private room. my business with you will be despatched in a breath.' "i made him no answer, but led the way into my house, and to my study. on entering this room, i put the light upon the table, and, turning to my visitant, prepared silently to hear what he had to unfold. he struck his clenched hand against the table with violence. his motion was of that tempestuous kind as to overwhelm the power of utterance, and found it easier to vent itself in gesticulations than in words. at length he exclaimed,-"'it is well. now has the hour, so long and so impatiently demanded by my vengeance, arrived. welbeck! would that my first words could strike thee dead! they will so, if thou hast any title to the name of man. "'my sister is dead; dead of anguish and a broken heart. remote from her friends; in a hovel; the abode of indigence and misery. "'her husband is no more. he returned after a long absence, a tedious navigation, and vicissitudes of hardships. he flew to the bosom of his love; of his wife. she was gone; lost to him, and to virtue. in a fit of desperation, he retired to his chamber and despatched himself. this is the instrument with which the deed was performed.' "saying this, watson took a pistol from his pocket, and held it to my head. i lifted not my hand to turn aside the weapon. i did not shudder at the spectacle, or shrink from his approaching hand. with fingers clasped together, and eyes fixed upon the floor, i waited till his fury was exhausted. he continued:-"'all passed in a few hours. the elopement of his daughter,--the death of his son. o my father! most loved and most venerable of men! to see thee changed into a maniac! haggard and wild! deterred from outrage on thyself and those around thee by fetters and stripes! what was it that saved me from a like fate? to view this hideous ruin, and to think by whom it was occasioned! yet not to become frantic like thee, my father; or not destroy myself like thee, my brother! my friend!-"'no. for this hour was i reserved; to avenge your wrongs and mine in the blood of this ungrateful villain.' "'there,' continued he, producing a second pistol, and tendering it to me,--'there is thy defence. take we opposite sides of this table, and fire at the same instant.' "during this address i was motionless. he tendered the pistol, but i unclasped not my hands to receive it. "'why do you hesitate?' resumed he. 'let the chance between us be equal, or fire you first.' "'no,' said i, 'i am ready to die by your hand. i wish it. it will preclude the necessity of performing the office for myself. i have injured you, and merit all that your vengeance can inflict. i know your nature too well to believe that my death will be perfect expiation. when the gust of indignation is past, the remembrance of your deed will only add to your sum of misery; yet i do not love you well enough to wish that you would forbear. i desire to die, and to die by another's hand rather than my own.' "'coward!' exclaimed watson, with augmented vehemence, 'you know me too well to believe me capable of assassination. vile subterfuge! contemptible plea! take the pistol and defend yourself. you want not the power or the will; but, knowing that i spurn at murder, you think your safety will be found in passiveness. your refusal will avail you little. your fame, if not your life, is at my mercy. if you falter now, i will allow you to live, but only till i have stabbed your reputation.' "i now fixed my eyes steadfastly upon him, and spoke:--'how much a stranger are you to the feelings of welbeck! how poor a judge of his cowardice! i take your pistol, and consent to your conditions.' "we took opposite sides of the table. 'are you ready?' he cried; 'fire!' "both triggers were drawn at the same instant. both pistols were discharged. mine was negligently raised. such is the untoward chance that presides over human affairs; such is the malignant destiny by which my steps have ever been pursued. the bullet whistled harmlessly by me,--levelled by an eye that never before failed, and with so small an interval between us. i escaped, but my blind and random shot took place in his heart. "there is the fruit of this disastrous meeting. the catalogue of death is thus completed. thou sleepest, watson! thy sister is at rest, and so art thou. thy vows of vengeance are at an end. it was not reserved for thee to be thy own and thy sister's avenger. welbeck's measure of transgressions is now full, and his own hand must execute the justice that is due to him." chapter xii. such was welbeck's tale, listened to by me with an eagerness in which every faculty was absorbed. how adverse to my dreams were the incidents that had just been related! the curtain was lifted, and a scene of guilt and ignominy disclosed where my rash and inexperienced youth had suspected nothing but loftiness and magnanimity. for a while the wondrousness of this tale kept me from contemplating the consequences that awaited us. my unfledged fancy had not hitherto soared to this pitch. all was astounding by its novelty, or terrific by its horror. the very scene of these offences partook, to my rustic apprehension, of fairy splendour and magical abruptness. my understanding was bemazed, and my senses were taught to distrust their own testimony. from this musing state i was recalled by my companion, who said to me, in solemn accents, "mervyn! i have but two requests to make. assist me to bury these remains, and then accompany me across the river. i have no power to compel your silence on the acts that you have witnessed. i have meditated to benefit as well as to injure you; but i do not desire that your demeanour should conform to any other standard than justice. you have promised, and to that promise i trust. "if you choose to fly from this scene, to withdraw yourself from what you may conceive to be a theatre of guilt or peril, the avenues are open; retire unmolested and in silence. if you have a manlike spirit, if you are grateful for the benefits bestowed upon you, if your discernment enables you to see that compliance with my request will entangle you in no guilt and betray you into no danger, stay, and aid me in hiding these remains from human scrutiny. "watson is beyond the reach of further injury. i never intended him harm, though i have torn from him his sister and friend, and have brought his life to an untimely close. to provide him a grave is a duty that i owe to the dead and to the living. i shall quickly place myself beyond the reach of inquisitors and judges, but would willingly rescue from molestation or suspicion those whom i shall leave behind." what would have been the fruit of deliberation, if i had had the time or power to deliberate, i know not. my thoughts flowed with tumult and rapidity. to shut this spectacle from my view was the first impulse; but to desert this man, in a time of so much need, appeared a thankless and dastardly deportment. to remain where i was, to conform implicitly to his direction, required no effort. some fear was connected with his presence, and with that of the dead; but, in the tremulous confusion of my present thoughts, solitude would conjure up a thousand phantoms. i made no preparation to depart. i did not verbally assent to his proposal. he interpreted my silence into acquiescence. he wrapped the body in the carpet, and then, lifting one end, cast at me a look which indicated his expectations that i would aid him in lifting this ghastly burden. during this process, the silence was unbroken. i knew not whither he intended to convey the corpse. he had talked of burial, but no receptacle had been provided. how far safety might depend upon his conduct in this particular, i was unable to estimate. i was in too heartless a mood to utter my doubts. i followed his example in raising the corpse from the floor. he led the way into the passage and down-stairs. having reached the first floor, he unbolted a door which led into the cellar. the stairs and passage were illuminated by lamps that hung from the ceiling and were accustomed to burn during the night. now, however, we were entering darksome and murky recesses. "return," said he, in a tone of command, "and fetch the light. i will wait for you." i obeyed. as i returned with the light, a suspicion stole into my mind, that welbeck had taken this opportunity to fly; and that, on regaining the foot of the stairs, i should find the spot deserted by all but the dead. my blood was chilled by this image. the momentary resolution it inspired was to follow the example of the fugitive, and leave the persons whom the ensuing day might convene on this spot, to form their own conjectures as to the cause of this catastrophe. meanwhile, i cast anxious eyes forward. welbeck was discovered in the same place and posture in which he had been left. lifting the corpse and its shroud in his arms, he directed me to follow him. the vaults beneath were lofty and spacious. he passed from one to the other till we reached a small and remote cell. here he cast his burden on the ground. in the fall, the face of watson chanced to be disengaged from its covering. its closed eyes and sunken muscles were rendered in a tenfold degree ghastly and rueful by the feeble light which the candle shed upon it. this object did not escape the attention of welbeck. he leaned against the wall, and, folding his arms, resigned himself to reverie. he gazed upon the countenance of watson, but his looks denoted his attention to be elsewhere employed. as to me, my state will not be easily described. my eye roved fearfully from one object to another. by turns it was fixed upon the murdered person and the murderer. the narrow cell in which we stood, its rudely-fashioned walls and arches, destitute of communication with the external air, and its palpable dark scarcely penetrated by the rays of a solitary candle, added to the silence which was deep and universal, produced an impression on my fancy which no time will obliterate. perhaps my imagination was distempered by terror. the incident which i am going to relate may appear to have existed only in my fancy. be that as it may, i experienced all the effects which the fullest belief is adapted to produce. glancing vaguely at the countenance of watson, my attention was arrested by a convulsive motion in the eyelids. this motion increased, till at length the eyes opened, and a glance, languid but wild, was thrown around. instantly they closed, and the tremulous appearance vanished. i started from my place and was on the point of uttering some involuntary exclamation. at the same moment, welbeck seemed to recover from his reverie. "how is this?" said he. "why do we linger here? every moment is precious. we cannot dig for him a grave with our hands. wait here, while i go in search of a spade." saying this, he snatched the candle from my hand, and hasted away. my eye followed the light as its gleams shifted their place upon the walls and ceilings, and, gradually vanishing, gave place to unrespited gloom. this proceeding was so unexpected and abrupt, that i had no time to remonstrate against it. before i retrieved the power of reflection, the light had disappeared and the footsteps were no longer to be heard. i was not, on ordinary occasions, destitute of equanimity; but perhaps the imagination of man is naturally abhorrent of death, until tutored into indifference by habit. every circumstance combined to fill me with shuddering and panic. for a while, i was enabled to endure my situation by the exertions of my reason. that the lifeless remains of a human being are powerless to injure or benefit, i was thoroughly persuaded. i summoned this belief to my aid, and was able, if not to subdue, yet to curb, my fears. i listened to catch the sound of the returning footsteps of welbeck, and hoped that every new moment would terminate my solitude. no signal of his coming was afforded. at length it occurred to me that welbeck had gone with no intention to return; that his malice had seduced me hither to encounter the consequences of his deed. he had fled and barred every door behind him. this suspicion may well be supposed to overpower my courage, and to call forth desperate efforts for my deliverance. i extended my hands and went forward. i had been too little attentive to the situation and direction of these vaults and passages, to go forward with undeviating accuracy. my fears likewise tended to confuse my perceptions and bewilder my steps. notwithstanding the danger of encountering obstructions, i rushed towards the entrance with precipitation. my temerity was quickly punished. in a moment, i was repelled by a jutting angle of the wall, with such force that i staggered backward and fell. the blow was stunning, and, when i recovered my senses, i perceived that a torrent of blood was gushing from my nostrils. my clothes were moistened with this unwelcome effusion, and i could not but reflect on the hazard which i should incur by being detected in this recess, covered by these accusing stains. this reflection once more set me on my feet and incited my exertions. i now proceeded with greater wariness and caution. i had lost all distinct notions of my way. my motions were at random. all my labour was to shun obstructions and to advance whenever the vacuity would permit. by this means, the entrance was at length found, and, after various efforts, i arrived, beyond my hopes, at the foot of the staircase. i ascended, but quickly encountered an insuperable impediment. the door at the stair-head was closed and barred. my utmost strength was exerted in vain, to break the lock or the hinges. thus were my direst apprehensions fulfilled. welbeck had left me to sustain the charge of murder; to obviate suspicions the most atrocious and plausible that the course of human events is capable of producing. here i must remain till the morrow; till some one can be made to overhear my calls and come to my deliverance. what effects will my appearance produce on the spectator? terrified by phantoms and stained with blood, shall i not exhibit the tokens of a maniac as well as an assassin? the corpse of watson will quickly be discovered. if, previous to this disclosure, i should change my blood-stained garments and withdraw into the country, shall i not be pursued by the most vehement suspicions, and, perhaps, hunted to my obscurest retreat by the ministers of justice? i am innocent; but my tale, however circumstantial or true, will scarcely suffice for my vindication. my flight will be construed into a proof of incontestable guilt. while harassed by these thoughts, my attention was attracted by a faint gleam cast upon the bottom of the staircase. it grew stronger, hovered for a moment in my sight, and then disappeared. that it proceeded from a lamp or candle, borne by some one along the passages, was no untenable opinion, but was far less probable than that the effulgence was meteorous. i confided in the latter supposition, and fortified myself anew against the dread of preternatural dangers. my thoughts reverted to the contemplation of the hazards and suspicions which flowed from my continuance in this spot. in the midst of my perturbed musing, my attention was again recalled by an illumination like the former. instead of hovering and vanishing, it was permanent. no ray could be more feeble; but the tangible obscurity to which it succeeded rendered it conspicuous as an electrical flash. for a while i eyed it without moving from my place, and in momentary expectation of its disappearance. remarking its stability, the propriety of scrutinizing it more nearly, and of ascertaining the source whence it flowed, was at length suggested. hope, as well as curiosity, was the parent of my conduct. though utterly at a loss to assign the cause of this appearance, i was willing to believe some connection between that cause and the means of my deliverance. i had scarcely formed the resolution of descending the stair, when my hope was extinguished by the recollection that the cellar had narrow and grated windows, through which light from the street might possibly have found access. a second recollection supplanted this belief, for in my way to this staircase my attention would have been solicited, and my steps, in some degree, been guided, by light coming through these avenues. having returned to the bottom of the stair, i perceived every part of the long-drawn passage illuminated. i threw a glance forward to the quarter whence the rays seemed to proceed, and beheld, at a considerable distance, welbeck in the cell which i had left, turning up the earth with a spade. after a pause of astonishment, the nature of the error which i had committed rushed upon my apprehension. i now perceived that the darkness had misled me to a different staircase from that which i had originally descended. it was apparent that welbeck intended me no evil, but had really gone in search of the instrument which he had mentioned. this discovery overwhelmed me with contrition and shame, though it freed me from the terrors of imprisonment and accusation. to return to the cell which i had left, and where welbeck was employed in his disastrous office, was the expedient which regard to my own safety unavoidably suggested. welbeck paused, at my approach, and betrayed a momentary consternation at the sight of my ensanguined visage. the blood, by some inexplicable process of nature, perhaps by the counteracting influence of fear, had quickly ceased to flow. whether the cause of my evasion, and of my flux of blood, was guessed, or whether his attention was withdrawn, by more momentous objects, from my condition, he proceeded in his task in silence. a shallow bed and a slight covering of clay were provided for the hapless watson. welbeck's movements were hurried and tremulous. his countenance betokened a mind engrossed by a single purpose, in some degree foreign to the scene before him. an intensity and fixedness of features were conspicuous, that led me to suspect the subversion of his reason. having finished the task, he threw aside his implement. he then put into my hand a pocket-book, saying it belonged to watson, and might contain something serviceable to the living. i might make what use of it i thought proper. he then remounted the stairs, and, placing the candle on a table in the hall, opened the principal door and went forth. i was driven, by a sort of mechanical impulse, in his footsteps. i followed him because it was agreeable to him and because i knew not whither else to direct my steps. the streets were desolate and silent. the watchman's call, remotely and faintly heard, added to the general solemnity. i followed my companion in a state of mind not easily described. i had no spirit even to inquire whither he was going. it was not till we arrived at the water's edge that i persuaded myself to break silence. i then began to reflect on the degree in which his present schemes might endanger welbeck or myself. i had acted long enough a servile and mechanical part; and been guided by blind and foreign impulses. it was time to lay aside my fetters, and demand to know whither the path tended in which i was importuned to walk. meanwhile i found myself entangled among boats and shipping. i am unable to describe the spot by any indisputable tokens. i know merely that it was the termination of one of the principal streets. here welbeck selected a boat and prepared to enter it. for a moment i hesitated to comply with his apparent invitation. i stammered out an interrogation:--"why is this? why should we cross the river? what service can i do for you? i ought to know the purpose of my voyage before i enter it." he checked himself and surveyed me for a minute in silence. "what do you fear?" said he. "have i not explained my wishes? merely cross the river with me, for i cannot navigate a boat by myself. is there any thing arduous or mysterious in this undertaking? we part on the jersey shore, and i shall leave you to your destiny. all i shall ask from you will be silence, and to hide from mankind what you know concerning me." he now entered the boat and urged me to follow his example. i reluctantly complied, i perceived that the boat contained but one oar, and that was a small one. he seemed startled and thrown into great perplexity by this discovery. "it will be impossible," said he, in a tone of panic and vexation, "to procure another at this hour: what is to be done?" this impediment was by no means insuperable. i had sinewy arms, and knew well how to use an oar for the double purpose of oar and rudder. i took my station at the stern, and quickly extricated the boat from its neighbours and from the wharves. i was wholly unacquainted with the river. the bar by which it was encumbered i knew to exist, but in what direction and to what extent it existed, and how it might be avoided in the present state of the tide, i knew not. it was probable, therefore, unknowing as i was of the proper track, that our boat would speedily have grounded. my attention, meanwhile, was fixed upon the oar. my companion sat at the prow, and was in a considerable degree unnoticed. i cast my eyes occasionally at the scene which i had left. its novelty, joined with the incidents of my condition, threw me into a state of suspense and wonder which frequently slackened my hand and left the vessel to be driven by the downward current. lights were sparingly seen, and these were perpetually fluctuating, as masts, yards, and hulls were interposed, and passed before them. in proportion as we receded from the shore, the clamours seemed to multiply, and the suggestion that the city was involved in confusion and uproar did not easily give way to maturer thoughts. _twelve_ was the hour cried, and this ascended at once from all quarters, and was mingled with the baying of dogs, so as to produce trepidation and alarm. from this state of magnificent and awful feeling i was suddenly called by the conduct of welbeck. we had scarcely moved two hundred yards from the shore, when he plunged into the water. the first conception was that some implement or part of the boat had fallen over-board. i looked back and perceived that his seat was vacant. in my first astonishment i loosened my hold of the oar, and it floated away. the surface was smooth as glass, and the eddy occasioned by his sinking was scarcely visible. i had not time to determine whether this was designed or accidental. its suddenness deprived me of the power to exert myself for his succour. i wildly gazed around me, in hopes of seeing him rise. after some time my attention was drawn, by the sound of agitation in the water, to a considerable distance. it was too dark for any thing to be distinctly seen. there was no cry for help. the noise was like that of one vigorously struggling for a moment, and then sinking to the bottom. i listened with painful eagerness, but was unable to distinguish a third signal. he sunk to rise no more. i was for a time inattentive to my own situation. the dreadfulness and unexpectedness of this catastrophe occupied me wholly. the quick motion of the lights upon the shore showed me that i was borne rapidly along with the tide. how to help myself, how to impede my course or to regain either shore, since i had lost the oar, i was unable to tell. i was no less at a loss to conjecture whither the current, if suffered to control my vehicle, would finally transport me. the disappearance of lights and buildings, and the diminution of the noises, acquainted me that i had passed the town. it was impossible longer to hesitate. the shore was to be regained by one way only, which was swimming. to any exploit of this kind, my strength and my skill were adequate. i threw away my loose gown; put the pocket-book of the unfortunate watson in my mouth, to preserve it from being injured by moisture; and committed myself to the stream. i landed in a spot incommoded with mud and reeds. i sunk knee-deep into the former, and was exhausted by the fatigue of extricating myself. at length i recovered firm ground, and threw myself on the turf to repair my wasted strength, and to reflect on the measures which my future welfare enjoined me to pursue. what condition was ever parallel to mine? the transactions of the last three days resembled the monstrous creations of delirium. they were painted with vivid hues on my memory; but so rapid and incongruous were these transitions, that i almost denied belief to their reality. they exercised a bewildering and stupefying influence on my mind, from which the meditations of an hour were scarcely sufficient to relieve me. gradually i recovered the power of arranging my ideas and forming conclusions. welbeck was dead. his property was swallowed up, and his creditors left to wonder at his disappearance. all that was left was the furniture of his house, to which mrs. wentworth would lay claim, in discharge of the unpaid rent. what now was the destiny that awaited the lost and friendless mademoiselle lodi? where was she concealed? welbeck had dropped no intimation by which i might be led to suspect the place of her abode. if my power, in other respects, could have contributed aught to her relief, my ignorance of her asylum had utterly disabled me. but what of the murdered person? he had suddenly vanished from the face of the earth. his fate and the place of his interment would probably be suspected and ascertained. was i sure to escape from the consequences of this deed? watson had relatives and friends. what influence on their state and happiness his untimely and mysterious fate would possess, it was obvious to inquire. this idea led me to the recollection of his pocket-book. some papers might be there explanatory of his situation. i resumed my feet. i knew not where to direct my steps. i was dropping with wet, and shivering with the cold. i was destitute of habitation and friend. i had neither money nor any valuable thing in my possession. i moved forward mechanically and at random. where i landed was at no great distance from the verge of the town. in a short time i discovered the glimmering of a distant lamp. to this i directed my steps, and here i paused to examine the contents of the pocket-book. i found three bank-notes, each of fifty dollars, enclosed in a piece of blank paper. besides these were three letters, apparently written by his wife, and dated at baltimore. they were brief, but composed in a strain of great tenderness, and containing affecting allusions to their child. i could gather, from their date and tenor, that they were received during his absence on his recent voyage; that her condition was considerably necessitous, and surrounded by wants which their prolonged separation had increased. the fourth letter was open, and seemed to have been very lately written. it was directed to mrs. mary watson. he informed her in it of his arrival at philadelphia from st. domingo; of the loss of his ship and cargo; and of his intention to hasten home with all possible expedition. he told her that all was lost but one hundred and fifty dollars, the greater part of which he should bring with him, to relieve her more pressing wants. the letter was signed, and folded, and superscribed, but unsealed. a little consideration showed me in what manner it became me, on this occasion, to demean myself. i put the bank-notes in the letter, and sealed it with a wafer; a few of which were found in the pocket-book. i hesitated some time whether i should add any thing to the information which the letter contained, by means of a pencil which offered itself to my view; but i concluded to forbear. i could select no suitable terms in which to communicate the mournful truth. i resolved to deposit this letter at the post-office, where i knew letters could be left at all hours. my reflections at length reverted to my own condition. what was the fate reserved for me? how far my safety might be affected by remaining in the city, in consequence of the disappearance of welbeck, and my known connection with the fugitive, it was impossible to foresee. my fears readily suggested innumerable embarrassments and inconveniences which would flow from this source. besides, on what pretence should i remain? to whom could i apply for protection or employment? all avenues, even to subsistence, were shut against me. the country was my sole asylum. here, in exchange for my labour, i could at least purchase food, safety, and repose. but, if my choice pointed to the country, there was no reason for a moment's delay. it would be prudent to regain the fields, and be far from this detested city before the rising of the sun. meanwhile i was chilled and chafed by the clothes that i wore. to change them for others was absolutely necessary to my ease. the clothes which i wore were not my own, and were extremely unsuitable to my new condition. my rustic and homely garb was deposited in my chamber at welbeck's. these thoughts suggested the design of returning thither. i considered that, probably, the servants had not been alarmed. that the door was unfastened, and the house was accessible. it would be easy to enter and retire without notice; and this, not without some waverings and misgivings, i presently determined to do. having deposited my letter at the office, i proceeded to my late abode. i approached, and lifted the latch with caution. there were no appearances of any one having been disturbed. i procured a light in the kitchen, and hied softly and with dubious footsteps to my chamber. there i disrobed, and resumed my check shirt, and trowsers, and fustian coat. this change being accomplished, nothing remained but that i should strike into the country with the utmost expedition. in a momentary review which i took of the past, the design for which welbeck professed to have originally detained me in his service occurred to my mind. i knew the danger of reasoning loosely on the subject of property. to any trinket or piece of furniture in this house i did not allow myself to question the right of mrs. wentworth; a right accruing to her in consequence of welbeck's failure in the payment of his rent; but there was one thing which i felt an irresistible desire, and no scruples which should forbid me, to possess, and that was, the manuscript to which welbeck had alluded, as having been written by the deceased lodi. i was well instructed in latin, and knew the tuscan language to be nearly akin to it. i despaired not of being at some time able to cultivate this language, and believed that the possession of this manuscript might essentially contribute to this end, as well as to many others equally beneficial. it was easy to conjecture that the volume was to be found among his printed books, and it was scarcely less easy to ascertain the truth of this conjecture. i entered, not without tremulous sensations, into the apartment which had been the scene of the disastrous interview between watson and welbeck. at every step i almost dreaded to behold the spectre of the former rise before me. numerous and splendid volumes were arranged on mahogany shelves, and screened by doors of glass. i ran swiftly over their names, and was at length so fortunate as to light upon the book of which i was in search. i immediately secured it, and, leaving the candle extinguished on a table in the parlour, i once more issued forth into the street. with light steps and palpitating heart i turned my face towards the country. my necessitous condition i believed would justify me in passing without payment the schuylkill bridge, and the eastern sky began to brighten with the dawn of morning not till i had gained the distance of nine miles from the city. such is the tale which i proposed to relate to you. such are the memorable incidents of five days of my life; from which i have gathered more instruction than from the whole tissue of my previous existence. such are the particulars of my knowledge respecting the crimes and misfortunes of welbeck; which the insinuations of wortley, and my desire to retain your good opinion, have induced me to unfold. chapter xiii. mervyn's pause allowed his auditors to reflect on the particulars of his narration, and to compare them with the facts with a knowledge of which their own observation had supplied them. my profession introduced me to the friendship of mrs. wentworth, by whom, after the disappearance of welbeck, many circumstances respecting him had been mentioned. she particularly dwelt upon the deportment and appearance of this youth, at the single interview which took place between them, and her representations were perfectly conformable to those which mervyn had himself delivered. previously to this interview, welbeck had insinuated to her that a recent event had put him in possession of the truth respecting the destiny of clavering. a kinsman of his had arrived from portugal, by whom this intelligence had been brought. he dexterously eluded her entreaties to be furnished with minuter information, or to introduce this kinsman to her acquaintance. as soon as mervyn was ushered into her presence, she suspected him to be the person to whom welbeck had alluded, and this suspicion his conversation had confirmed. she was at a loss to comprehend the reasons of the silence which he so pertinaciously maintained. her uneasiness, however, prompted her to renew her solicitations. on the day subsequent to the catastrophe related by mervyn, she sent a messenger to welbeck, with a request to see him. gabriel, the black servant, informed the messenger that his master had gone into the country for a week. at the end of the week, a messenger was again despatched with the same errand. he called and knocked, but no one answered his signals. he examined the entrance by the kitchen, but every avenue was closed. it appeared that the house was wholly deserted. these appearances naturally gave birth to curiosity and suspicion. the house was repeatedly examined, but the solitude and silence within continued the same. the creditors of welbeck were alarmed by these appearances, and their claims to the property remaining in the house were precluded by mrs. wentworth, who, as owner of the mansion, was legally entitled to the furniture, in place of the rent which welbeck had suffered to accumulate. on examining the dwelling, all that was valuable and portable, particularly linen and plate, was removed. the remainder was distrained, but the tumults of pestilence succeeded and hindered it from being sold. things were allowed to continue in their former situation, and the house was carefully secured. we had no leisure to form conjectures on the causes of this desertion. an explanation was afforded us by the narrative of this youth. it is probable that the servants, finding their master's absence continue, had pillaged the house and fled. meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to welbeck was appeased, it was obvious to inquire by what series of inducements and events mervyn was reconducted to the city and led to the spot where i first met with him. we intimated our wishes in this respect, and our young friend readily consented to take up the thread of his story and bring it down to the point that was desired. for this purpose, the ensuing evening was selected. having, at an early hour, shut ourselves up from all intruders and visitors, he continued as follows. * * * * * i have mentioned that, by sunrise, i had gained the distance of many miles from the city. my purpose was to stop at the first farm-house, and seek employment as a day-labourer. the first person whom i observed was a man of placid mien and plain garb. habitual benevolence was apparent amidst the wrinkles of age. he was traversing his buckwheat-field, and measuring, as it seemed, the harvest that was now nearly ripe. i accosted him with diffidence, and explained my wishes. he listened to my tale with complacency, inquired into my name and family, and into my qualifications for the office to which i aspired. my answers were candid and full. "why," said he, "i believe thou and i can make a bargain. we will, at least, try each other for a week or two. if it does not suit our mutual convenience, we can change. the morning is damp and cool, and thy plight does not appear the most comfortable that can be imagined. come to the house and eat some breakfast." the behaviour of this good man filled me with gratitude and joy. methought i could embrace him as a father, and entrance into his house appeared like return to a long-lost and much-loved home. my desolate and lonely condition appeared to be changed for paternal regards and the tenderness of friendship. these emotions were confirmed and heightened by every object that presented itself under this roof. the family consisted of mrs. hadwin, two simple and affectionate girls, his daughters, and servants. the manners of this family, quiet, artless, and cordial, the occupations allotted me, the land by which the dwelling was surrounded, its pure airs, romantic walks, and exhaustless fertility, constituted a powerful contrast to the scenes which i had left behind, and were congenial with every dictate of my understanding and every sentiment that glowed in my heart. my youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deportment, entitled me to deference and confidence. each hour confirmed me in the good opinion of mr. hadwin, and in the affections of his daughters. in the mind of my employer, the simplicity of the husbandman and the devotion of the quaker were blended with humanity and intelligence. the sisters, susan and eliza, were unacquainted with calamity and vice through the medium of either observation or books. they were strangers to the benefits of an elaborate education, but they were endowed with curiosity and discernment, and had not suffered their slender means of instruction to remain unimproved. the sedateness of the elder formed an amusing contrast with the laughing eye and untamable vivacity of the younger; but they smiled and they wept in unison. they thought and acted in different but not discordant keys. on all momentous occasions, they reasoned and felt alike. in ordinary cases, they separated, as it were, into different tracks; but this diversity was productive not of jarring, but of harmony. a romantic and untutored disposition like mine may be supposed liable to strong impressions from perpetual converse with persons of their age and sex. the elder was soon discovered to have already disposed of her affections. the younger was free, and somewhat that is more easily conceived than named stole insensibly upon my heart. the images that haunted me at home and abroad, in her absence and her presence, gradually coalesced into one shape, and gave birth to an incessant train of latent palpitations and indefinable hopes. my days were little else than uninterrupted reveries, and night only called up phantoms more vivid and equally enchanting. the memorable incidents which had lately happened scarcely counterpoised my new sensations or diverted my contemplations from the present. my views were gradually led to rest upon futurity, and in that i quickly found cause of circumspection and dread. my present labours were light, and were sufficient for my subsistence in a single state; but wedlock was the parent of new wants and of new cares. mr. hadwin's possessions were adequate to his own frugal maintenance, but, divided between his children, would be too scanty for either. besides, this division could only take place at his death, and that was an event whose speedy occurrence was neither desirable nor probable. another obstacle was now remembered. hadwin was the conscientious member of a sect which forbade the marriage of its votaries with those of a different communion. i had been trained in an opposite creed, and imagined it impossible that i should ever become a proselyte to quakerism. it only remained for me to feign conversion, or to root out the opinions of my friend and win her consent to a secret marriage. whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of deliberation. if the possession of all that ambition can conceive were added to the transports of union with eliza hadwin, and offered as the price of dissimulation, it would have been instantly rejected. my external goods were not abundant nor numerous, but the consciousness of rectitude was mine; and, in competition with this, the luxury of the heart and of the senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and inexhaustible wealth, were contemptible and frivolous. the conquest of eliza's errors was easy; but to introduce discord and sorrow into this family was an act of the utmost ingratitude and profligacy. it was only requisite for my understanding clearly to discern, to be convinced of the insuperability of this obstacle. it was manifest, therefore, that the point to which my wishes tended was placed beyond my reach. to foster my passion was to foster a disease destructive either of my integrity or my existence. it was indispensable to fix my thoughts upon a different object, and to debar myself even from her intercourse. to ponder on themes foreign to my darling image, and to seclude myself from her society, at hours which had usually been spent with her, were difficult tasks. the latter was the least practicable. i had to contend with eyes which alternately wondered at and upbraided me for my unkindness. she was wholly unaware of the nature of her own feelings, and this ignorance made her less scrupulous in the expression of her sentiments. hitherto i had needed not employment beyond myself and my companions. now my new motives made me eager to discover some means of controlling and beguiling my thoughts. in this state, the manuscript of lodi occurred to me. in my way hither, i had resolved to make the study of the language of this book, and the translation of its contents into english, the business and solace of my leisure. now this resolution was revived with new force. my project was perhaps singular. the ancient language of italy possessed a strong affinity with the modern. my knowledge of the former was my only means of gaining the latter. i had no grammar or vocabulary to explain how far the meanings and inflections of tuscan words varied from the roman dialect. i was to ponder on each sentence and phrase; to select among different conjectures the most plausible, and to ascertain the true by patient and repeated scrutiny. this undertaking, fantastic and impracticable as it may seem, proved, upon experiment, to be within the compass of my powers. the detail of my progress would be curious and instructive. what impediments, in the attainment of a darling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able to surmount; how much may be done by strenuous and solitary efforts; how the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the principles of inflection and arrangement; may profit by remote, analogous, and latent similitudes, would be forcibly illustrated by my example; but the theme, however attractive, must, for the present, be omitted. my progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement afforded me unspeakable pleasure. having arrived near the last pages, i was able to pursue, with little interruption, the thread of an eloquent narration. the triumph of a leader of outlaws over the popular enthusiasm of the milanese and the claims of neighbouring potentates was about to be depicted. the _condottiero_ sforza had taken refuge from his enemies in a tomb, accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a roman fortress in the apennines. he had sought this recess for the sake of concealment, but found in it a treasure by which he would be enabled to secure the wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the enemies who were now in search of him. my tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the following leaves being glued together at the edges. to dissever them without injury to the written spaces was by no means easy. i proceeded to the task, not without precipitation. the edges were torn away, and the leaves parted. it may be thought that i took up the thread where it had been broken; but no. the object that my eyes encountered, and which the cemented leaves had so long concealed, was beyond the power of the most capricious or lawless fancy to have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy resemblance to the images with which my imagination was previously occupied. i opened, and beheld--_a bank-note_! to the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded, that the remaining leaves, cemented together in the same manner, might enclose similar bills. they were hastily separated, and the conjecture was verified. my sensations at this discovery were of an inexplicable kind. i gazed at the notes in silence. i moved my finger over them; held them in different positions; read and reread the name of each sum, and the signature; added them together, and repeated to myself--"_twenty thousand dollars!_ they are mine, and by such means!" this sum would have redeemed the fallen fortunes of welbeck. the dying lodi was unable to communicate all the contents of this inestimable volume. he had divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety, between this volume and his pocket-book. death hasted upon him too suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. welbeck had placed the book in his collection, purposing some time to peruse it; but, deterred by anxieties which the perusal would have dissipated, he rushed to desperation and suicide, from which some evanescent contingency, by unfolding this treasure to his view, would have effectually rescued him. but was this event to be regretted? this sum, like the former, would probably have been expended in the same pernicious prodigality. his career would have continued some time longer; but his inveterate habits would have finally conducted his existence to the same criminal and ignominious close. but the destiny of welbeck was accomplished. the money was placed, without guilt or artifice, in my possession. my fortune had been thus unexpectedly and wondrously propitious. how was i to profit by her favour? would not this sum enable me to gather round me all the instruments of pleasure? equipage, and palace, and a multitude of servants; polished mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers, were equally abhorrent to my taste and my principles. the accumulation of knowledge, and the diffusion of happiness, in which riches may be rendered eminently instrumental, were the only precepts of duty, and the only avenues to genuine felicity. "but what," said i, "is my title to this money? by retaining it, shall i not be as culpable as welbeck? it came into his possession, as it came into mine, without a crime; but my knowledge of the true proprietor is equally certain, and the claims of the unfortunate stranger are as valid as ever. indeed, if utility, and not law, be the measure of justice, her claim, desolate and indigent as she is, unfitted, by her past life, by the softness and the prejudices of her education, for contending with calamity, is incontestable. "as to me, health and diligence will give me, not only the competence which i seek, but the power of enjoying it. if my present condition be unchangeable, i shall not be unhappy. my occupations are salutary and meritorious; i am a stranger to the cares as well as to the enjoyment of riches; abundant means of knowledge are possessed by me, as long as i have eyes to gaze at man and at nature, as they are exhibited in their original forms or in books. the precepts of my duty cannot be mistaken. the lady must be sought and the money restored to her." certain obstacles existed to the immediate execution of this scheme. how should i conduct my search? what apology should i make for withdrawing thus abruptly, and contrary to the terms of an agreement into which i had lately entered, from the family and service of my friend and benefactor hadwin? my thoughts were called away from pursuing these inquiries by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to formidable dimensions; and which, at length, reached us in our quiet retreats. the city, we were told, was involved in confusion and panic, for a pestilential disease had begun its destructive progress. magistrates and citizens were flying to the country. the numbers of the sick multiplied beyond all example; even in the pest-affected cities of the levant. the malady was malignant and unsparing. the usual occupations and amusements of life were at an end. terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature. wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parents. some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred themselves from all communication with the rest of mankind. the consternation of others had destroyed their understanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to shun. men were seized by this disease in the streets; passengers fled from them; entrance into their own dwellings was denied to them; they perished in the public ways. the chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left to die of negligence. none could be found to remove the lifeless bodies. their remains, suffered to decay by piecemeal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added tenfold to the devastation. such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand ways by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. at first i listened to the story with indifference or mirth. methought it was confuted by its own extravagance. the enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to be believed. i expected that every new day would detect the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. every new day, however, added to the number of witnesses and the consistency of the tale, till, at length, it was not possible to withhold my faith. chapter xiv. this rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the whole soul. a certain sublimity is connected with enormous dangers that imparts to our consternation or our pity a tincture of the pleasing. this, at least, may be experienced by those who are beyond the verge of peril. my own person was exposed to no hazard. i had leisure to conjure up terrific images, and to personate the witnesses and sufferers of this calamity. this employment was not enjoined upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been recommended by some nameless charm. others were very differently affected. as often as the tale was embellished with new incidents or enforced by new testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. a temporary indisposition was produced in many. some were haunted by a melancholy bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates could be found, were attacked by lingering or mortal diseases. mr. hadwin was superior to groundless apprehensions. his daughters, however, partook in all the consternation which surrounded them. the eldest had, indeed, abundant reason for her terror. the youth to whom she was betrothed resided in the city. a year previous to this, he had left the house of mr. hadwin, who was his uncle, and had removed to philadelphia in pursuit of fortune. he made himself clerk to a merchant, and, by some mercantile adventures in which he had successfully engaged, began to flatter himself with being able, in no long time, to support a family. meanwhile, a tender and constant correspondence was maintained between him and his beloved susan. this girl was a soft enthusiast, in whose bosom devotion and love glowed with an ardour that has seldom been exceeded. the first tidings of the _yellow fever_ was heard by her with unspeakable perturbation. wallace was interrogated, by letter, respecting its truth. for a time, he treated it as a vague report. at length, a confession was extorted from him that there existed a pestilential disease in the city; but he added that it was hitherto confined to one quarter, distant from the place of his abode. the most pathetic entreaties were urged by her that he would withdraw into the country. he declared his resolution to comply when the street in which he lived should become infected and his stay should be attended with real danger. he stated how much his interests depended upon the favour of his present employer, who had used the most powerful arguments to detain him, but declared that, when his situation should become, in the least degree, perilous, he would slight every consideration of gratitude and interest, and fly to _malverton_. meanwhile, he promised to communicate tidings of his safety by every opportunity. belding, mr. hadwin's next neighbour, though not uninfected by the general panic, persisted to visit the city daily with his _market-cart_. he set out by sunrise, and usually returned by noon. by him a letter was punctually received by susan. as the hour of belding's return approached, her impatience and anxiety increased. the daily epistle was received and read, in a transport of eagerness. for a while her emotion subsided, but returned with augmented vehemence at noon on the ensuing day. these agitations were too vehement for a feeble constitution like hers. she renewed her supplications to wallace to quit the city. he repeated his assertions of being, hitherto, secure, and his promise of coming when the danger should be imminent. when belding returned, and, instead of being accompanied by wallace, merely brought a letter from him, the unhappy susan would sink into fits of lamentation and weeping, and repel every effort to console her with an obstinacy that partook of madness. it was, at length, manifest that wallace's delays would be fatally injurious to the health of his mistress. mr. hadwin had hitherto been passive. he conceived that the entreaties and remonstrances of his daughter were more likely to influence the conduct of wallace than any representations which he could make. now, however, he wrote the contumacious wallace a letter, in which he laid his commands upon him to return in company with belding, and declared that by a longer delay the youth would forfeit his favour. the malady had, at this time, made considerable progress. belding's interest at length yielded to his fears, and this was the last journey which he proposed to make. hence our impatience for the return of wallace was augmented; since, if this opportunity were lost, no suitable conveyance might again be offered him. belding set out, as usual, at the dawn of day. the customary interval between his departure and return was spent by susan in a tumult of hopes and fears. as noon approached, her suspense arose to a pitch of wildness and agony. she could scarcely be restrained from running along the road, many miles, towards the city; that she might, by meeting belding half-way, the sooner ascertain the fate of her lover. she stationed herself at a window which overlooked the road along which belding was to pass. her sister and her father, though less impatient, marked, with painful eagerness, the first sound of the approaching vehicle. they snatched a look at it as soon as it appeared in sight. belding was without a companion. this confirmation of her fears overwhelmed the unhappy susan. she sunk into a fit, from which, for a long time, her recovery was hopeless. this was succeeded by paroxysms of a furious insanity, in which she attempted to snatch any pointed implement which lay within her reach, with a view to destroy herself. these being carefully removed, or forcibly wrested from her, she resigned herself to sobs and exclamations. having interrogated belding, he informed us that he occupied his usual post in the market-place; that heretofore wallace had duly sought him out, and exchanged letters; but that, on this morning, the young man had not made his appearance, though belding had been induced, by his wish to see him, to prolong his stay in the city much beyond the usual period. that some other cause than sickness had occasioned this omission was barely possible. there was scarcely room for the most sanguine temper to indulge a hope. wallace was without kindred, and probably without friends, in the city. the merchant in whose service he had placed himself was connected with him by no considerations but that of interest. what then must be his situation when seized with a malady which all believed to be contagious, and the fear of which was able to dissolve the strongest ties that bind human beings together? i was personally a stranger to this youth. i had seen his letters, and they bespoke, not indeed any great refinement or elevation of intelligence, but a frank and generous spirit, to which i could not refuse my esteem; but his chief claim to my affection consisted in his consanguinity to mr. hadwin, and his place in the affections of susan. his welfare was essential to the happiness of those whose happiness had become essential to mine. i witnessed the outrages of despair in the daughter, and the symptoms of a deep but less violent grief in the sister and parent. was it not possible for me to alleviate their pangs? could not the fate of wallace be ascertained? this disease assailed men with different degrees of malignity. in its worst form perhaps it was incurable; but, in some of its modes, it was doubtless conquerable by the skill of physicians and the fidelity of nurses. in its least formidable symptoms, negligence and solitude would render it fatal. wallace might, perhaps, experience this pest in its most lenient degree; but the desertion of all mankind, the want not only of medicines but of food, would irrevocably seal his doom. my imagination was incessantly pursued by the image of this youth, perishing alone, and in obscurity; calling on the name of distant friends, or invoking, ineffectually, the succour of those who were near. hitherto distress had been contemplated at a distance, and through the medium of a fancy delighting to be startled by the wonderful, or transported by sublimity. now the calamity had entered my own doors, imaginary evils were supplanted by real, and my heart was the seat of commiseration and horror. i found myself unfit for recreation or employment. i shrouded myself in the gloom of the neighbouring forest, or lost myself in the maze of rocks and dells. i endeavoured, in vain, to shut out the phantoms of the dying wallace, and to forget the spectacle of domestic woes. at length it occurred to me to ask, may not this evil be obviated, and the felicity of the hadwins re-established? wallace is friendless and succourless; but cannot i supply to him the place of protector and nurse? why not hasten to the city, search out his abode, and ascertain whether he be living or dead? if he still retain life, may i not, by consolation and attendance, contribute to the restoration of his health, and conduct him once more to the bosom of his family? with what transports will his arrival be hailed! how amply will their impatience and their sorrow be compensated by his return! in the spectacle of their joys, how rapturous and pure will be my delight! do the benefits which i have received from the hadwins demand a less retribution than this? it is true that my own life will be endangered; but my danger will be proportioned to the duration of my stay in this seat of infection. the death or the flight of wallace may absolve me from the necessity of spending one night in the city. the rustics who daily frequent the market are, as experience proves, exempt from this disease; in consequence, perhaps, of limiting their continuance in the city to a few hours. may i not, in this respect, conform to their example, and enjoy a similar exemption? my stay, however, may be longer than the day. i may be condemned to share in the common destiny. what then? life is dependent on a thousand contingencies, not to be computed or foreseen. the seeds of an early and lingering death are sown in my constitution. it is in vain to hope to escape the malady by which my mother and my brothers have died. we are a race whose existence some inherent property has limited to the short space of twenty years. we are exposed, in common with the rest of mankind, to innumerable casualties; but, if these be shunned, we are unalterably fated to perish by _consumption_. why then should i scruple to lay down my life in the cause of virtue and humanity? it is better to die in the consciousness of having offered an heroic sacrifice, to die by a speedy stroke, than by the perverseness of nature, in ignominious inactivity and lingering agonies. these considerations determined me to hasten to the city. to mention my purpose to the hadwins would be useless or pernicious. it would only augment the sum of their present anxieties. i should meet with a thousand obstacles in the tenderness and terror of eliza, and in the prudent affection of her father. their arguments i should be condemned to hear, but should not be able to confute; and should only load myself with imputations of perverseness and temerity. but how else should i explain my absence? i had hitherto preserved my lips untainted by prevarication or falsehood. perhaps there was no occasion which would justify an untruth; but here, at least, it was superfluous or hurtful. my disappearance, if effected without notice or warning, will give birth to speculation and conjecture; but my true motives will never be suspected, and therefore will excite no fears. my conduct will not be charged with guilt. it will merely be thought upon with some regret, which will be alleviated by the opinion of my safety, and the daily expectation of my return. but, since my purpose was to search out wallace, i must be previously furnished with directions to the place of his abode, and a description of his person. satisfaction on this head was easily obtained from mr. hadwin; who was prevented from suspecting the motives of my curiosity, by my questions being put in a manner apparently casual. he mentioned the street, and the number of the house. i listened with surprise. it was a house with which i was already familiar. he resided, it seems, with a merchant. was it possible for me to be mistaken? what, i asked, was the merchant's name? _thetford._ this was a confirmation of my first conjecture. i recollected the extraordinary means by which i had gained access to the house and bedchamber of this gentleman. i recalled the person and appearance of the youth by whose artifices i had been entangled in the snare. these artifices implied some domestic or confidential connection between thetford and my guide. wallace was a member of the family. could it be he by whom i was betrayed? suitable questions easily obtained from hadwin a description of the person and carriage of his nephew. every circumstance evinced the identity of their persons. wallace, then, was the engaging and sprightly youth whom i had encountered at lesher's; and who, for purposes not hitherto discoverable, had led me into a situation so romantic and perilous. i was far from suspecting that these purposes were criminal. it was easy to infer that his conduct proceeded from juvenile wantonness and a love of sport. my resolution was unaltered by this disclosure; and, having obtained all the information which i needed, i secretly began my journey. my reflections, on the way, were sufficiently employed in tracing the consequences of my project; in computing the inconveniences and dangers to which i was preparing to subject myself; in fortifying my courage against the influence of rueful sights and abrupt transitions; and in imagining the measures which it would be proper to pursue in every emergency. connected as these views were with the family and character of thetford, i could not but sometimes advert to those incidents which formerly happened. the mercantile alliance between him and welbeck was remembered; the allusions which were made to the condition of the latter in the chamber-conversation of which i was an unsuspected auditor; and the relation which these allusions might possess with subsequent occurrences. welbeck's property was forfeited. it had been confided to the care of thetford's brother. had the cause of this forfeiture been truly or thoroughly explained? might not contraband articles have been admitted through the management or under the connivance of the brothers? and might not the younger thetford be furnished with the means of purchasing the captured vessel and her cargo,--which, as usual, would be sold by auction at a fifth or tenth of its real value? welbeck was not alive to profit by the detection of this artifice, admitting these conclusions to be just. my knowledge will be useless to the world; for by what motives can i be influenced to publish the truth? or by whom will my single testimony be believed, in opposition to that plausible exterior, and, perhaps, to that general integrity, which thetford has maintained? to myself it will not be unprofitable. it is a lesson on the principles of human nature; on the delusiveness of appearances; on the perviousness of fraud; and on the power with which nature has invested human beings over the thoughts and actions of each other. thetford and his frauds were dismissed from my thoughts, to give place to considerations relative to clemenza lodi, and the money which chance had thrown into my possession. time had only confirmed my purpose to restore these bills to the rightful proprietor, and heightened my impatience to discover her retreat. i reflected, that the means of doing this were more likely to suggest themselves at the place to which i was going than elsewhere. i might, indeed, perish before my views, in this respect, could be accomplished. against these evils i had at present no power to provide. while i lived, i would bear perpetually about me the volume and its precious contents. if i died, a superior power must direct the course of this as of all other events. chapter xv. these meditations did not enfeeble my resolution, or slacken my pace. in proportion as i drew near the city, the tokens of its calamitous condition became more apparent. every farm-house was filled with supernumerary tenants, fugitives from home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries after news. the passengers were numerous; for the tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. some were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state. few had secured to themselves an asylum; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night; others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every house being already overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach. families of weeping mothers and dismayed children, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were carried in vehicles of every form. the parent or husband had perished; and the price of some movable, or the pittance handed forth by public charity, had been expended to purchase the means of retiring from this theatre of disasters, though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neighbouring districts. between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which i was suffered to listen. from every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with new aggravations. pictures of their own distress, or of that of their neighbours, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty. my preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have fallen short of the truth. the dangers into which i was rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than i had previously imagined. i wavered not in my purpose. a panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to subdue or control; but i harboured not a momentary doubt that the course which i had taken was prescribed by duty. there was no difficulty or reluctance in proceeding. all for which my efforts were demanded was to walk in this path without tumult or alarm. various circumstances had hindered me from setting out upon this journey as early as was proper. my frequent pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers contributed likewise to procrastination. the sun had nearly set before i reached the precincts of the city. i pursued the track which i had formerly taken, and entered high street after nightfall. instead of equipages and a throng of passengers, the voice of levity and glee, which i had formerly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, i found nothing but a dreary solitude. the market-place, and each side of this magnificent avenue, were illuminated, as before, by lamps; but between the verge of schuylkill and the heart of the city i met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrapped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances of wonder and suspicion, and, as i approached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. their clothes were sprinkled with vinegar, and their nostrils defended from contagion by some powerful perfume. i cast a look upon the houses, which i recollected to have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. now they were closed, above and below; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. from the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement i was traversing, and showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or disabled. these tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. death seemed to hover over this scene, and i dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. i had scarcely overcome these tremors, when i approached a house the door of which was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which i presently recognised to be a _hearse_. the driver was seated on it. i stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. the driver was a negro; but his companions were white. their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. one of them, as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, "i'll be damned if i think the poor dog was quite dead. it wasn't the _fever_ that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. i wonder how they all got into that room. what carried them there?" the other surlily muttered, "their legs, to-be-sure." "but what should they hug together in one room for?" "to save us trouble, to-be-sure." "and i thank them with all my heart; but, damn it, it wasn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. i thought the last look he gave me told me to stay a few minutes." "pshaw! he could not live. the sooner dead the better for him; as well as for us. did you mark how he eyed us when we carried away his wife and daughter? i never cried in my life, since i was knee-high, but curse me if i ever felt in better tune for the business than just then. hey!" continued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse; "what's wanted? anybody dead?" i stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. my joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. i was ashamed of my own infirmity; and, by vigorous efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. the evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to procure accommodation at some of the inns. these were easily distinguished by their _signs_, but many were without inhabitants. at length i lighted upon one, the hall of which was open and the windows lifted. after knocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. in answer to my question, she answered that both her parents were sick, and that they could receive no one. i inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. she knew of none such, and left me, on someone's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. after a moment's pause, i returned, discomfited and perplexed, to the street. i proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. at length i reached a spacious building in fourth street, which the signpost showed me to be an inn. i knocked loudly and often at the door. at length a female opened the window of the second story, and, in a tone of peevishness, demanded what i wanted. i told her that i wanted lodging. "go hunt for it somewhere else," said she; "you'll find none here." i began to expostulate; but she shut the window with quickness, and left me to my own reflections. i began now to feel some regret at the journey i had taken. never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was i equally conscious of loneliness. i was surrounded by the habitations of men; but i was destitute of associate or friend. i had money, but a horse-shelter, or a morsel of food, could not be purchased. i came for the purpose of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself. even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn; but what would become of me should this fatal malady be contracted? to hope that an asylum would be afforded to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was unreasonable. the first impulse which flowed from these reflections was to hasten back to _malverton_; which, with sufficient diligence, i might hope to regain before the morning light. i could not, methought, return upon my steps with too much speed. i was prompted to run, as if the pest was rushing upon me and could be eluded only by the most precipitate flight. this impulse was quickly counteracted by new ideas. i thought with indignation and shame on the imbecility of my proceeding. i called up the images of susan hadwin, and of wallace. i reviewed the motives which had led me to the undertaking of this journey. time had, by no means, diminished their force. i had, indeed, nearly arrived at the accomplishment of what i had intended. a few steps would carry me to thetford's habitation. this might be the critical moment when succour was most needed and would be most efficacious. i had previously concluded to defer going thither till the ensuing morning; but why should i allow myself a moment's delay? i might at least gain an external view of the house, and circumstances might arise which would absolve me from the obligation of remaining an hour longer in the city. all for which i came might be performed; the destiny of wallace be ascertained; and i be once more safe within the precincts of _malverton_ before the return of day. i immediately directed my steps towards the habitation of thetford. carriages bearing the dead were frequently discovered. a few passengers likewise occurred, whose hasty and perturbed steps denoted their participation in the common distress. the house of which i was in quest quickly appeared. light from an upper window indicated that it was still inhabited. i paused a moment to reflect in what manner it became me to proceed. to ascertain the existence and condition of wallace was the purpose of my journey. he had inhabited this house; and whether he remained in it was now to be known. i felt repugnance to enter, since my safety might, by entering, be unawares and uselessly endangered. most of the neighbouring houses were apparently deserted. in some there were various tokens of people being within. might i not inquire, at one of these, respecting the condition of thetford's family? yet why should i disturb them by inquiries so impertinent at this unseasonable hour? to knock at thetford's door, and put my questions to him who should obey the signal, was the obvious method. i knocked dubiously and lightly. no one came. i knocked again, and more loudly; i likewise drew the bell. i distinctly heard its distant peals. if any were within, my signal could not fail to be noticed. i paused, and listened, but neither voice nor footsteps could be heard. the light, though obscured by window-curtains, which seemed to be drawn close, was still perceptible. i ruminated on the causes that might hinder my summons from being obeyed. i figured to myself nothing but the helplessness of disease, or the insensibility of death. these images only urged me to persist in endeavouring to obtain admission. without weighing the consequences of my act, i involuntarily lifted the latch. the door yielded to my hand, and i put my feet within the passage. once more i paused. the passage was of considerable extent, and at the end of it i perceived light as from a lamp or candle. this impelled me to go forward, till i reached the foot of a staircase. a candle stood upon the lowest step. this was a new proof that the house was not deserted. i struck my heel against the floor with some violence; but this, like my former signals, was unnoticed. having proceeded thus far, it would have been absurd to retire with my purpose uneffected. taking the candle in my hand, i opened a door that was near. it led into a spacious parlour, furnished with profusion and splendour. i walked to and fro, gazing at the objects which presented themselves; and, involved in perplexity, i knocked with my heel louder than ever; but no less ineffectually. notwithstanding the lights which i had seen, it was possible that the house was uninhabited. this i was resolved to ascertain, by proceeding to the chamber which i had observed, from without, to be illuminated. this chamber, as far as the comparison of circumstances would permit me to decide, i believed to be the same in which i had passed the first night of my late abode in the city. now was i, a second time, in almost equal ignorance of my situation, and of the consequences which impended, exploring my way to the same recess. i mounted the stair. as i approached the door of which i was in search, a vapour, infectious and deadly, assailed my senses. it resembled nothing of which i had ever before been sensible. many odours had been met with, even since my arrival in the city, less supportable than this. i seemed not so much to smell as to taste the element that now encompassed me. i felt as if i had inhaled a poisonous and subtle fluid, whose power instantly bereft my stomach of all vigour. some fatal influence appeared to seize upon my vitals, and the work of corrosion and decomposition to be busily begun. for a moment, i doubted whether imagination had not some share in producing my sensation; but i had not been previously panic-struck; and even now i attended to my own sensations without mental discomposure. that i had imbibed this disease was not to be questioned. so far the chances in my favour were annihilated. the lot of sickness was drawn. whether my case would be lenient or malignant, whether i should recover or perish, was to be left to the decision of the future. this incident, instead of appalling me, tended rather to invigorate my courage. the danger which i feared had come. i might enter with indifference on this theatre of pestilence. i might execute, without faltering, the duties that my circumstances might create. my state was no longer hazardous; and my destiny would be totally uninfluenced by my future conduct. the pang with which i was first seized, and the momentary inclination to vomit, which it produced, presently subsided. my wholesome feelings, indeed, did not revisit me, but strength to proceed was restored to me. the effluvia became more sensible as i approached the door of the chamber. the door was ajar; and the light within was perceived. my belief that those within were dead was presently confuted by sound, which i first supposed to be that of steps moving quickly and timorously across the floor. this ceased, and was succeeded by sounds of different but inexplicable import. having entered the apartment, i saw a candle on the hearth. a table was covered with vials and other apparatus of a sick-chamber. a bed stood on one side, the curtain of which was dropped at the foot, so as to conceal any one within. i fixed my eyes upon this object. there were sufficient tokens that some one lay upon the bed. breath, drawn at long intervals; mutterings scarcely audible; and a tremulous motion in the bedstead, were fearful and intelligible indications. if my heart faltered, it must not be supposed that my trepidations arose from any selfish considerations. wallace only, the object of my search, was present to my fancy. pervaded with remembrance of the hadwins; of the agonies which they had already endured; of the despair which would overwhelm the unhappy susan when the death of her lover should be ascertained; observant of the lonely condition of this house, whence i could only infer that the sick had been denied suitable attendance; and reminded, by the symptoms that appeared, that this being was struggling with the agonies of death; a sickness of the heart, more insupportable than that which i had just experienced, stole upon me. my fancy readily depicted the progress and completion of this tragedy. wallace was the first of the family on whom the pestilence had seized. thetford had fled from his habitation. perhaps as a father and husband, to shun the danger attending his stay was the injunction of his duty. it was questionless the conduct which selfish regards would dictate. wallace was left to perish alone; or, perhaps, (which, indeed, was a supposition somewhat justified by appearances,) he had been left to the tendance of mercenary wretches; by whom, at this desperate moment, he had been abandoned. i was not mindless of the possibility that these forebodings, specious as they were, might be false. the dying person might be some other than wallace. the whispers of my hope were, indeed, faint; but they, at least, prompted me to snatch a look at the expiring man. for this purpose i advanced and thrust my head within the curtain. chapter xvi. the features of one whom i had seen so transiently as wallace may be imagined to be not easily recognised, especially when those features were tremulous and deathful. here, however, the differences were too conspicuous to mislead me. i beheld one in whom i could recollect none that bore resemblance. though ghastly and livid, the traces of intelligence and beauty were undefaced. the life of wallace was of more value to a feeble individual; but surely the being that was stretched before me, and who was hastening to his last breath, was precious to thousands. was he not one in whose place i would willingly have died? the offering was too late. his extremities were already cold. a vapour, noisome and contagious, hovered over him. the flutterings of his pulse had ceased. his existence was about to close amidst convulsion and pangs. i withdrew my gaze from this object, and walked to a table. i was nearly unconscious of my movements. my thoughts were occupied with contemplations of the train of horrors and disasters that pursue the race of man. my musings were quickly interrupted by the sight of a small cabinet, the hinges of which were broken and the lid half raised. in the present state of my thoughts, i was prone to suspect the worst. here were traces of pillage. some casual or mercenary attendant had not only contributed to hasten the death of the patient, but had rifled his property and fled. this suspicion would, perhaps, have yielded to mature reflections, if i had been suffered to reflect. a moment scarcely elapsed, when some appearance in the mirror, which hung over the table, called my attention. it was a human figure. nothing could be briefer than the glance that i fixed upon this apparition; yet there was room enough for the vague conception to suggest itself, that the dying man had started from his bed and was approaching me. this belief was, at the same instant, confuted, by the survey of his form and garb. one eye, a scar upon his cheek, a tawny skin, a form grotesquely misproportioned, brawny as hercules, and habited in livery, composed, as it were, the parts of one view. to perceive, to fear, and to confront this apparition were blended into one sentiment. i turned towards him with the swiftness of lightning; but my speed was useless to my safety. a blow upon my temple was succeeded by an utter oblivion of thought and of feeling. i sunk upon the floor prostrate and senseless. my insensibility might be mistaken by observers for death, yet some part of this interval was haunted by a fearful dream. i conceived myself lying on the brink of a pit, whose bottom the eye could not reach. my hands and legs were fettered, so as to disable me from resisting two grim and gigantic figures who stooped to lift me from the earth. their purpose, methought, was to cast me into this abyss. my terrors were unspeakable, and i struggled with such force, that my bonds snapped and i found myself at liberty. at this moment my senses returned, and i opened my eyes. the memory of recent events was, for a time, effaced by my visionary horrors. i was conscious of transition from one state of being to another; but my imagination was still filled with images of danger. the bottomless gulf and my gigantic persecutors were still dreaded. i looked up with eagerness. beside me i discovered three figures, whose character or office was explained by a coffin of pine boards which lay upon the floor. one stood with hammer and nails in his hand, as ready to replace and fasten the lid of the coffin as soon as its burden should be received. i attempted to rise from the floor, but my head was dizzy and my sight confused. perceiving me revive, one of the men assisted me to regain my feet. the mist and confusion presently vanished, so as to allow me to stand unsupported and to move. i once more gazed at my attendants, and recognised the three men whom i had met in high street, and whose conversation i have mentioned that i overheard. i looked again upon the coffin. a wavering recollection of the incidents that led me hither, and of the stunning blow which i had received, occurred to me. i saw into what error appearances had misled these men, and shuddered to reflect by what hairbreadth means i had escaped being buried alive. before the men had time to interrogate me, or to comment upon my situation, one entered the apartment, whose habit and mien tended to encourage me. the stranger was characterized by an aspect full of composure and benignity, a face in which the serious lines of age were blended with the ruddiness and smoothness of youth, and a garb that bespoke that religious profession with whose benevolent doctrines the example of hadwin had rendered me familiar. on observing me on my feet, he betrayed marks of surprise and satisfaction. he addressed me in a tone of mildness:-"young man," said he, "what is thy condition? art thou sick? if thou art, thou must consent to receive the best treatment which the times will afford. these men will convey thee to the hospital at bush hill." the mention of that contagious and abhorred receptacle inspired me with some degree of energy. "no," said i, "i am not sick; a violent blow reduced me to this situation. i shall presently recover strength enough to leave this spot without assistance." he looked at me with an incredulous but compassionate air:--"i fear thou dost deceive thyself or me. the necessity of going to the hospital is much to be regretted, but, on the whole, it is best. perhaps, indeed, thou hast kindred or friends who will take care of thee?" "no," said i; "neither kindred nor friends. i am a stranger in the city. i do not even know a single being." "alas!" returned the stranger, with a sigh, "thy state is sorrowful. but how camest thou hither?" continued he, looking around him; "and whence comest thou?" "i came from the country. i reached the city a few hours ago. i was in search of a friend who lived in this house." "thy undertaking was strangely hazardous and rash; but who is the friend thou seekest? was it he who died in that bed, and whose corpse has just been removed?" the men now betrayed some impatience; and inquired of the last comer, whom they called mr. estwick, what they were to do. he turned to me, and asked if i were willing to be conducted to the hospital. i assured him that i was free from disease, and stood in no need of assistance; adding, that my feebleness was owing to a stunning blow received from a ruffian on my temple. the marks of this blow were conspicuous, and after some hesitation he dismissed the men; who, lifting the empty coffin on their shoulders, disappeared. he now invited me to descend into the parlour; "for," said he, "the air of this room is deadly. i feel already as if i should have reason to repent of having entered it." he now inquired into the cause of those appearances which he had witnessed. i explained my situation as clearly and succinctly as i was able. after pondering, in silence, on my story,--"i see how it is," said he; "the person whom thou sawest in the agonies of death was a stranger. he was attended by his servant and a hired nurse. his master's death being certain, the nurse was despatched by the servant to procure a coffin. he probably chose that opportunity to rifle his master's trunk, that stood upon the table. thy unseasonable entrance interrupted him; and he designed, by the blow which he gave thee, to secure his retreat before the arrival of a hearse. i know the man, and the apparition thou hast so well described was his. thou sayest that a friend of thine lived in this house: thou hast come too late to be of service. the whole family have perished. not one was suffered to escape." this intelligence was fatal to my hopes. it required some efforts to subdue my rising emotions. compassion not only for wallace, but for thetford, his father, his wife and his child, caused a passionate effusion of tears. i was ashamed of this useless and childlike sensibility; and attempted to apologize to my companion. the sympathy, however, had proved contagious, and the stranger turned away his face to hide his own tears. "nay," said he, in answer to my excuses, "there is no need to be ashamed of thy emotion. merely to have known this family, and to have witnessed their deplorable fate, is sufficient to melt the most obdurate heart. i suspect that thou wast united to some one of this family by ties of tenderness like those which led the unfortunate _maravegli_ hither." this suggestion was attended, in relation to myself, with some degree of obscurity; but my curiosity was somewhat excited by the name that he had mentioned, i inquired into the character and situation of this person, and particularly respecting his connection with this family. "maravegli," answered he, "was the lover of the eldest daughter, and already betrothed to her. the whole family, consisting of helpless females, had placed themselves under his peculiar guardianship. mary walpole and her children enjoyed in him a husband and a father." the name of walpole, to which i was a stranger, suggested doubts which i hastened to communicate. "i am in search," said i, "not of a female friend, though not devoid of interest in the welfare of thetford and his family. my principal concern is for a youth, by name wallace." he looked at me with surprise. "thetford! this is not his abode. he changed his habitation some weeks previous to the _fever_. those who last dwelt under this roof were an englishwoman and seven daughters." this detection of my error somewhat consoled me. it was still possible that wallace was alive and in safety. i eagerly inquired whither thetford had removed, and whether he had any knowledge of his present condition. they had removed to no.--, in market street. concerning their state he knew nothing. his acquaintance with thetford was imperfect. whether he had left the city or had remained, he was wholly uninformed. it became me to ascertain the truth in these respects. i was preparing to offer my parting thanks to the person by whom i had been so highly benefited; since, as he now informed me, it was by his interposition that i was hindered from being enclosed alive in a coffin. he was dubious of my true condition, and peremptorily commanded the followers of the hearse to desist. a delay of twenty minutes, and some medical application, would, he believed, determine whether my life was extinguished or suspended. at the end of this time, happily, my senses were recovered. seeing my intention to depart, he inquired why, and whither i was going. having heard my answer,--"thy design," resumed he, "is highly indiscreet and rash. nothing will sooner generate this fever than fatigue and anxiety. thou hast scarcely recovered from the blow so lately received. instead of being useful to others, this precipitation will only disable thyself. instead of roaming the streets and inhaling this unwholesome air, thou hadst better betake thyself to bed and try to obtain some sleep. in the morning, thou wilt be better qualified to ascertain the fate of thy friend, and afford him the relief which he shall want." i could not but admit the reasonableness of these remonstrances; but where should a chamber and bed be sought? it was not likely that a new attempt to procure accommodation at the inns would succeed better than the former. "thy state," replied he, "is sorrowful. i have no house to which i can lead thee. i divide my chamber, and even my bed, with another, and my landlady could not be prevailed upon to admit a stranger. what thou wilt do, i know not. this house has no one to defend it. it was purchased and furnished by the last possessor; but the whole family, including mistress, children, and servants, were cut off in a single week. perhaps no one in america can claim the property. meanwhile, plunderers are numerous and active. a house thus totally deserted, and replenished with valuable furniture, will, i fear, become their prey. to-night nothing can be done towards rendering it secure, but staying in it. art thou willing to remain here till the morrow? "every bed in the house has probably sustained a dead person. it would not be proper, therefore, to lie in any one of them. perhaps thou mayest find some repose upon this carpet. it is, at least, better than the harder pavement and the open air." this proposal, after some hesitation, i embraced. he was preparing to leave me, promising, if life were spared to him, to return early in the morning. my curiosity respecting the person whose dying agonies i had witnessed prompted me to detain him a few minutes. "ah!" said he, "this, perhaps, is the only one of many victims to this pestilence whose loss the remotest generations may have reason to deplore. he was the only descendant of an illustrious house of venice. he has been devoted from his childhood to the acquisition of knowledge and the practice of virtue. he came hither as an enlightened observer; and, after traversing the country, conversing with all the men in it eminent for their talents or their office, and collecting a fund of observations whose solidity and justice have seldom been paralleled, he embarked, three months ago, for europe. "previously to his departure, he formed a tender connection with the eldest daughter of this family. the mother and her children had recently arrived from england. so many faultless women, both mentally and personally considered, it was not my fortune to meet with before. this youth well deserved to be adopted into this family. he proposed to return with the utmost expedition to his native country, and, after the settlement of his affairs, to hasten back to america and ratify his contract with fanny walpole. "the ship in which he embarked had scarcely gone twenty leagues to sea, before she was disabled by a storm, and obliged to return to port. he posted to new york, to gain a passage in a packet shortly to sail. meanwhile this malady prevailed among us. mary walpole pole was hindered by her ignorance of the nature of that evil which assailed us, and the counsel of injudicious friends, from taking the due precautions for her safety. she hesitated to fly till flight was rendered impracticable. her death added to the helplessness and distraction of the family. they were successively seized and destroyed by the same pest. "maravegli was apprized of their danger. he allowed the packet to depart without him, and hastened to rescue the walpoles from the perils which encompassed them. he arrived in this city time enough to witness the interment of the last survivor. in the same hour he was seized himself by this disease: the catastrophe is known to thee. "i will now leave thee to thy repose. sleep is no less needful to myself than to thee; for this is the second night which has passed without it." saying this, my companion took his leave. i now enjoyed leisure to review my situation. i experienced no inclination to sleep. i lay down for a moment, but my comfortless sensations and restless contemplations would not permit me to rest. before i entered this house, i was tormented with hunger; but my craving had given place to inquietude and loathing. i paced, in thoughtful and anxious mood, across the floor of the apartment. i mused upon the incidents related by estwick, upon the exterminating nature of this pestilence, and on the horrors of which it was productive. i compared the experience of the last hours with those pictures which my imagination had drawn in the retirements of _malverton_. i wondered at the contrariety that exists between the scenes of the city and the country; and fostered, with more zeal than ever, the resolution to avoid those seats of depravity and danger. concerning my own destiny, however, i entertained no doubt. my new sensations assured me that my stomach had received this corrosive poison. whether i should die or live was easily decided. the sickness which assiduous attendance and powerful prescriptions might remove would, by negligence and solitude, be rendered fatal; but from whom could i expect medical or friendly treatment? i had indeed a roof over my head. i should not perish in the public way; but what was my ground for hoping to continue under this roof? my sickness being suspected, i should be dragged in a cart to the hospital; where i should, indeed, die, but not with the consolation of loneliness and silence. dying groans were the only music, and livid corpses were the only spectacle, to which i should there be introduced. immured in these dreary meditations, the night passed away. the light glancing through the window awakened in my bosom a gleam of cheerfulness. contrary to my expectations, my feelings were not more distempered, notwithstanding my want of sleep, than on the last evening. this was a token that my state was far from being so desperate as i suspected. it was possible, i thought, that this was the worst indisposition to which i was liable. meanwhile, the coming of estwick was impatiently expected. the sun arose, and the morning advanced, but he came not. i remembered that he talked of having reason to repent his visit to this house. perhaps he, likewise, was sick, and this was the cause of his delay. this man's kindness had even my love. if i had known the way to his dwelling, i should have hastened thither, to inquire into his condition, and to perform for him every office that humanity might enjoin; but he had not afforded me any information on that head. chapter xvii. it was now incumbent on me to seek the habitation of thetford. to leave this house accessible to every passenger appeared to be imprudent. i had no key by which i might lock the principal door. i therefore bolted it on the inside, and passed through a window, the shutters of which i closed, though i could not fasten after me. this led me into a spacious court, at the end of which was a brick wall, over which i leaped into the street. this was the means by which i had formerly escaped from the same precincts. the streets, as i passed, were desolate and silent. the largest computation made the number of fugitives two-thirds of the whole people; yet, judging by the universal desolation, it seemed as if the solitude were nearly absolute. that so many of the houses were closed, i was obliged to ascribe to the cessation of traffic, which made the opening of their windows useless, and the terror of infection, which made the inhabitants seclude themselves from the observation of each other. i proceeded to search out the house to which estwick had directed me as the abode of thetford. what was my consternation when i found it to be the same at the door of which the conversation took place of which i had been an auditor on the last evening! i recalled the scene of which a rude sketch had been given by the _hearse-men_. if such were the fate of the master of the family, abounding with money and friends, what could be hoped for the moneyless and friendless wallace? the house appeared to be vacant and silent; but these tokens might deceive. there was little room for hope; but certainty was wanting, and might, perhaps, be obtained by entering the house. in some of the upper rooms a wretched being might be immured; by whom the information, so earnestly desired, might be imparted, and to whom my presence might bring relief, not only from pestilence, but famine. for a moment, i forgot my own necessitous condition, and reflected not that abstinence had already undermined my strength. i proceeded to knock at the door. that my signal was unnoticed produced no surprise. the door was unlocked, and i opened. at this moment my attention was attracted by the opening of another door near me. i looked, and perceived a man issuing forth from a house at a small distance. it now occurred to me, that the information which i sought might possibly be gained from one of thetford's neighbours. this person was aged, but seemed to have lost neither cheerfulness nor vigour. he had an air of intrepidity and calmness. it soon appeared that i was the object of his curiosity. he had, probably, marked my deportment through some window of his dwelling, and had come forth to make inquiries into the motives of my conduct. he courteously saluted me. "you seem," said he, "to be in search of some one. if i can afford you the information you want, you will be welcome to it." encouraged by this address, i mentioned the name of thetford; and added my fears that he had not escaped the general calamity. "it is true," said he. "yesterday himself, his wife, and his child, were in a hopeless condition. i saw them in the evening, and expected not to find them alive this morning. as soon as it was light, however, i visited the house again; but found it empty. i suppose they must have died, and been removed in the night." though anxious to ascertain the destiny of wallace, i was unwilling to put direct questions. i shuddered, while i longed to know the truth. "why," said i, falteringly, "did he not seasonably withdraw from the city? surely he had the means of purchasing an asylum in the country." "i can scarcely tell you," he answered. "some infatuation appeared to have seized him. no one was more timorous; but he seemed to think himself safe as long as he avoided contact with infected persons. he was likewise, i believe, detained by a regard to his interest. his flight would not have been more injurious to his affairs than it was to those of others; but gain was, in his eyes, the supreme good. he intended ultimately to withdraw; but his escape to-day, gave him new courage to encounter the perils of to-morrow. he deferred his departure from day to day, till it ceased to be practicable." "his family," said i, "was numerous. it consisted of more than his wife and children. perhaps these retired in sufficient season." "yes," said he; "his father left the house at an early period. one or two of the servants likewise forsook him. one girl, more faithful and heroic than the rest, resisted the remonstrances of her parents and friends, and resolved to adhere to him in every fortune. she was anxious that the family should fly from danger, and would willingly have fled in their company; but while they stayed, it was her immovable resolution not to abandon them. "alas, poor girl! she knew not of what stuff the heart of thetford was made. unhappily, she was the first to become sick. i question much whether her disease was pestilential. it was, probably, a slight indisposition, which, in a few days, would have vanished of itself, or have readily yielded to suitable treatment. "thetford was transfixed with terror. instead of summoning a physician, to ascertain the nature of her symptoms, he called a negro and his cart from bush hill. in vain the neighbours interceded for this unhappy victim. in vain she implored his clemency, and asserted the lightness of her indisposition. she besought him to allow her to send to her mother, who resided a few miles in the country, who would hasten to her succour, and relieve him and his family from the danger and trouble of nursing her. "the man was lunatic with apprehension. he rejected her entreaties, though urged in a manner that would have subdued a heart of flint. the girl was innocent, and amiable, and courageous, but entertained an unconquerable dread of the hospital. finding entreaties ineffectual, she exerted all her strength in opposition to the man who lifted her into the cart. "finding that her struggles availed nothing, she resigned herself to despair. in going to the hospital, she believed herself led to certain death, and to the sufferance of every evil which the known inhumanity of its attendants could inflict. this state of mind, added to exposure to a noonday sun, in an open vehicle, moving, for a mile, over a rugged pavement, was sufficient to destroy her. i was not surprised to hear that she died the next day. "this proceeding was sufficiently iniquitous; yet it was not the worst act of this man. the rank and education of the young woman might be some apology for negligence; but his clerk, a youth who seemed to enjoy his confidence, and to be treated by his family on the footing of a brother or son, fell sick on the next night, and was treated in the same manner." these tidings struck me to the heart. a burst of indignation and sorrow filled my eyes. i could scarcely stifle my emotions sufficiently to ask, "of whom, sir, do you speak? was the name of the youth--his name--was----" "his name was wallace. i see that you have some interest in his fate. he was one whom i loved. i would have given half my fortune to procure him accommodation under some hospitable roof. his attack was violent; but, still, his recovery, if he had been suitably attended, was possible. that he should survive removal to the hospital, and the treatment he must receive when there, was not to be hoped. "the conduct of thetford was as absurd as it was wicked. to imagine the disease to be contagious was the height of folly; to suppose himself secure, merely by not permitting a sick man to remain under his roof, was no less stupid; but thetford's fears had subverted his understanding. he did not listen to arguments or supplications. his attention was incapable of straying from one object. to influence him by words was equivalent to reasoning with the deaf. "perhaps the wretch was more to be pitied than hated. the victims of his implacable caution could scarcely have endured agonies greater than those which his pusillanimity inflicted on himself. whatever be the amount of his guilt, the retribution has been adequate. he witnessed the death of his wife and child, and last night was the close of his own existence. their sole attendant was a black woman; whom, by frequent visits, i endeavoured, with little success, to make diligent in the performance of her duty." such, then, was the catastrophe of wallace. the end for which i journeyed hither was accomplished. his destiny was ascertained; and all that remained was to fulfil the gloomy predictions of the lovely but unhappy susan. to tell them all the truth would be needlessly to exasperate her sorrow. time, aided by the tenderness and sympathy of friendship, may banish her despair, and relieve her from all but the witcheries of melancholy. having disengaged my mind from these reflections, i explained to my companion, in general terms, my reasons for visiting the city, and my curiosity respecting. thetford. he inquired into the particulars of my journey, and the time of my arrival. when informed that i had come in the preceding evening, and had passed the subsequent hours without sleep or food, he expressed astonishment and compassion. "your undertaking," said he, "has certainly been hazardous. there is poison in every breath which you draw, but this hazard has been greatly increased by abstaining from food and sleep. my advice is to hasten back into the country; but you must first take some repose and some victuals. if you pass schuylkill before nightfall, it will be sufficient." i mentioned the difficulty of procuring accommodation on the road. it would be most prudent to set out upon my journey so as to reach _malverton_ at night. as to food and sleep, they were not to be purchased in this city. "true," answered my companion, with quickness, "they are not to be bought; but i will furnish you with as much as you desire of both, for nothing. that is my abode," continued he, pointing to the house which he had lately left. "i reside with a widow lady and her daughter, who took my counsel, and fled in due season. i remain to moralize upon the scene, with only a faithful black, who makes my bed, prepares my coffee, and bakes my loaf. if i am sick, all that a physician can do, i will do for myself, and all that a nurse can perform, i expect to be performed by _austin_. "come with me, drink some coffee, rest a while on my mattress, and then fly, with my benedictions on your head." these words were accompanied by features disembarrassed and benevolent. my temper is alive to social impulses, and i accepted his invitation, not so much because i wished to eat or to sleep, but because i felt reluctance to part so soon with a being who possessed so much fortitude and virtue. he was surrounded by neatness and plenty. austin added dexterity to submissiveness. my companion, whose name i now found to be medlicote, was prone to converse, and commented on the state of the city like one whose reading had been extensive and experience large. he combated an opinion which i had casually formed respecting the origin of this epidemic, and imputed it, not to infected substances imported from the east or west, but to a morbid constitution of the atmosphere, owing wholly or in part to filthy streets, airless habitations, and squalid persons. as i talked with this man, the sense of danger was obliterated, i felt confidence revive in my heart, and energy revisit my stomach. though far from my wonted health, my sensation grew less comfortless, and i found myself to stand in no need of repose. breakfast being finished, my friend pleaded his daily engagements as reasons for leaving me. he counselled me to strive for some repose, but i was conscious of incapacity to sleep. i was desirous of escaping, as soon as possible, from this tainted atmosphere, and reflected whether any thing remained to be done respecting wallace. it now occurred to me that this youth must have left some clothes and papers, and, perhaps, books. the property of these was now vested in the hadwins. i might deem myself, without presumption, their representative or agent. might i not take some measures for obtaining possession, or at least for the security, of these articles? the house and its furniture were tenantless and unprotected. it was liable to be ransacked and pillaged by those desperate ruffians of whom many were said to be hunting for spoil even at a time like this. if these should overlook this dwelling, thetford's unknown successor or heir might appropriate the whole. numberless accidents might happen to occasion the destruction or embezzlement of what belonged to wallace, which might be prevented by the conduct which i should now pursue. immersed in these perplexities, i remained bewildered and motionless. i was at length roused by some one knocking at the door. austin obeyed the signal, and instantly returned, leading in--mr. hadwin! i know not whether this unlooked-for interview excited on my part most grief or surprise. the motive of his coming was easily divined. his journey was on two accounts superfluous. he whom he sought was dead. the duty of ascertaining his condition i had assigned to myself. i now perceived and deplored the error of which i had been guilty, in concealing my intended journey from my patron. ignorant of the part i had acted, he had rushed into the jaws of this pest, and endangered a life unspeakably valuable to his children and friends. i should doubtless have obtained his grateful consent to the project which i had conceived; but my wretched policy had led me into this clandestine path. secrecy may seldom be a crime. a virtuous intention may produce it; but surely it is always erroneous and pernicious. my friend's astonishment at the sight of me was not inferior to my own. the causes which led to this unexpected interview were mutually explained. to soothe the agonies of his child, he consented to approach the city, and endeavour to procure intelligence of wallace. when he left his house, he intended to stop in the environs, and hire some emissary, whom an ample reward might tempt to enter the city, and procure the information which was needed. no one could be prevailed upon to execute so dangerous a service. averse to return without performing his commission, he concluded to examine for himself. thetford's removal to this street was known to him; but, being ignorant of my purpose, he had not mentioned this circumstance to me, during our last conversation. i was sensible of the danger which hadwin had incurred by entering the city. perhaps my knowledge of the inexpressible importance of his life to the happiness of his daughters made me aggravate his danger. i knew that the longer he lingered in this tainted air, the hazard was increased. a moment's delay was unnecessary. neither wallace nor myself were capable of being benefited by his presence. i mentioned the death of his nephew as a reason for hastening his departure. i urged him in the most vehement terms to remount his horse and to fly; i endeavoured to preclude all inquiries respecting myself or wallace; promising to follow him immediately, and answer all his questions at _malverton_. my importunities were enforced by his own fears, and, after a moment's hesitation, he rode away. the emotions produced by this incident were, in the present critical state of my frame, eminently hurtful. my morbid indications suddenly returned. i had reason to ascribe my condition to my visit to the chamber of maravegli; but this and its consequences to myself, as well as the journey of hadwin, were the fruits of my unhappy secrecy. i had always been accustomed to perform my journeys on foot. this, on ordinary occasions, was the preferable method, but now i ought to have adopted the easiest and swiftest means. if hadwin had been acquainted with my purpose he would not only have approved, but would have allowed me, the use of a horse. these reflections were rendered less pungent by the recollection that my motives were benevolent, and that i had endeavoured the benefit of others by means which appeared to me most suitable. meanwhile, how was i to proceed? what hindered me from pursuing the footsteps of hadwin with all the expedition which my uneasiness, of brain and stomach, would allow? i conceived that to leave any thing undone, with regard to wallace, would be absurd. his property might be put under the care of my new friend. but how was it to be distinguished from the property of others? it was, probably, contained in trunks, which were designated by some label or mark. i was unacquainted with his chamber, but, by passing from one to the other, i might finally discover it. some token, directing my footsteps, might occur, though at present unforeseen. actuated by these considerations, i once more entered thetford's habitation. i regretted that i had not procured the counsel or attendance of my new friend; but some engagements, the nature of which he did not explain, occasioned him to leave me as soon as breakfast was finished. chapter xviii. i wandered over this deserted mansion, in a considerable degree, at random. effluvia of a pestilential nature assailed me from every corner. in the front room of the second story, i imagined that i discovered vestiges of that catastrophe which the past night had produced. the bed appeared as if some one had recently been dragged from it. the sheets were tinged with yellow, and with that substance which is said to be characteristic of this disease, the gangrenous or black vomit. the floor exhibited similar stains. there are many who will regard my conduct as the last refinement of temerity, or of heroism. nothing, indeed, more perplexes me than a review of my own conduct. not, indeed, that death is an object always to be dreaded, or that my motive did not justify my actions; but of all dangers, those allied to pestilence, by being mysterious and unseen, are the most formidable. to disarm them of their terrors requires the longest familiarity. nurses and physicians soonest become intrepid or indifferent; but the rest of mankind recoil from the scene with unconquerable loathing. i was sustained, not by confidence of safety, and a belief of exemption from this malady, or by the influence of habit, which inures us to all that is detestable or perilous, but by a belief that this was as eligible an avenue to death as any other; and that life is a trivial sacrifice in the cause of duty. i passed from one room to the other. a portmanteau, marked with the initials of wallace's name, at length attracted my notice. from this circumstance i inferred that this apartment had been occupied by him. the room was neatly arranged, and appeared as if no one had lately used it. there were trunks and drawers. that which i have mentioned was the only one that bore marks of wallace's ownership. this i lifted in my arms with a view to remove it to medlicote's house. at that moment, methought i heard a footstep slowly and lingeringly ascending the stair. i was disconcerted at this incident. the footstep had in it a ghost-like solemnity and tardiness. this phantom vanished in a moment, and yielded place to more humble conjectures. a human being approached, whose office and commission were inscrutable. that we were strangers to each other was easily imagined; but how would my appearance, in this remote chamber, and loaded with another's property, be interpreted? did he enter the house after me, or was he the tenant of some chamber hitherto unvisited; whom my entrance had awakened from his trance and called from his couch? in the confusion of my mind, i still held my burden uplifted. to have placed it on the floor, and encountered this visitant, without this equivocal token about me, was the obvious proceeding. indeed, time only could decide whether these footsteps tended to this, or to some other, apartment. my doubts were quickly dispelled. the door opened, and a figure glided in. the portmanteau dropped from my arms, and my heart's blood was chilled. if an apparition of the dead were possible, (and that possibility i could not deny,) this was such an apparition. a hue, yellowish and livid; bones, uncovered with flesh; eyes, ghastly, hollow, woe-begone, and fixed in an agony of wonder upon me; and locks, matted and negligent, constituted the image which i now beheld. my belief of somewhat preternatural in this appearance was confirmed by recollection of resemblances between these features and those of one who was dead. in this shape and visage, shadowy and death-like as they were, the lineaments of wallace, of him who had misled my rustic simplicity on my first visit to this city, and whose death i had conceived to be incontestably ascertained, were forcibly recognised. this recognition, which at first alarmed my superstition, speedily led to more rational inferences. wallace had been dragged to the hospital. nothing was less to be suspected than that he would return alive from that hideous receptacle, but this was by no means impossible. the figure that stood before me had just risen from the bed of sickness, and from the brink of the grave. the crisis of his malady had passed, and he was once more entitled to be ranked among the living. this event, and the consequences which my imagination connected with it, filled me with the liveliest joy. i thought not of his ignorance of the causes of my satisfaction, of the doubts to which the circumstances of our interview would give birth, respecting the integrity of my purpose. i forgot the artifices by which i had formerly been betrayed, and the embarrassments which a meeting with the victim of his artifices would excite in him; i thought only of the happiness which his recovery would confer upon his uncle and his cousins. i advanced towards him with an air of congratulation, and offered him my hand. he shrunk back, and exclaimed, in a feeble voice, "who are you? what business have you here?" "i am the friend of wallace, if he will allow me to be so. i am a messenger from your uncle and cousins at _malverton_. i came to know the cause of your silence, and to afford you any assistance in my power." he continued to regard me with an air of suspicion and doubt. these i endeavoured to remove by explaining the motives that led me hither. it was with difficulty that he seemed to credit my representations. when thoroughly convinced of the truth of my assertions, he inquired with great anxiety and tenderness concerning his relations; and expressed his hope that they were ignorant of what had befallen him. i could not encourage his hopes. i regretted my own precipitation in adopting the belief of his death. this belief had been uttered with confidence, and without stating my reasons for embracing it, to mr. hadwin. these tidings would be borne to his daughters, and their grief would be exasperated to a deplorable and perhaps to a fatal degree. there was but one method of repairing or eluding this mischief. intelligence ought to be conveyed to them of his recovery. but where was the messenger to be found? no one's attention could be found disengaged from his own concerns. those who were able or willing to leave the city had sufficient motives for departure, in relation to themselves. if vehicle or horse were procurable for money, ought it not to be secured for the use of wallace himself, whose health required the easiest and speediest conveyance from this theatre of death? my companion was powerless in mind as in limbs. he seemed unable to consult upon the means of escaping from the inconveniences by which he was surrounded. as soon as sufficient strength was regained, he had left the hospital. to repair to _malverton_ was the measure which prudence obviously dictated; but he was hopeless of effecting it. the city was close at hand; this was his usual home; and hither his tottering and almost involuntary steps conducted him. he listened to my representations and counsels, and acknowledged their propriety. he put himself under my protection and guidance, and promised to conform implicitly to my directions. his strength had sufficed to bring him thus far, but was now utterly exhausted. the task of searching for a carriage and horse devolved upon me. in effecting this purpose, i was obliged to rely upon my own ingenuity and diligence. wallace, though so long a resident in the city, knew not to whom i could apply, or by whom carriages were let to hire. my own reflections taught me, that this accommodation was most likely to be furnished by innkeepers, or that some of those might at least inform me of the best measures to be taken. i resolved to set out immediately on this search. meanwhile, wallace was persuaded to take refuge in medlicote's apartments; and to make, by the assistance of austin, the necessary preparation for his journey. the morning had now advanced. the rays of a sultry sun had a sickening and enfeebling influence beyond any which i had ever experienced. the drought of unusual duration had bereft the air and the earth of every particle of moisture. the element which i breathed appeared to have stagnated into noxiousness and putrefaction. i was astonished at observing the enormous diminution of my strength. my brows were heavy, my intellects benumbed, my sinews enfeebled, and my sensations universally unquiet. these prognostics were easily interpreted. what i chiefly dreaded was, that they would disable me from executing the task which i had undertaken. i summoned up all my resolution, and cherished a disdain of yielding to this ignoble destiny. i reflected that the source of all energy, and even of life, is seated in thought; that nothing is arduous to human efforts; that the external frame will seldom languish, while actuated by an unconquerable soul. i fought against my dreary feelings, which pulled me to the earth. i quickened my pace, raised my drooping eyelids, and hummed a cheerful and favourite air. for all that i accomplished during this day, i believe myself indebted to the strenuousness and ardour of my resolutions. i went from one tavern to another. one was deserted; in another the people were sick, and their attendants refused to hearken to my inquiries or offers; at a third, their horses were engaged. i was determined to prosecute my search as long as an inn or a livery-stable remained unexamined, and my strength would permit. to detail the events of this expedition, the arguments and supplications which i used to overcome the dictates of avarice and fear, the fluctuation of my hopes and my incessant disappointments, would be useless. having exhausted all my expedients ineffectually, i was compelled to turn my weary steps once more to medlicote's lodgings. my meditations were deeply engaged by the present circumstances of my situation. since the means which were first suggested were impracticable, i endeavoured to investigate others. wallace's debility made it impossible for him to perform this journey on foot; but would not his strength and his resolution suffice to carry him beyond schuylkill? a carriage or horse, though not to be obtained in the city, could, without difficulty, be procured in the country. every farmer had beasts for burden and draught. one of these might be hired, at no immoderate expense, for half a day. this project appeared so practicable and so specious, that i deeply regretted the time and the efforts which had already been so fruitlessly expended. if my project, however, had been mischievous, to review it with regret was only to prolong and to multiply its mischiefs. i trusted that time and strength would not be wanting to the execution of this new design. on entering medlicote's house, my looks, which, in spite of my languors, were sprightly and confident, flattered wallace with the belief that my exertions had succeeded. when acquainted with their failure, he sunk as quickly into hopelessness. my new expedient was heard by him with no marks of satisfaction. it was impossible, he said, to move from this spot by his own strength. all his powers were exhausted by his walk from bush hill. i endeavoured, by arguments and railleries, to revive his courage. the pure air of the country would exhilarate him into new life. he might stop at every fifty yards, and rest upon the green sod. if overtaken by the night, we would procure a lodging, by address and importunity; but, if every door should be shut against us, we should at least enjoy the shelter of some barn, and might diet wholesomely upon the new-laid eggs that we should find there. the worst treatment we could meet with was better than continuance in the city. these remonstrances had some influence, and he at length consented to put his ability to the test. first, however, it was necessary to invigorate himself by a few hours' rest. to this, though with infinite reluctance, i consented. this interval allowed him to reflect upon the past, and to inquire into the fate of thetford and his family. the intelligence which medlicote had enabled me to afford him was heard with more satisfaction than regret. the ingratitude and cruelty with which he had been treated seemed to have extinguished every sentiment but hatred and vengeance. i was willing to profit by this interval to know more of thetford than i already possessed. i inquired why wallace had so perversely neglected the advice of his uncle and cousin, and persisted to brave so many dangers when flight was so easy. "i cannot justify my conduct," answered he. "it was in the highest degree thoughtless and perverse. i was confident and unconcerned as long as our neighbourhood was free from disease, and as long as i forbore any communication with the sick; yet i should have withdrawn to malverton, merely to gratify my friends, if thetford had not used the most powerful arguments to detain me. he laboured to extenuate the danger. "'why not stay,' said he, 'as long as i and my family stay? do you think that we would linger here, if the danger were imminent? as soon as it becomes so, we will fly. you know that we have a country-house prepared for our reception. when we go, you shall accompany us. your services at this time are indispensable to my affairs. if you will not desert me, your salary next year shall be double; and that will enable you to marry your cousin immediately. nothing is more improbable than that any of us should be sick; but, if this should happen to you, i plight my honour that you shall be carefully and faithfully attended.' "these assurances were solemn and generous. to make susan hadwin my wife was the scope of all my wishes and labours. by staying, i should hasten this desirable event, and incur little hazard. by going, i should alienate the affections of thetford; by whom, it is but justice to acknowledge, that i had hitherto been treated with unexampled generosity and kindness; and blast all the schemes i had formed for rising into wealth. "my resolution was by no means steadfast. as often as a letter from _malverton_ arrived, i felt myself disposed to hasten away; but this inclination was combated by new arguments and new entreaties of thetford. "in this state of suspense, the girl by whom mrs. thetford's infant was nursed fell sick. she was an excellent creature, and merited better treatment than she received. like me, she resisted the persuasions of her friends, but her motives for remaining were disinterested and heroic. "no sooner did her indisposition appear, than she was hurried to the hospital. i saw that no reliance could be placed upon the assurances of thetford. every consideration gave way to his fear of death. after the girl's departure, though he knew that she was led by his means to execution, yet he consoled himself by repeating and believing her assertions, that her disease was not _the fever_. "i was now greatly alarmed for my own safety. i was determined to encounter his anger and repel his persuasions; and to depart with the market-man next morning. that night, however, i was seized with a violent fever. i knew in what manner patients were treated at the hospital, and removal thither was to the last degree abhorred. "the morning arrived, and my situation was discovered. at the first intimation, thetford rushed out of the house, and refused to re-enter it till i was removed. i knew not my fate, till three ruffians made their appearance at my bedside, and communicated their commission. "i called on the name of thetford and his wife. i entreated a moment's delay, till i had seen these persons, and endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. they were deaf to my entreaties, and prepared to execute their office by force. i was delirious with rage and terror. i heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer; and by turns, invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of reproaches on, the wretches whom he had selected for his ministers. my struggles and outcries were vain. "i have no perfect recollection of what passed till my arrival at the hospital. my passions combined with my disease to make me frantic and wild. in a state like mine, the slightest motion could not be endured without agony. what then must i have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun, sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rugged pavement? "i cannot make you comprehend the anguish of my feelings. to be disjointed and torn piecemeal by the rack was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. nothing excites my wonder but that i did not expire before the cart had moved three paces. "i knew not how, or by whom, i was moved from this vehicle. insensibility came at length to my relief. after a time i opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowledge of my situation. i lay upon a mattress, whose condition proved that a half-decayed corpse had recently been dragged from it. the room was large, but it was covered with beds like my own. between each, there was scarcely the interval of three feet. each sustained a wretch, whose groans and distortions bespoke the desperateness of his condition. "the atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. a vapour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to breathe. no suitable receptacle was provided for the evacuations produced by medicine or disease. my nearest neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had flowed from his stomach. "you will scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the sound of laughter should be overheard. while the upper rooms of this building are filled with the sick and the dying, the lower apartments are the scene of carousals and mirth. the wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty, and consume the cordials which are provided for the patients, in debauchery and riot. "a female visage, bloated with malignity and drunkenness, occasionally looked in. dying eyes were cast upon her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, or her assistance to change a posture which compelled him to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful _smile_ of his neighbour. "the visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to see who was dead. if she entered the room, blinking eyes and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified for ministering the aid that was needed. presently she disappeared, and others ascended the staircase, a coffin was deposited at the door, the wretch, whose heart still quivered, was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor into the passage. "oh! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by the fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions of their fellow-beings are condemned. this misery was more frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of the attendants. my own eyes only would make me credit the existence of wickedness so enormous. no wonder that to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, unvisited and unknown, had, by so many, been preferred to being brought hither. "a physician cast an eye upon my state. he gave some directions to the person who attended him. i did not comprehend them, they were never executed by the nurses, and, if the attempt had been made, i should probably have refused to receive what was offered. recovery was equally beyond my expectations and my wishes. the scene which was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick, most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure to the graves prepared for them, reminded me of the fate to which i, also, was reserved. "three days passed away, in which every hour was expected to be the last. that, amidst an atmosphere so contagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction hourly accumulating, i should yet survive, appears to me nothing less than miraculous. that of so many conducted to this house the only one who passed out of it alive should be myself almost surpasses my belief. "some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those potent enemies of human life. my fever subsided and vanished. my strength was revived, and the first use that i made of my limbs was to bear me far from the contemplation and sufferance of those evils." chapter xix. having gratified my curiosity in this respect, wallace proceeded to remind me of the circumstances of our first interview. he had entertained doubts whether i was the person whom he had met at lesher's. i acknowledged myself to be the same, and inquired, in my turn, into the motives of his conduct on that occasion. "i confess," said he, with some hesitation, "i meant only to sport with your simplicity and ignorance. you must not imagine, however, that my stratagem was deep-laid and deliberately executed. my professions at the tavern were sincere. i meant not to injure but to serve you. it was not till i reached the head of the staircase that the mischievous contrivance occurred. i foresaw nothings at the moment, but ludicrous mistakes and embarrassment. the scheme was executed almost at the very moment it occurred. "after i had returned to the parlour, thetford charged me with the delivery of a message in a distant quarter of the city. it was not till i had performed this commission, and had set out on my return, that i fully revolved the consequences likely to flow from my project. "that thetford and his wife would detect you in their bedchamber was unquestionable. perhaps, weary of my long delay, you would have fairly undressed and gone to bed. the married couple would have made preparation to follow you, and, when the curtain was undrawn, would discover a robust youth, fast asleep, in their place. these images, which had just before excited my laughter, now produced a very different emotion. i dreaded some fatal catastrophe from the fiery passions of thetford. in the first transports of his fury he might pistol you, or, at least, might command you to be dragged to prison. "i now heartily repented of my jest, and hastened home, that i might prevent, as far as possible, the evil effects that might flow from it. the acknowledgment of my own agency in this affair would, at least, transfer thetford's indignation to myself, to whom it was equitably due. "the married couple had retired to their chamber, and no alarm or confusion had followed. this was an inexplicable circumstance. i waited with impatience till the morning should furnish a solution of the difficulty. the morning arrived. a strange event had, indeed, taken place in their bedchamber. they found an infant asleep in their bed. thetford had been roused twice in the night, once by a noise in the closet, and afterwards by a noise at the door. "some connection between these sounds and the foundling was naturally suspected. in the morning the closet was examined, and a coarse pair of shoes was found on the floor. the chamber door, which thetford had locked in the evening, was discovered to be open, as likewise a window in the kitchen. "these appearances were a source of wonder and doubt to others, but were perfectly intelligible to me. i rejoiced that my stratagem had no more dangerous consequence, and admired the ingenuity and perseverance with which you had extricated yourself from so critical a state." this narrative was only the verification of my own guesses. its facts were quickly supplanted in my thoughts by the disastrous picture he had drawn of the state of the hospital. i was confounded and shocked by the magnitude of this evil. the cause of it was obvious. the wretches whom money could purchase were, of course, licentious and unprincipled. superintended and controlled, they might be useful instruments; but that superintendence could not be bought. what qualities were requisite in the governor of such an institution? he must have zeal, diligence, and perseverance. he must act from lofty and pure motives. he must be mild and firm, intrepid and compliant. one perfectly qualified for the office it is desirable, but not possible, to find. a dispassionate and honest zeal in the cause of duty and humanity may be of eminent utility. am i not endowed with this zeal? cannot my feeble efforts obviate some portion of this evil? no one has hitherto claimed this disgustful and perilous situation. my powers and discernment are small, but if they be honestly exerted they cannot fail to be somewhat beneficial. the impulse produced by these reflections was to hasten to the city hall, and make known my wishes. this impulse was controlled by recollections of my own indisposition, and of the state of wallace. to deliver this youth to his friends was the strongest obligation. when this was discharged, i might return to the city, and acquit myself of more comprehensive duties. wallace had now enjoyed a few hours' rest, and was persuaded to begin the journey. it was now noonday, and the sun darted insupportable rays. wallace was more sensible than i of their unwholesome influence. we had not reached the suburbs, when his strength was wholly exhausted, and, had i not supported him, he would have sunk upon the pavement. my limbs were scarcely less weak, but my resolutions were much more strenuous than his. i made light of his indisposition, and endeavoured to persuade him that his vigour would return in proportion to his distance from the city. the moment we should reach a shade, a short respite would restore us to health and cheerfulness. nothing could revive his courage or induce him to go on. to return or to proceed was equally impracticable. but, should he be able to return, where should he find a retreat? the danger of relapse was imminent; his own chamber at thetford's was unoccupied. if he could regain this house, might i not procure him a physician and perform for him the part of nurse? his present situation was critical and mournful. to remain in the street, exposed to the malignant fervours of the sun, was not to be endured. to carry him in my arms exceeded my strength. should i not claim the assistance of the first passenger that appeared? at that moment a horse and chaise passed us. the vehicle proceeded at a quick pace. he that rode in it might afford us the succour that we needed. he might be persuaded to deviate from his course and convey the helpless wallace to the house we had just left. this thought instantly impelled me forward. feeble as i was, i even ran with speed, in order to overtake the vehicle. my purpose was effected with the utmost difficulty. it fortunately happened that the carriage contained but one person, who stopped at my request. his countenance and guise was mild and encouraging. "good friend," i exclaimed, "here is a young man too indisposed to walk. i want him carried to his lodgings. will you, for money or for charity, allow him a place in your chaise, and set him down where i shall direct?" observing tokens of hesitation, i continued, "you need have no fears to perform this office. he is not sick, but merely feeble. i will not ask twenty minutes, and you may ask what reward you think proper." still he hesitated to comply. his business, he said, had not led him into the city. he merely passed along the skirts of it, whence he conceived that no danger would arise. he was desirous of helping the unfortunate; but he could not think of risking his own life in the cause of a stranger, when he had a wife and children depending on his existence and exertions for bread. it gave him pain to refuse, but he thought his duty to himself and to others required that he should not hazard his safety by compliance. this plea was irresistible. the mildness of his manner showed that he might have been overpowered by persuasion or tempted by reward. i would not take advantage of his tractability; but should have declined his assistance, even if it had been spontaneously offered. i turned away from him in silence, and prepared to return to the spot where i had left my friend. the man prepared to resume his way. in this perplexity, the thought occurred to me that, since this person was going into the country, he might, possibly, consent to carry wallace along with him. i confided greatly in the salutary influence of rural airs. i believed that debility constituted the whole of his complaint; that continuance in the city might occasion his relapse, or, at least, procrastinate his restoration. i once more addressed myself to the traveller, and inquired in what direction and how far he was going. to my unspeakable satisfaction, his answer informed me that his home lay beyond mr. hadwin's, and that this road carried him directly past that gentleman's door. he was willing to receive wallace into his chaise, and to leave him at his uncle's. this joyous and auspicious occurrence surpassed my fondest hopes. i hurried with the pleasing tidings to wallace, who eagerly consented to enter the carriage. i thought not at the moment of myself, or how far the same means of escaping from my danger might be used. the stranger could not be anxious on my account; and wallace's dejection and weakness may apologize for his not soliciting my company, or expressing his fears for my safety. he was no sooner seated, than the traveller hurried away. i gazed after them, motionless and mute, till the carriage, turning a corner, passed beyond my sight. i had now leisure to revert to my own condition, and to ruminate on that series of abrupt and diversified events that had happened during the few hours which had been passed in the city: the end of my coming was thus speedily and satisfactorily accomplished. my hopes and fears had rapidly fluctuated; but, respecting this young man, had now subsided into calm and propitious certainty. before the decline of the sun, he would enter his paternal roof, and diffuse ineffable joy throughout that peaceful and chaste asylum. this contemplation, though rapturous and soothing, speedily gave way to reflections on the conduct which my duty required, and the safe departure of wallace afforded me liberty, to pursue. to offer myself as a superintendent of the hospital was still my purpose. the languors of my frame might terminate in sickness, but this event it was useless to anticipate. the lofty site and pure airs of bush hill might tend to dissipate my languors and restore me to health. at least while i had power, i was bound to exert it to the wisest purposes. i resolved to seek the city hall immediately, and, for that end, crossed the intermediate fields which separated sassafras from chestnut street. more urgent considerations had diverted my attention from the money which i bore about me, and from the image of the desolate lady to whom it belonged. my intentions, with regard to her, were the same as ever; but now it occurred to me, with new force, that my death might preclude an interview between us, and that it was prudent to dispose, in some useful way, of the money which would otherwise be left to the sport of chance. the evils which had befallen this city were obvious and enormous. hunger and negligence had exasperated the malignity and facilitated the progress of the pestilence. could this money be more usefully employed than in alleviating these evils? during my life, i had no power over it, but my death would justify me in prescribing the course which it should take. how was this course to be pointed out? how might i place it, so that i should effect my intentions without relinquishing the possession during my life? these thoughts were superseded by a tide of new sensations. the weight that incommoded my brows and my stomach was suddenly increased. my brain was usurped by some benumbing power, and my limbs refused to support me. my pulsations were quickened, and the prevalence of fever could no longer be doubted. till now, i had entertained a faint hope that my indisposition would vanish of itself. this hope was at an end. the grave was before me, and my projects of curiosity or benevolence were to sink into oblivion. i was not bereaved of the powers of reflection. the consequences of lying in the road, friendless and unprotected, were sure. the first passenger would notice me, and hasten to summon one of those carriages which are busy night and day in transporting its victims to the hospital. this fate was, beyond all others, abhorrent to my imagination. to hide me under some roof, where my existence would be unknown and unsuspected, and where i might perish unmolested and in quiet, was my present wish. thetford's or medlicote's might afford me such an asylum, if it were possible to reach it. i made the most strenuous exertions; but they could not carry me forward more than a hundred paces. here i rested on steps, which, on looking up, i perceived to belong to welbeck's house. this incident was unexpected. it led my reflections into a new train. to go farther, in the present condition of my frame, was impossible. i was well acquainted with this dwelling. all its avenues were closed. whether it had remained unoccupied since my flight from it, i could not decide. it was evident that, at present, it was without inhabitants. possibly it might have continued in the same condition in which welbeck had left it. beds or sofas might be found, on which a sick man might rest, and be fearless of intrusion. this inference was quickly overturned by the obvious supposition that every avenue was bolted and locked. this, however, might not be the condition of the bath-house, in which there was nothing that required to be guarded with unusual precautions. i was suffocated by inward and scorched by external heat; and the relief of bathing and drinking appeared inestimable. the value of this prize, in addition to my desire to avoid the observation of passengers, made me exert all my remnant of strength. repeated efforts at length enabled me to mount the wall; and placed me, as i imagined, in security. i swallowed large draughts of water as soon as i could reach the well. the effect was, for a time, salutary and delicious. my fervours were abated, and my faculties relieved from the weight which had lately oppressed them. my present condition was unspeakably more advantageous than the former. i did not believe that it could be improved, till, casting my eye vaguely over the building, i happened to observe the shutters of a lower window partly opened. whether this was occasioned by design or by accident there was no means of deciding. perhaps, in the precipitation of the latest possessor, this window had been overlooked. perhaps it had been unclosed by violence, and afforded entrance to a robber. by what means soever it had happened, it undoubtedly afforded ingress to me. i felt no scruple in profiting by this circumstance. my purposes were not dishonest. i should not injure or purloin any thing. it was laudable to seek a refuge from the well-meant persecutions of those who governed the city. all i sought was the privilege of dying alone. having gotten in at the window, i could not but remark that the furniture and its arrangements had undergone no alteration in my absence. i moved softly from one apartment to another, till at length i entered that which had formerly been welbeck's bedchamber. the bed was naked of covering. the cabinets and closets exhibited their fastenings broken. their contents were gone. whether these appearances had been produced by midnight robbers, or by the ministers of law and the rage of the creditors of welbeck, was a topic of fruitless conjecture. my design was now effected. this chamber should be the scene of my disease and my refuge from the charitable cruelty of my neighbours. my new sensations conjured up the hope that my indisposition might prove a temporary evil. instead of pestilential or malignant fever, it might be a harmless intermittent. time would ascertain its true nature; meanwhile, i would turn the carpet into a coverlet, supply my pitcher with water, and administer without sparing, and without fear, that remedy which was placed within my reach. chapter xx. i laid myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs in the folds of the carpet. my thoughts were restless and perturbed. i was once more busy in reflecting on the conduct which i ought to pursue with regard to the bank-bills. i weighed, with scrupulous attention, every circumstance that might influence my decision. i could not conceive any more beneficial application of this property than to the service of the indigent, at this season of multiplied distress; but i considered that, if my death were unknown, the house would not be opened or examined till the pestilence had ceased, and the benefits of this application would thus be partly or wholly precluded. this season of disease, however, would give place to a season of scarcity. the number and wants of the poor, during the ensuing winter, would be deplorably aggravated. what multitudes might be rescued from famine and nakedness by the judicious application of this sum! but how should i secure this application? to enclose the bills in a letter, directed to some eminent citizen or public officer, was the obvious proceeding. both of these conditions were fulfilled in the person of the present chief-magistrate. to him, therefore, the packet was to be sent. paper and the implements of writing were necessary for this end. would they be found, i asked, in the upper room? if that apartment, like the rest which i had seen, and its furniture, had remained untouched, my task would be practicable; but, if the means of writing were not to be immediately procured, my purpose, momentous and dear as it was, must be relinquished. the truth, in this respect, was easily and ought immediately to be ascertained. i rose from the bed which i had lately taken, and proceeded to the _study_. the entries and staircases were illuminated by a pretty strong twilight. the rooms, in consequence of every ray being excluded by the closed shutters, were nearly as dark as if it had been midnight. the rooms into which i had already passed were locked, but its key was in each lock. i flattered myself that the entrance into the _study_ would be found in the same condition. the door was shut, but no key was to be seen. my hopes were considerably damped by this appearance, but i conceived it to be still possible to enter, since, by chance or by design, the door might be unlocked. my fingers touched the lock, when a sound was heard as if a bolt, appending to the door on the inside, had been drawn. i was startled by this incident. it betokened that the room was already occupied by some other, who desired to exclude a visitor. the unbarred shutter below was remembered, and associated itself with this circumstance. that this house should be entered by the same avenue, at the same time, and this room should be sought, by two persons, was a mysterious concurrence. i began to question whether i had heard distinctly. numberless inexplicable noises are apt to assail the ear in an empty dwelling. the very echoes of our steps are unwonted and new. this, perhaps, was some such sound. resuming courage, i once more applied to the lock. the door, in spite of my repeated efforts, would not open. my design was too momentous to be readily relinquished. my curiosity and my fears likewise were awakened. the marks of violence, which i had seen on the closets and cabinets below, seemed to indicate the presence of plunderers. here was one who laboured for seclusion and concealment. the pillage was not made upon my property. my weakness would disable me from encountering or mastering a man of violence. to solicit admission into this room would be useless. to attempt to force my way would be absurd. these reflections prompted me to withdraw from the door; but the uncertainty of the conclusions i had drawn, and the importance of gaining access to this apartment, combined to check my steps. perplexed as to the means i should employ, i once more tried the lock. the attempt was fruitless as the former. though hopeless of any information to be gained by that means, i put my eye to the keyhole. i discovered a light different from what was usually met with at this hour. it was not the twilight which the sun, imperfectly excluded, produces, but gleams, as from a lamp; yet its gleams were fainter and obscurer than a lamp generally imparts. was this a confirmation of my first conjecture? lamplight at noonday, in a mansion thus deserted, and in a room which had been the scene of memorable and disastrous events, was ominous. hitherto no direct proof had been given of the presence of a human being. how to ascertain his presence, or whether it were eligible by any means to ascertain it, were points on which i had not deliberated. i had no power to deliberate. my curiosity impelled me to call,--"is there any one within? speak." these words were scarcely uttered, when some one exclaimed, in a voice vehement but half-smothered, "good god!"-a deep pause succeeded. i waited for an answer; for somewhat to which this emphatic invocation might be a prelude. whether the tones were expressive of surprise, or pain, or grief, was, for a moment, dubious. perhaps the motives which led me to this house suggested the suspicion which presently succeeded to my doubts,--that the person within was disabled by sickness. the circumstances of my own condition took away the improbability from this belief. why might not another be induced like me to hide himself in this desolate retreat? might not a servant, left to take care of the house, a measure usually adopted by the opulent at this time, be seized by the reigning malady? incapacitated for exertion, or fearing to be dragged to the hospital, he has shut himself in this apartment. the robber, it may be, who came to pillage, was overtaken and detained by disease. in either case, detection or intrusion would be hateful, and would be assiduously eluded. these thoughts had no tendency to weaken or divert my efforts to obtain access to this room. the person was a brother in calamity, whom it was my duty to succour and cherish to the utmost of my power. once more i spoke:-"who is within? i beseech you answer me. whatever you be, i desire to do you good and not injury. open the door and let me know your condition. i will try to be of use to you." i was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob counteracted and devoured as it were by a mighty effort. this token of distress thrilled to my heart. my terrors wholly disappeared, and gave place to unlimited compassion. i again entreated to be admitted, promising all the succour or consolation which my situation allowed me to afford. answers were made in tones of anger and impatience, blended with those of grief:--"i want no succour; vex me not with your entreaties and offers. fly from this spot; linger not a moment, lest you participate my destiny and rush upon your death." these i considered merely as the effusions of delirium, or the dictates of despair. the style and articulation denoted the speaker to be superior to the class of servants. hence my anxiety to see and to aid him was increased. my remonstrances were sternly and pertinaciously repelled. for a time, incoherent and impassioned exclamations flowed from him. at length, i was only permitted to hear strong aspirations and sobs, more eloquent and more indicative of grief than any language. this deportment filled me with no less wonder than commiseration. by what views this person was led hither, by what motives induced to deny himself to my entreaties, was wholly incomprehensible. again, though hopeless of success, i repeated my request to be admitted. my perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his patience, and he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "arthur mervyn! begone. linger but a moment, and my rage, tiger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb from limb." this address petrified me. the voice that uttered this sanguinary menace was strange to my ears. it suggested no suspicion of ever having heard it before. yet my accents had betrayed me to him. he was familiar with my name. notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this dwelling, i was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named! my curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished, but i found myself compelled to give up my purpose. i withdrew reluctantly from the door, and once more threw myself upon my bed. nothing was more necessary, in the present condition of my frame; than sleep; and sleep had, perhaps, been possible, if the scene around me had been less pregnant with causes of wonder and panic. once more i tasked memory in order to discover, in the persons with whom i had hitherto conversed, some resemblance, in voice or tones, to him whom i had just heard. this process was effectual. gradually my imagination called up an image which, now that it was clearly seen, i was astonished had not instantly occurred. three years ago, a man, by name colvill, came on foot, and with a knapsack on his back, into the district where my father resided. he had learning and genius, and readily obtained the station for which only he deemed himself qualified; that of a schoolmaster. his demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to sleep, food, and exercise, abstemious and regular. meditation in the forest, or reading in his closet, seemed to constitute, together with attention to his scholars, his sole amusement and employment. he estranged himself from company, not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction. no one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours. his scholars revered him as a father, and made under his tuition a remarkable proficiency. his character seemed open to boundless inspection, and his conduct was pronounced by all to be faultless. at the end of a year the scene was changed. a daughter of one of his patrons, young, artless, and beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey to the arts of some detestable seducer. the betrayer was gradually detected, and successive discoveries showed that the same artifices had been practised, with the same success, upon many others. colvill was the arch-villain. he retired from the storm of vengeance that was gathering over him, and had not been heard of since that period. i saw him rarely, and for a short time, and i was a mere boy. hence the failure to recollect his voice, and to perceive that the voice of him immured in the room above was the same with that of colvill. though i had slight reasons for recognising his features or accents, i had abundant cause to think of him with detestation, and pursue him with implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she whose ruin was first detected, was--_my sister_. this unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of her parents, from the contumelies of the world, from the goadings of remorse, and the anguish flowing from the perfidy and desertion of colvill, in a voluntary death. she was innocent and lovely. previous to this evil, my soul was linked with hers by a thousand resemblances and sympathies, as well as by perpetual intercourse from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. she was my sister, my preceptress and friend; but she died--her end was violent, untimely, and criminal! i cannot think of her without heart-bursting grief; of her destroyer, without a rancour which i know to be wrong, but which i cannot subdue. when the image of colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on my thought, i almost started on my feet. to meet him, after so long a separation, here, and in these circumstances, was so unlooked-for and abrupt an event, and revived a tribe of such hateful impulses and agonizing recollections, that a total revolution seemed to have been effected in my frame. his recognition of my person, his aversion to be seen, his ejaculation of terror and surprise on first hearing my voice, all contributed to strengthen my belief. how was i to act? my feeble frame could but ill second my vengeful purposes; but vengeance, though it sometimes occupied my thoughts, was hindered by my reason from leading me, in any instance, to outrage or even to upbraiding. all my wishes with regard to this man were limited to expelling his image from my memory, and to shunning a meeting with him. that he had not opened the door at my bidding was now a topic of joy. to look upon some bottomless pit, into which i was about to be cast headlong, and alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face of colvill. had i known that he had taken refuge in this house, no power should have compelled me to enter it. to be immersed in the infection of the hospital, and to be hurried, yet breathing and observant, to my grave, was a more supportable fate. i dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this part of my story. to feel extraordinary indignation at vice, merely because we have partaken in an extraordinary degree of its mischiefs, is unjustifiable. to regard the wicked with no emotion but pity, to be active in reclaiming them, in controlling their malevolence, and preventing or repairing the ills which they produce, is the only province of duty. this lesson, as well as a thousand others, i have yet to learn; but i despair of living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose. my emotions with regard to colvill were erroneous, but omnipotent. i started from my bed, and prepared to rush into the street. i was careless of the lot that should befall me, since no fate could be worse than that of abiding under the same roof with a wretch spotted with so many crimes. i had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation was checked by a sound from above. the door of the study was cautiously and slowly opened. this incident admitted only of one construction, supposing all obstructions removed. colvill was creeping from his hiding-place, and would probably fly with speed from the house. my belief of his sickness was now confuted. an illicit design was congenial with his character and congruous with those appearances already observed. i had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. i thought of it with transport, and once more threw myself upon the bed, and wrapped my averted face in the carpet. he would probably pass this door, unobservant of me, and my muffled face would save me from the agonies connected with the sight of him. the footsteps above were distinguishable, though it was manifest that they moved with lightsomeness and circumspection. they reached the stair and descended. the room in which i lay was, like the rest, obscured by the closed shutters. this obscurity now gave way to a light, resembling that glimmering and pale reflection which i had noticed in the study. my eyes, though averted from the door, were disengaged from the folds which covered the rest of my head, and observed these tokens of colvill's approach, flitting on the wall. my feverish perturbations increased as he drew nearer. he reached the door, and stopped. the light rested for a moment. presently he entered the apartment. my emotions suddenly rose to a height that would not be controlled. i imagined that he approached the bed, and was gazing upon me. at the same moment, by an involuntary impulse, i threw off my covering, and, turning my face, fixed my eyes upon my visitant. it was as i suspected. the figure, lifting in his right hand a candle, and gazing at the bed, with lineaments and attitude bespeaking fearful expectation and tormenting doubts, was now beheld. one glance communicated to my senses all the parts of this terrific vision. a sinking at my heart, as if it had been penetrated by a dagger, seized me. this was not enough: i uttered a shriek, too rueful and loud not to have startled the attention of the passengers, if any had, at that moment, been passing the street. heaven seemed to have decreed that this period should be filled with trials of my equanimity and fortitude. the test of my courage was once more employed to cover me with humiliation and remorse. this second time, my fancy conjured up a spectre, and i shuddered as if the grave were forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow. the visage and the shape had indeed preternatural attitudes, but they belonged, not to colvill, but to--welbeck. chapter xxi. he whom i had accompanied to the midst of the river; whom i had imagined that i saw sink to rise no more, was now before me. though incapable of precluding the groundless belief of preternatural visitations, i was able to banish the phantom almost at the same instant at which it appeared. welbeck had escaped from the stream alive; or had, by some inconceivable means, been restored to life. the first was the most plausible conclusion. it instantly engendered a suspicion, that his plunging into the water was an artifice, intended to establish a belief of his death. his own tale had shown him to be versed in frauds, and flexible to evil. but was he not associated with colvill? and what, but a compact in iniquity, could bind together such men? while thus musing, welbeck's countenance and gesture displayed emotions too vehement for speech. the glances that he fixed upon me were unsteadfast and wild. he walked along the floor, stopping at each moment, and darting looks of eagerness upon me. a conflict of passions kept him mute. at length, advancing to the bed, on the side of which i was now sitting, he addressed me:-"what is this? are you here? in defiance of pestilence, are you actuated by some demon to haunt me, like the ghost of my offences, and cover me with shame? what have i to do with that dauntless yet guiltless front? with that foolishly-confiding and obsequious, yet erect and unconquerable, spirit? is there no means of evading your pursuit? must i dip my hands, a second time, in blood; and dig for you a grave by the side of watson?" these words were listened to with calmness. i suspected and pitied the man, but i did not fear him. his words and his looks were indicative less of cruelty than madness. i looked at him with an air compassionate and wistful. i spoke with mildness and composure:-"mr. welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. would to god i could restore you to happiness and virtue! but, though my desire be strong, i have no power to change your habits or rescue you from misery. "i believed you to be dead. i rejoice to find myself mistaken. while you live, there is room to hope that your errors will be cured; and the turmoils and inquietudes that have hitherto beset your guilty progress will vanish by your reverting into better paths. "from me you have nothing to fear. if your welfare will be promoted by my silence on the subject of your history, my silence shall be inviolate. i deem not lightly of my promises. they are given, and shall not be recalled. "this meeting was casual. since i believed you to be dead, it could not be otherwise. you err, if you suppose that any injury will accrue to you from my life; but you need not discard that error. since my death is coming, i am not averse to your adopting the belief that the event is fortunate to you. "death is the inevitable and universal lot. when or how it comes, is of little moment. to stand, when so many thousands are falling around me, is not to be expected. i have acted an humble and obscure part in the world, and my career has been short; but i murmur not at the decree that makes it so. "the pestilence is now upon me. the chances of recovery are too slender to deserve my confidence. i came hither to die unmolested, and at peace. all i ask of you is to consult your own safety by immediate flight; and not to disappoint my hopes of concealment, by disclosing my condition to the agents of the hospital." welbeck listened with the deepest attention. the wildness of his air disappeared, and gave place to perplexity and apprehension. "you are sick," said he, in a tremulous tone, in which terror was mingled with affection. "you know this, and expect not to recover. no mother, nor sister, nor friend, will be near to administer food, or medicine, or comfort; yet you can talk calmly; can be thus considerate of others--of me; whose guilt has been so deep, and who has merited so little at your hands! "wretched coward! thus miserable as i am and expect to be, i cling to life. to comply with your heroic counsel, and to fly; to leave you thus desolate and helpless, is the strongest impulse. fain would i resist it, but cannot. "to desert you would be flagitious and dastardly beyond all former acts; yet to stay with you is to contract the disease, and to perish after you. "life, burdened as it is with guilt and ignominy, is still dear--yet you exhort me to go; you dispense with my assistance. indeed, i could be of no use; i should injure myself and profit you nothing. i cannot go into the city and procure a physician or attendant. i must never more appear in the streets of this city. i must leave you, then." he hurried to the door. again, he hesitated. i renewed my entreaties that he would leave me; and encouraged his belief that his presence might endanger himself without conferring the slightest benefit upon me. "whither should i fly? the wide world contains no asylum for me. i lived but on one condition. i came hither to find what would save me from ruin,--from death. i find it not. it has vanished. some audacious and fortunate hand has snatched it from its place, and now my ruin is complete. my last hope is extinct. "yes, mervyn! i will stay with you. i will hold your head. i will put water to your lips. i will watch night and day by your side. when you die, i will carry you by night to the neighbouring field; will bury you, and water your grave with those tears that are due to your incomparable worth and untimely destiny. then i will lay myself in your bed, and wait for the same oblivion." welbeck seemed now no longer to be fluctuating between opposite purposes. his tempestuous features subsided into calm. he put the candle, still lighted, on the table, and paced the floor with less disorder than at his first entrance. his resolution was seen to be the dictate of despair. i hoped that it would not prove invincible to my remonstrances. i was conscious that his attendance might preclude, in some degree, my own exertions, and alleviate the pangs of death; but these consolations might be purchased too dear. to receive them at the hazard of his life would be to make them odious. but, if he should remain, what conduct would his companion pursue? why did he continue in the study when welbeck had departed? by what motives were those men led hither? i addressed myself to welbeck:-"your resolution to remain is hasty and rash. by persisting in it, you will add to the miseries of my condition; you will take away the only hope that i cherished. but, however you may act, colvill or i must be banished from this roof. what is the league between you? break it, i conjure you, before his frauds have involved you in inextricable destruction." welbeck looked at me with some expression of doubt. "i mean," continued i, "the man whose voice i heard above. he is a villain and betrayer. i have manifold proofs of his guilt. why does he linger behind you? however you may decide, it is fitting that he should vanish." "alas!" said welbeck, "i have no companion, none to partake with me in good or evil. i came hither alone." "how?" exclaimed i. "whom did i hear in the room above? some one answered my interrogations and entreaties, whom i too certainly recognised. why does he remain?" "you heard no one but myself. the design that brought me hither was to be accomplished without a witness. i desired to escape detection, and repelled your solicitations for admission in a counterfeited voice. "that voice belonged to one from whom i had lately parted. what his merits or demerits are, i know not. he found me wandering in the forests of new jersey. he took me to his home. when seized by a lingering malady, he nursed me with fidelity and tenderness. when somewhat recovered, i speeded hither; but our ignorance of each other's character and views was mutual and profound. "i deemed it useful to assume a voice different from my own. this was the last which i had heard, and this arbitrary and casual circumstance decided my choice." this imitation was too perfect, and had influenced my fears too strongly, to be easily credited. i suspected welbeck of some new artifice to baffle my conclusions and mislead my judgment. this suspicion, however, yielded to his earnest and repeated declarations. if colvill were not here, where had he made his abode? how came friendship and intercourse between welbeck and him? by what miracle escaped the former from the river, into which i had imagined him forever sunk? "i will answer you," said he, with candour. "you know already too much for me to have any interest in concealing any part of my life. you have discovered my existence, and the causes that rescued me from destruction may be told without detriment to my person or fame. "when i leaped into the river, i intended to perish. i harboured no previous doubts of my ability to execute my fatal purpose. in this respect i was deceived. suffocation would not come at my bidding. my muscles and limbs rebelled against my will. there was a mechanical repugnance to the loss of life, which i could not vanquish. my struggles might thrust me below the surface, but my lips were spontaneously shut, and excluded the torrent from my lungs. when my breath was exhausted, the efforts that kept me at the bottom were involuntarily remitted, and i rose to the surface. "i cursed my own pusillanimity. thrice i plunged to the bottom, and as often rose again. my aversion to life swiftly diminished, and at length i consented to make use of my skill in swimming, which has seldom been exceeded, to prolong my existence. i landed in a few minutes on the jersey shore. "this scheme being frustrated, i sunk into dreariness and inactivity. i felt as if no dependence could be placed upon my courage, as if any effort i should make for self-destruction would be fruitless; yet existence was as void as ever of enjoyment and embellishment. my means of living were annihilated. i saw no path before me. to shun the presence of mankind was my sovereign wish. since i could not die by my own hands, i must be content to crawl upon the surface, till a superior fate should permit me to perish. "i wandered into the centre of the wood. i stretched myself on the mossy verge of a brook, and gazed at the stars till they disappeared. the next day was spent with little variation. the cravings of hunger were felt, and the sensation was a joyous one, since it afforded me the practicable means of death. to refrain from food was easy, since some efforts would be needful to procure it, and these efforts should not be made. thus was the sweet oblivion for which i so earnestly panted placed within my reach. "three days of abstinence, and reverie, and solitude, succeeded. on the evening of the fourth, i was seated on a rock, with my face buried in my hands. some one laid his hand upon my shoulder. i started and looked up. i beheld a face beaming with compassion and benignity. he endeavoured to extort from me the cause of my solitude and sorrow. i disregarded his entreaties, and was obstinately silent. "finding me invincible in this respect, he invited me to his cottage, which was hard by. i repelled him at first with impatience and anger, but he was not to be discouraged or intimidated. to elude his persuasions i was obliged to comply. my strength was gone, and the vital fabric was crumbling into pieces. a fever raged in my veins, and i was consoled by reflecting that my life was at once assailed by famine and disease. "meanwhile, my gloomy meditations experienced no respite. i incessantly ruminated on the events of my past life. the long series of my crimes arose daily and afresh to my imagination. the image of lodi was recalled, his expiring looks and the directions which were mutually given respecting his sister's and his property. "as i perpetually revolved these incidents, they assumed new forms, and were linked with new associations. the volume written by his father, and transferred to me by tokens which were now remembered to be more emphatic than the nature of the composition seemed to justify, was likewise remembered. it came attended by recollections respecting a volume which i filled, when a youth, with extracts from the roman and greek poets. besides this literary purpose, i likewise used to preserve in it the bank-bills with the keeping or carriage of which i chanced to be entrusted. this image led me back to the leather case containing lodi's property, which was put into my hands at the same time with the volume. "these images now gave birth to a third conception, which darted on my benighted understanding like an electrical flash. was it not possible that part of lodi's property might be enclosed within the leaves of this volume? in hastily turning it over, i recollected to have noticed leaves whose edges by accident or design adhered to each other. lodi, in speaking of the sale of his father's west-india property, mentioned that the sum obtained for it was forty thousand dollars. half only of this sum had been discovered by me. how had the remainder been appropriated? surely this volume contained it. "the influence of this thought was like the infusion of a new soul into my frame. from torpid and desperate, from inflexible aversion to medicine and food, i was changed in a moment into vivacity and hope, into ravenous avidity for whatever could contribute to my restoration to health. "i was not without pungent regrets and racking fears. that this volume would be ravished away by creditors or plunderers was possible. every hour might be that which decided my fate. the first impulse was to seek my dwelling and search for this precious deposit. "meanwhile, my perturbations and impatience only exasperated my disease. while chained to my bed, the rumour of pestilence was spread abroad. this event, however, generally calamitous, was propitious to me, and was hailed with satisfaction. it multiplied the chances that my house and its furniture would be unmolested. "my friend was assiduous and indefatigable in his kindness. my deportment, before and subsequent to the revival of my hopes, was incomprehensible, and argued nothing less than insanity. my thoughts were carefully concealed from him, and all that he witnessed was contradictory and unintelligible. "at length, my strength was sufficiently restored. i resisted all my protector's importunities to postpone my departure till the perfect confirmation of my health. i designed to enter the city at midnight, that prying eyes might be eluded; to bear with me a candle and the means of lighting it, to explore my way to my ancient study, and to ascertain my future claim to existence and felicity. "i crossed the river this morning. my impatience would not suffer me to wait till evening. considering the desolation of the city, i thought i might venture to approach thus near, without hazard of detection. the house, at all its avenues, was closed. i stole into the back court. a window-shutter proved to be unfastened. i entered, and discovered closets and cabinets unfastened and emptied of all their contents. at this spectacle my heart sunk. my books, doubtless, had shared the common destiny. my blood throbbed with painful vehemence as i approached the study and opened the door. "my hopes, that languished for a moment, were revived by the sight of my shelves, furnished as formerly. i had lighted my candle below, for i desired not to awaken observation and suspicion by unclosing the windows. my eye eagerly sought the spot where i remembered to have left the volume. its place was empty. the object of all my hopes had eluded my grasp, and disappeared forever. "to paint my confusion, to repeat my execrations on the infatuation which had rendered, during so long a time that it was in my possession, this treasure useless to me, and my curses of the fatal interference which had snatched away the prize, would be only aggravations of my disappointment and my sorrow. you found me in this state, and know what followed." chapter xxii. this narrative threw new light on the character of welbeck. if accident had given him possession of this treasure, it was easy to predict on what schemes of luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. the same dependence on the world's erroneous estimation, the same devotion to imposture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have constituted the picture of his future life, as had distinguished the past. this money was another's. to retain it for his own use was criminal. of this crime he appeared to be as insensible as ever. his own gratification was the supreme law of his actions. to be subjected to the necessity of honest labour was the heaviest of all evils, and one from which he was willing to escape by the commission of suicide. the volume which he sought was mine. it was my duty to restore it to the rightful owner, or, if the legal claimant could not be found, to employ it in the promotion of virtue and happiness. to give it to welbeck was to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and misery. my right, legally considered, was as valid as his. but, if i intended not to resign it to him, was it proper to disclose the truth and explain by whom the volume was purloined from the shelf? the first impulse was to hide this truth; but my understanding had been taught, by recent occurrences, to question the justice and deny the usefulness of secrecy in any case. my principles were true; my motives were pure: why should i scruple to avow my principles and vindicate my actions? welbeck had ceased to be dreaded or revered. that awe which was once created by his superiority of age, refinement of manners, and dignity of garb, had vanished. i was a boy in years, an indigent and uneducated rustic; but i was able to discern the illusions of power and riches, and abjured every claim to esteem that was not founded on integrity. there was no tribunal before which i should falter in asserting the truth, and no species of martyrdom which i would not cheerfully embrace in its cause. after some pause, i said, "cannot you conjecture in what way this volume has disappeared?" "no," he answered, with a sigh. "why, of all his volumes, this only should have vanished, was an inexplicable enigma." "perhaps," said i, "it is less important to know how it was removed, than by whom it is now possessed." "unquestionably; and yet, unless that knowledge enables me to regain the possession, it will be useless." "useless then it will be, for the present possessor will never return it to you." "indeed," replied he, in a tone of dejection, "your conjecture is most probable. such a prize is of too much value to be given up." "what i have said flows not from conjecture, but from knowledge. i know that it will never be restored to you." at these words, welbeck looked at me with anxiety and doubt:--"you _know_ that it will not! have you any knowledge of the book? can you tell me what has become of it?" "yes. after our separation on the river, i returned to this house. i found this volume and secured it. you rightly suspected its contents. the money was there." welbeck started as if he had trodden on a mine of gold. his first emotion was rapturous, but was immediately chastened by some degree of doubt:--"what has become of it? have you got it? is it entire? have you it with you?" "it is unimpaired. i have got it, and shall hold it as a sacred trust for the rightful proprietor." the tone with which this declaration was accompanied shook the new-born confidence of welbeck. "the rightful proprietor! true, but i am he. to me only it belongs, and to me you are, doubtless, willing to restore it." "mr. welbeck! it is not my desire to give you perplexity or anguish; to sport with your passions. on the supposition of your death, i deemed it no infraction of justice to take this manuscript. accident unfolded its contents. i could not hesitate to choose my path. the natural and legal successor of vincentio lodi is his sister. to her, therefore, this property belongs, and to her only will i give it." "presumptuous boy! and this is your sage decision. i tell you that i am the owner, and to me you shall render it. who is this girl? childish and ignorant! unable to consult and to act for herself on the most trivial occasion. am i not, by the appointment of her dying brother, her protector and guardian? her age produces a legal incapacity of property. do you imagine that so obvious an expedient as that of procuring my legal appointment as her guardian was overlooked by me? if it were neglected, still my title to provide her subsistence and enjoyment is unquestionable. "did i not rescue her from poverty, and prostitution, and infamy? have i not supplied all her wants with incessant solicitude? whatever her condition required has been plenteously supplied. the dwelling and its furniture was hers, as far a rigid jurisprudence would permit. to prescribe her expenses and govern her family was the province of her guardian. "you have heard the tale of my anguish and despair. whence did they flow but from the frustration of schemes projected for her benefit, as they were executed with her money and by means which the authority of her guardian fully justified? why have i encountered this contagious atmosphere, and explored my way, like a thief, to this recess, but with a view to rescue her from poverty and restore to her her own? "your scruples are ridiculous and criminal. i treat them with less severity, because your youth is raw and your conceptions crude. but if, after this proof of the justice of my claim, you hesitate to restore the money, i shall treat you as a robber, who has plundered my cabinet and refused to refund his spoil." these reasonings were powerful and new. i was acquainted with the rights of guardianship. welbeck had, in some respects, acted as the friend of this lady. to vest himself with this office was the conduct which her youth and helplessness prescribed to her friend. his title to this money, as her guardian, could not be denied. but how was this statement compatible with former representations? no mention had then been made of guardianship. by thus acting, he would have thwarted all his schemes for winning the esteem of mankind and fostering the belief which the world entertained of his opulence and independence. i was thrown, by these thoughts, into considerable perplexity. if his statement were true, his claim to this money was established; but i questioned its truth. to intimate my doubts of his veracity would be to provoke abhorrence and outrage. his last insinuation was peculiarly momentous. suppose him the fraudulent possessor of this money: shall i be justified in taking it away by violence under pretence of restoring it to the genuine proprietor, who, for aught i know, may be dead, or with whom, at least, i may never procure a meeting? but will not my behaviour on this occasion be deemed illicit? i entered welbeck's habitation at midnight, proceeded to his closet, possessed myself of portable property, and retired unobserved. is not guilt imputable to an action like this? welbeck waited with impatience for a conclusion to my pause. my perplexity and indecision did not abate, and my silence continued. at length, he repeated his demands, with new vehemence. i was compelled to answer. i told him, in few words, that his reasonings had not convinced me of the equity of his claim, and that my determination was unaltered. he had not expected this inflexibility from one in my situation. the folly of opposition, when my feebleness and loneliness were contrasted with his activity and resources, appeared to him monstrous and glaring; but his contempt was converted into rage and fear when he reflected that this folly might finally defeat his hopes. he had probably determined to obtain the money, let the purchase cost what it would, but was willing to exhaust pacific expedients before he should resort to force. he might likewise question whether the money was within his reach. i had told him that i had it, but whether it was now about me was somewhat dubious; yet, though he used no direct inquiries, he chose to proceed on the supposition of its being at hand. his angry tones were now changed into those of remonstrance and persuasion:-"your present behaviour, mervyn, does not justify the expectation i had formed of you. you have been guilty of a base theft. to this you have added the deeper crime of ingratitude, but your infatuation and folly are, at least, as glaring as your guilt. do you think i can credit your assertions that you keep this money for another, when i recollect that six weeks have passed since you carried it off? why have you not sought the owner and restored it to her? if your intentions had been honest, would you have suffered so long a time to elapse without doing this? it is plain that you designed to keep it for your own use. "but, whether this were your purpose or not, you have no longer power to restore it or retain it. you say that you came hither to die. if so, what is to be the fate of the money? in your present situation you cannot gain access to the lady. some other must inherit this wealth. next to _signora lodi_, whose right can be put in competition with mine? but, if you will not give it to me on my own account, let it be given in trust for her. let me be the bearer of it to her own hands. i have already shown you that my claim to it, as her guardian, is legal and incontrovertible, but this claim i waive. i will merely be the executor of your will. i will bind myself to comply with your directions by any oath, however solemn and tremendous, which you shall prescribe." as long as my own heart acquitted me, these imputations of dishonesty affected me but little. they excited no anger, because they originated in ignorance, and were rendered plausible to welbeck by such facts as were known to him. it was needless to confute the charge by elaborate and circumstantial details. it was true that my recovery was, in the highest degree, improbable, and that my death would put an end to my power over this money; but had i not determined to secure its useful application in case of my death? this project was obstructed by the presence of welbeck; but i hoped that his love of life would induce him to fly. he might wrest this volume from me by violence, or he might wait till my death should give him peaceable possession. but these, though probable events, were not certain, and would, by no means, justify the voluntary surrender. his strength, if employed for this end, could not be resisted; but then it would be a sacrifice, not a choice, but necessity. promises were easily given, but were surely not to be confided in. welbeck's own tale, in which it could not be imagined that he had aggravated his defects, attested the frailty of his virtue. to put into his hands a sum like this, in expectation of his delivering it to another, when my death would cover the transaction with impenetrable secrecy, would be, indeed, a proof of that infatuation which he thought proper to impute to me. these thoughts influenced my resolutions, but they were revolved in silence. to state them verbally was useless. they would not justify my conduct in his eyes. they would only exasperate dispute, and impel him to those acts of violence which i was desirous of preventing. the sooner this controversy should end, and i in any measure be freed from the obstruction of his company, the better. "mr. welbeck," said i, "my regard to your safety compels me to wish that this interview should terminate. at a different time, i should not be unwilling to discuss this matter. now it will be fruitless. my conscience points out to me too clearly the path i should pursue for me to mistake it. as long as i have power over this money, i shall keep it for the use of the unfortunate lady whom i have seen in this house. i shall exert myself to find her; but, if that be impossible, i shall appropriate it in a way in which you shall have no participation." i will not repeat the contest that succeeded between my forbearance and his passions. i listened to the dictates of his rage and his avarice in silence. astonishment at my inflexibility was blended with his anger. by turns he commented on the guilt and on the folly of my resolutions. sometimes his emotions would mount into fury, and he would approach me in a menacing attitude, and lift his hand as if he would exterminate me at a blow. my languid eyes, my cheeks glowing and my temples throbbing with fever, and my total passiveness, attracted his attention and arrested his stroke. compassion would take the place of rage, and the belief be revived that remonstrances and arguments would answer his purpose. chapter xxiii. this scene lasted i know not how long. insensibly the passions and reasonings of welbeck assumed a new form. a grief, mingled with perplexity, overspread his countenance. he ceased to contend or to speak. his regards were withdrawn from me, on whom they had hitherto been fixed; and, wandering or vacant, testified a conflict of mind terrible beyond any that my young imagination had ever conceived. for a time he appeared to be unconscious of my presence. he moved to and fro with unequal steps, and with gesticulations that possessed a horrible but indistinct significance. occasionally he struggled for breath, and his efforts were directed to remove some choking impediment. no test of my fortitude had hitherto occurred equal to that to which it was now subjected. the suspicion which this deportment suggested was vague and formless. the tempest which i witnessed was the prelude of horror. these were throes which would terminate in the birth of some gigantic and sanguinary purpose. did he meditate to offer a bloody sacrifice? was his own death or was mine to attest the magnitude of his despair or the impetuosity of his vengeance? suicide was familiar to his thoughts. he had consented to live but on one condition; that of regaining possession of this money. should i be justified in driving him, by my obstinate refusal, to this fatal consummation of his crimes? yet my fear of this catastrophe was groundless. hitherto he had argued and persuaded; but this method was pursued because it was more eligible than the employment of force, or than procrastination. no. these were tokens that pointed to me. some unknown instigation was at work within him, to tear away his remnant of humanity and fit him for the office of my murderer. i knew not how the accumulation of guilt could contribute to his gratification or security. his actions had been partially exhibited and vaguely seen. what extenuations or omissions had vitiated his former or recent narrative; how far his actual performances were congenial with the deed which was now to be perpetrated, i knew not. these thoughts lent new rapidity to my blood. i raised my head from the pillow, and watched the deportment of this man with deeper attention. the paroxysm which controlled him at length, in some degree, subsided. he muttered, "yes. it must come. my last humiliation must cover me. my last confession must be made. to die, and leave behind me this train of enormous perils, must not be. "o clemenza! o mervyn! ye have not merited that i should leave you a legacy of persecution and death. your safety must be purchased at what price my malignant destiny will set upon it. the cord of the executioner, the note of everlasting infamy, is better than to leave you beset by the consequences of my guilt. it must not be." saying this, welbeck cast fearful glances at the windows and door. he examined every avenue and listened. thrice he repeated this scrutiny. having, as it seemed, ascertained that no one lurked within audience, he approached the bed. he put his mouth close to my face. he attempted to speak, but once more examined the apartment with suspicious glances. he drew closer, and at length, in a tone scarcely articulate, and suffocated with emotion, he spoke:--"excellent but fatally-obstinate youth! know at least the cause of my importunity. know at least the depth of my infatuation and the enormity of my guilt. "the bills--surrender them to me, and save yourself from persecution and disgrace. save the woman whom you wish to benefit, from the blackest imputations; from hazard to her life and her fame; from languishing in dungeons; from expiring on the gallows! "the bills--oh, save me from the bitterness of death! let the evils to which my miserable life has given birth terminate here and in myself. surrender them to me, for----" there he stopped. his utterence was choked by terror. rapid glances were again darted at the windows and door. the silence was uninterrupted, except by far-off sounds, produced by some moving carriage. once more he summoned resolution, and spoke:-"surrender them to me--for--_they are forged_! "formerly i told you, that a scheme of forgery had been conceived. shame would not suffer me to add, that my scheme was carried into execution. the bills were fashioned, but my fears contended against my necessities, and forbade me to attempt to exchange them. the interview with lodi saved me from the dangerous experiment. i enclosed them in that volume, as the means of future opulence, to be used when all other and less hazardous resources should fail. "in the agonies of my remorse at the death of watson, they were forgotten. they afterwards recurred to recollection. my wishes pointed to the grave; but the stroke that should deliver me from life was suspended only till i could hasten hither, get possession of these papers, and destroy them. "when i thought upon the chances that should give them an owner; bring them into circulation; load the innocent with suspicion; and lead them to trial, and, perhaps, to death, my sensations were fraught with agony; earnestly as i panted for death, it was necessarily deferred till i had gained possession of and destroyed these papers. "what now remains? you have found them. happily they have not been used. give them, therefore, to me, that i may crush at once the brood of mischiefs which they could not but generate." this disclosure was strange. it was accompanied with every token of sincerity. how had i tottered on the brink of destruction! if i had made use of this money, in what a labyrinth of misery might i not have been involved! my innocence could never have been proved. an alliance with welbeck could not have failed to be inferred. my career would have found an ignominious close; or, if my punishment had been transmuted into slavery and toil, would the testimony of my conscience have supported me? i shuddered at the view of those disasters from which i was rescued by the miraculous chance which led me to this house. welbeck's request was salutary to me and honourable to himself. i could not hesitate a moment in compliance. the notes were enclosed in paper, and deposited in a fold of my clothes. i put my hand upon them. my motion and attention were arrested, at the instant, by a noise which arose in the street. footsteps were heard upon the pavement before the door, and voices, as if busy in discourse. this incident was adapted to infuse the deepest alarm into myself and my companion. the motives of our trepidation were, indeed, different, and were infinitely more powerful in my case than in his. it portended to me nothing less than the loss of my asylum, and condemnation to an hospital. welbeck hurried to the door, to listen to the conversation below. this interval was pregnant with thought. that impulse which led my reflections from welbeck to my own state passed away in a moment, and suffered me to meditate anew upon the terms of that confession which had just been made. horror at the fate which this interview had enabled me to shun was uppermost in my conceptions. i was eager to surrender these fatal bills. i held them for that purpose in my hand, and was impatient for welbeck's return. he continued at the door; stooping, with his face averted, and eagerly attentive to the conversation in the street. all the circumstances of my present situation tended to arrest the progress of thought and chain my contemplations to one image; but even now there was room for foresight and deliberation. welbeck intended to destroy these bills. perhaps he had not been sincere; or, if his purpose had been honestly disclosed, this purpose might change when the bills were in his possession. his poverty and sanguineness of temper might prompt him to use them. that this conduct was evil, and would only multiply his miseries, could not be questioned. why should i subject his frailty to this temptation? the destruction of these bills was the loudest injunction of my duty; was demanded by every sanction which bound me to promote the welfare of mankind. the means of destruction was easy. a lighted candle stood on a table, at the distance of a few yards. why should i hesitate a moment to annihilate so powerful a cause of error and guilt? a passing instant was sufficient. a momentary lingering might change the circumstances that surrounded me, and frustrate my project. my languors were suspended by the urgencies of this occasion. i started from my bed and glided to the table. seizing the notes with my right hand, i held them in the flame of the candle, and then threw them, blazing, on the floor. the sudden illumination was perceived by welbeck. the cause of it appeared to suggest itself as soon. he turned, and, marking the paper where it lay, leaped to the spot, and extinguished the fire with his foot. his interposition was too late. only enough of them remained to inform him of the nature of the sacrifice. welbeck now stood, with limbs trembling, features aghast, and eyes glaring upon me. for a time he was without speech. the storm was gathering in silence, and at length burst upon me. in a tone menacing and loud, he exclaimed,-"wretch! what have you done?" "i have done justly. these notes were false. you desired to destroy them, that they might not betray the innocent. i applauded your purpose, and have saved you from the danger of temptation by destroying them myself." "maniac! miscreant! to be fooled by so gross an artifice! the notes were genuine. the tale of their forgery was false and meant only to wrest them from you. execrable and perverse idiot! your deed has sealed my perdition. it has sealed your own. you shall pay for it with your blood. i will slay you by inches. i will stretch you, as you have stretched me, on the rack." during this speech, all was frenzy and storm in the countenance and features of welbeck. nothing less could be expected than that the scene would terminate in some bloody catastrophe. i bitterly regretted the facility with which i had been deceived, and the precipitation of my sacrifice. the act, however lamentable, could not be revoked. what remained but to encounter or endure its consequences with unshrinking firmness? the contest was too unequal. it is possible that the frenzy which actuated welbeck might have speedily subsided. it is more likely that his passions would have been satiated with nothing but my death. this event was precluded by loud knocks at the street door, and calls by some one on the pavement without, of--"who is within? is any one within?" these noises gave a new direction to welbeck's thoughts. "they are coming," said he. "they will treat you as a sick man and a thief. i cannot desire you to suffer a worse evil than they will inflict. i leave you to your fate." so saying, he rushed out of the room. though confounded and stunned by this rapid succession of events, i was yet able to pursue measures for eluding these detested visitants. i first extinguished the light, and then, observing that the parley in the street continued and grew louder, i sought an asylum in the remotest corner of the house. during my former abode here, i noticed that a trap-door opened in the ceiling of the third story, to which you were conducted by a movable stair or ladder. i considered that this, probably, was an opening into a narrow and darksome nook formed by the angle of the roof. by ascending, drawing after me the ladder, and closing the door, i should escape the most vigilant search. enfeebled as i was by my disease, my resolution rendered me strenuous. i gained the uppermost room, and, mounting the ladder, found myself at a sufficient distance from suspicion. the stair was hastily drawn up, and the door closed. in a few minutes, however, my new retreat proved to be worse than any for which it was possible to change it. the air was musty, stagnant, and scorchingly hot. my breathing became difficult, and i saw that to remain here ten minutes would unavoidably produce suffocation. my terror of intruders had rendered me blind to the consequences of immuring myself in this cheerless recess. it was incumbent on me to extricate myself as speedily as possible. i attempted to lift the door. my first effort was successless. every inspiration was quicker and more difficult than the former. as my terror, so my strength and my exertions increased. finally my trembling hand lighted on a nail that was imperfectly driven into the wood, and which, by affording me a firmer hold, enabled me at length to raise it, and to inhale the air from beneath. relieved from my new peril by this situation, i bent an attentive ear through the opening, with a view to ascertain if the house had been entered or if the outer door was still beset, but could hear nothing. hence i was authorized to conclude that the people had departed, and that i might resume my former station without hazard. before i descended, however, i cast a curious eye over this recess. it was large enough to accommodate a human being. the means by which it was entered were easily concealed. though narrow and low, it was long, and, were it possible to contrive some inlet for the air, one studious of concealment might rely on its protection with unbounded confidence. my scrutiny was imperfect by reason of the faint light which found its way through the opening; yet it was sufficient to set me afloat on a sea of new wonders and subject my fortitude to a new test.-here mervyn paused in his narrative. a minute passed in silence and seeming indecision. his perplexities gradually disappeared, and he continued:- * * * * * i have promised to relate the momentous incidents of my life, and have hitherto been faithful in my enumeration. there is nothing which i more detest than equivocation and mystery. perhaps, however, i shall now incur some imputation of that kind. i would willingly escape the accusation, but confess that i am hopeless of escaping it. i might, indeed, have precluded your guesses and surmises by omitting to relate what befell me from the time of my leaving my chamber till i regained it. i might deceive you by asserting that nothing remarkable occurred; but this would be false, and every sacrifice is trivial which is made upon the altar of sincerity. besides, the time may come when no inconvenience will arise from minute descriptions of the objects which i now saw, and of the reasonings and inferences which they suggested to my understanding. at present, it appears to be my duty to pass them over in silence; but it would be needless to conceal from you that the interval, though short, and the scrutiny, though hasty, furnished matter which my curiosity devoured with unspeakable eagerness, and from which consequences may hereafter flow, deciding on my peace and my life. nothing, however, occurred which could detain me long in this spot. i once more sought the lower story and threw myself on the bed which i had left. my mind was thronged with the images flowing from my late adventure. my fever had gradually increased, and my thoughts were deformed by inaccuracy and confusion. my heart did not sink when i reverted to my own condition. that i should quickly be disabled from moving, was readily perceived. the foresight of my destiny was steadfast and clear. to linger for days in this comfortless solitude, to ask in vain, not for powerful restoratives or alleviating cordials, but for water to moisten my burning lips and abate the torments of thirst; ultimately to expire in torpor or frenzy, was the fate to which i looked forward; yet i was not terrified. i seemed to be sustained by a preternatural energy. i felt as if the opportunity of combating such evils was an enviable privilege, and, though none would witness my victorious magnanimity, yet to be conscious that praise was my due was all that my ambition required. these sentiments were doubtless tokens of delirium. the excruciating agonies which now seized upon my head, and the cord which seemed to be drawn across my breast, and which, as my fancy imagined, was tightened by some forcible hand, with a view to strangle me, were incompatible with sober and coherent views. thirst was the evil which chiefly oppressed me. the means of relief was pointed out by nature and habit. i rose, and determined to replenish my pitcher at the well. it was easier, however, to descend than to return. my limbs refused to bear me, and i sat down upon the lower step of the staircase. several hours had elapsed since my entrance into this dwelling, and it was now night. my imagination now suggested a new expedient. medlicote was a generous and fearless spirit. to put myself under his protection, if i could walk as far as his lodgings, was the wisest proceeding which i could adopt. from this design, my incapacity to walk thus far, and the consequences of being discovered in the street, had hitherto deterred me. these impediments were now, in the confusion of my understanding, overlooked or despised, and i forthwith set out upon this hopeless expedition. the doors communicating with the court, and, through the court, with the street, were fastened by inside bolts. these were easily withdrawn, and i issued forth with alacrity and confidence. my perturbed senses and the darkness hindered me from discerning the right way. i was conscious of this difficulty, but was not disheartened. i proceeded, as i have since discovered, in a direction different from the true, but hesitated not till my powers were exhausted and i sunk upon the ground. i closed my eyes, and dismissed all fear, and all foresight of futurity. in this situation i remained some hours, and should probably have expired on this spot, had not i attracted your notice, and been provided, under this roof, with all that medical skill, that the tenderest humanity could suggest. in consequence of your care, i have been restored to life and to health. your conduct was not influenced by the prospect of pecuniary recompense, of service, or of gratitude. it is only in one way that i am able to heighten the gratification which must flow from reflection on your conduct:--by showing that the being whose life you have prolonged, though uneducated, ignorant, and poor, is not profligate and worthless, and will not dedicate that life which your bounty has given, to mischievous or contemptible purposes. end of vol i. arthur mervyn; or, memoirs of the year 1793. vol. ii. arthur mervyn. chapter xxiv. here ended the narrative of mervyn. surely its incidents were of no common kind. during this season of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been numerous, and i had not suffered them to pass unimproved. the occurrences which fell within my own experience bore a general resemblance to those which had just been related, but they did not hinder the latter from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty. they served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of the tale. surely the youth had displayed inimitable and heroic qualities. his courage was the growth of benevolence and reason, and not the child of insensibility and the nursling of habit. he had been qualified for the encounter of gigantic dangers by no laborious education. he stepped forth upon the stage, unfurnished, by anticipation or experience, with the means of security against fraud; and yet, by the aid of pure intentions, had frustrated the wiles of an accomplished and veteran deceiver. i blessed the chance which placed the youth under my protection. when i reflected on that tissue of nice contingencies which led him to my door, and enabled me to save from death a being of such rare endowments, my heart overflowed with joy, not unmingled with regrets and trepidation. how many have been cut off by this disease, in their career of virtue and their blossom-time of genius! how many deeds of heroism and self-devotion are ravished from existence, and consigned to hopeless oblivion! i had saved the life of this youth. this was not the limit of my duty or my power. could i not render that life profitable to himself and to mankind? the gains of my profession were slender; but these gains were sufficient for his maintenance as well as my own. by residing with me, partaking my instructions, and reading my books, he would, in a few years, be fitted for the practice of physic. a science whose truths are so conducive to the welfare of mankind, and which comprehends the whole system of nature, could not but gratify a mind so beneficent and strenuous as his. this scheme occurred to me as soon as the conclusion of his tale allowed me to think. i did not immediately mention it, since the approbation of my wife, of whose concurrence, however, i entertained no doubt, was previously to be obtained. dismissing it, for the present, from my thoughts, i reverted to the incidents of his tale. the lady whom welbeck had betrayed and deserted was not unknown to me. i was but too well acquainted with her fate. if she had been single in calamity, her tale would have been listened to with insupportable sympathy; but the frequency of the spectacle of distress seems to lessen the compassion with which it is reviewed. now that those scenes are only remembered, my anguish is greater than when they were witnessed. then every new day was only a repetition of the disasters of the foregoing. my sensibility, if not extinguished, was blunted; and i gazed upon the complicated ills of poverty and sickness with a degree of unconcern on which i should once have reflected with astonishment. the fate of clemenza lodi was not, perhaps, more signal than many which have occurred. it threw detestable light upon the character of welbeck, and showed him to be more inhuman than the tale of mervyn had evinced him to be. that man, indeed, was hitherto imperfectly seen. the time had not come which should fully unfold the enormity of his transgressions and the complexity of his frauds. there lived in a remote quarter of the city a woman, by name villars, who passed for the widow of an english officer. her manners and mode of living were specious. she had three daughters, well trained in the school of fashion, and elegant in person, manners, and dress. they had lately arrived from europe, and, for a time, received from their neighbours that respect to which their education and fortune appeared to lay claim. the fallacy of their pretensions slowly appeared. it began to be suspected that their subsistence was derived not from pension or patrimony, but from the wages of pollution. their habitation was clandestinely frequented by men who were unfaithful to their secret; one of these was allied to me by ties which authorized me in watching his steps and detecting his errors, with a view to his reformation. from him i obtained a knowledge of the genuine character of these women. a man like welbeck, who was the slave of depraved appetites, could not fail of being quickly satiated with innocence and beauty. some accident introduced him to the knowledge of this family, and the youngest daughter found him a proper subject on which to exercise her artifices. it was to the frequent demands made upon his purse, by this woman, that part of the embarrassments in which mervyn found him involved are to be ascribed. to this circumstance must likewise be imputed his anxiety to transfer to some other the possession of the unhappy stranger. why he concealed from mervyn his connection with lucy villars may be easily imagined. his silence with regard to clemenza's asylum will not create surprise, when it was told that she was placed with mrs. villars. on what conditions she was received under this roof, cannot be so readily conjectured. it is obvious, however, to suppose that advantage was to be taken of her ignorance and weakness, and that they hoped, in time, to make her an associate in their profligate schemes. the appearance of pestilence, meanwhile, threw them into panic, and they hastened to remove from danger. mrs. villars appears to have been a woman of no ordinary views. she stooped to the vilest means of amassing money; but this money was employed to secure to herself and her daughters the benefits of independence. she purchased the house which she occupied in the city, and a mansion in the environs, well built and splendidly furnished. to the latter, she and her family, of which the italian girl was now a member, retired at the close of july. i have mentioned that the source of my intelligence was a kinsman, who had been drawn from the paths of sobriety and rectitude by the impetuosity of youthful passions. he had power to confess and deplore, but none to repair, his errors. one of these women held him by a spell which he struggled in vain to dissolve, and by which, in spite of resolutions and remorses, he was drawn to her feet, and made to sacrifice to her pleasure his reputation and his fortune. my house was his customary abode during those intervals in which he was persuaded to pursue his profession. some time before the infection began its progress, he had disappeared. no tidings were received of him, till a messenger arrived, entreating my assistance. i was conducted to the house of mrs. villars, in which i found no one but my kinsman. here, it seems, he had immured himself from my inquiries, and, on being seized by the reigning malady, had been deserted by the family, who, ere they departed, informed me by a messenger of his condition. despondency combined with his disease to destroy him. before he died, he informed me fully of the character of his betrayers. the late arrival, name, and personal condition of clemenza lodi were related. welbeck was not named, but was described in terms which, combined with the narrative of mervyn, enabled me to recognise the paramour of lucy villars in the man whose crimes had been the principal theme of our discourse. mervyn's curiosity was greatly roused when i intimated my acquaintance with the fate of clemenza. in answer to his eager interrogations, i related what i knew. the tale plunged him into reverie. recovering, at length, from his thoughtfulness, he spoke:-"her condition is perilous. the poverty of welbeck will drive him far from her abode. her profligate protectors will entice her or abandon her to ruin. cannot she be saved?" "i know not," answered i, "by what means." "the means are obvious. let her remove to some other dwelling. let her be apprized of the vices of those who surround her. let her be entreated to fly. the will need only be inspired, the danger need only be shown, and she is safe, for she will remove beyond its reach." "thou art an adventurous youth. who wilt thou find to undertake the office? who will be persuaded to enter the house of a stranger, seek without an introduction the presence of this girl, tell her that the house she inhabits is a house of prostitution, prevail on her to believe the tale, and persuade her to accompany him? who will open his house to the fugitive? whom will you convince that her illicit intercourse with welbeck, of which the opprobrious tokens cannot be concealed, has not fitted her for the company of prostitutes, and made her unworthy of protection? who will adopt into their family a stranger whose conduct has incurred infamy, and whose present associates have, no doubt, made her worthy of the curse?" "true. these are difficulties which i did not foresee. must she then perish? shall not something be done to rescue her from infamy and guilt?" "it is neither in your power nor in mine to do any thing." the lateness of the hour put an end to our conversation and summoned us to repose. i seized the first opportunity of imparting to my wife the scheme which had occurred, relative to our guest; with which, as i expected, she readily concurred. in the morning, i mentioned it to mervyn. i dwelt upon the benefits that adhered to the medical profession, the power which it confers of lightening the distresses of our neighbours, the dignity which popular opinion annexes to it, the avenue which it opens to the acquisition of competence, the freedom from servile cares which attends it, and the means of intellectual gratification with which it supplies us. as i spoke, his eyes sparkled with joy. "yes," said he, with vehemence, "i willingly embrace your offer. i accept this benefit, because i know that, if my pride should refuse it, i should prove myself less worthy than you think, and give you pain, instead of that pleasure which i am bound to confer. i would enter on the duties and studies of my new profession immediately; but somewhat is due to mr. hadwin and his daughters. i cannot vanquish my inquietudes respecting them, but by returning to malverton and ascertaining their state with my own eyes. you know in what circumstances i parted with wallace and mr. hadwin. i am not sure that either of them ever reached home, or that they did not carry the infection along with them. i now find myself sufficiently strong to perform the journey, and purposed to have acquainted you, at this interview, with my intentions. an hour's delay is superfluous, and i hope you will consent to my setting out immediately. rural exercise and air, for a week or fortnight, will greatly contribute to my health." no objection could be made to this scheme. his narrative had excited no common affection in our bosoms for the hadwins. his visit could not only inform us of their true state, but would dispel that anxiety which they could not but entertain respecting our guest. it was a topic of some surprise that neither wallace nor hadwin had returned to the city, with a view to obtain some tidings of their friend. it was more easy to suppose them to have been detained by some misfortune, than by insensibility or indolence. in a few minutes mervyn bade us adieu, and set out upon his journey, promising to acquaint us with the state of affairs as soon as possible after his arrival. we parted from him with reluctance, and found no consolation but in the prospect of his speedy return. during his absence, conversation naturally turned upon those topics which were suggested by the narrative and deportment of this youth. different conclusions were formed by his two auditors. they had both contracted a deep interest in his welfare, and an ardent curiosity as to those particulars which his unfinished story had left in obscurity. the true character and actual condition of welbeck were themes of much speculation. whether he were dead or alive, near or distant from his ancient abode, was a point on which neither mervyn, nor any of those with whom i had means of intercourse, afforded any information. whether he had shared the common fate, and had been carried by the collectors of the dead from the highway or the hovel to the pits opened alike for the rich and the poor, the known and the unknown; whether he had escaped to a foreign shore, or were destined to reappear upon this stage, were questions involved in uncertainty. the disappearance of watson would, at a different time, have excited much inquiry and suspicion; but, as this had taken place on the eve of the epidemic, his kindred and friends would acquiesce, without scruple, in the belief that he had been involved in the general calamity, and was to be numbered among the earliest victims. those of his profession usually resided in the street where the infection began, and where its ravages had been most destructive; and this circumstance would corroborate the conclusions of his friends. i did not perceive any immediate advantage to flow from imparting the knowledge i had lately gained to others. shortly after mervyn's departure to malverton, i was visited by wortley. inquiring for my guest, i told him that, having recovered his health, he had left my house. he repeated his invectives against the villany of welbeck, his suspicions of mervyn, and his wishes for another interview with the youth. why had i suffered him to depart, and whither had he gone? "he has gone for a short time into the country. i expect him to return in less than a week, when you will meet with him here as often as you please, for i expect him to take up his abode in this house." much astonishment and disapprobation were expressed by my friend. i hinted that the lad had made disclosures to me, which justified my confidence in his integrity. these proofs of his honesty were not of a nature to be indiscriminately unfolded. mervyn had authorized me to communicate so much of his story to wortley, as would serve to vindicate him from the charge of being welbeck's co-partner in fraud; but this end would only be counteracted by an imperfect tale, and the full recital, though it might exculpate mervyn, might produce inconveniences by which this advantage would be outweighed. wortley, as might be naturally expected, was by no means satisfied with this statement. he suspected that mervyn was a wily impostor; that he had been trained in the arts of fraud, under an accomplished teacher; that the tale which he had told to me was a tissue of ingenious and plausible lies; that the mere assertions, however plausible and solemn, of one like him, whose conduct had incurred such strong suspicions, were unworthy of the least credit. "it cannot be denied," continued my friend, "that he lived with welbeck at the time of his elopement; that they disappeared together; that they entered a boat, at pine street wharf, at midnight; that this boat was discovered by the owner in the possession of a fisherman at redbank, who affirmed that he had found it stranded near his door, the day succeeding that on which they disappeared. of all this i can supply you with incontestable proof. if, after this proof, you can give credit to his story, i shall think you made of very perverse and credulous materials." "the proof you mention," said i, "will only enhance his credibility. all the facts which you have stated have been admitted by him. they constitute an essential portion of his narrative." "what then is the inference? are not these evidences of a compact between them? has he not acknowledged this compact in confessing that he knew welbeck was my debtor; that he was apprized of his flight, but that (what matchless effrontery!) he had promised secrecy, and would, by no means, betray him? you say he means to return; but of that i doubt. you will never see his face more. he is too wise to thrust himself again into the noose; but i do not utterly despair of lighting upon welbeck. old thetford, jamieson, and i, have sworn to hunt him through the world. i have strong hopes that he has not strayed far. some intelligence has lately been received, which has enabled us to place our hounds upon his scent. he may double and skulk; but, if he does not fall into our toils at last, he will have the agility and cunning, as well as the malignity, of devils." the vengeful disposition thus betrayed by wortley was not without excuse. the vigour of his days had been spent in acquiring a slender capital; his diligence and honesty had succeeded, and he had lately thought his situation such as to justify marriage with an excellent woman, to whom he had for years been betrothed, but from whom his poverty had hitherto compelled him to live separate. scarcely had this alliance taken place, and the full career of nuptial enjoyments begun, when his ill fate exposed him to the frauds of welbeck, and brought him, in one evil hour, to the brink of insolvency. jamieson and thetford, however, were rich, and i had not till now been informed that they had reasons for pursuing welbeck with peculiar animosity. the latter was the uncle of him whose fate had been related by mervyn, and was one of those who employed money, not as the medium of traffic, but as in itself a commodity. he had neither wines nor cloths, to transmute into silver. he thought it a tedious process to exchange to-day one hundred dollars for a cask or bale, and to-morrow exchange the bale or cask for one hundred _and ten_ dollars. it was better to give the hundred for a piece of paper, which, carried forthwith to the money-changers, he could procure a hundred twenty-three and three-fourths. in short, this man's coffers were supplied by the despair of honest men and the stratagems of rogues. i did not immediately suspect how this man's prudence and indefatigable attention to his own interest should allow him to become the dupe of welbeck. "what," said i, "is old thetford's claim upon welbeck?" "it is a claim," he replied, "that, if it ever be made good, will doom welbeck to imprisonment and wholesome labour for life." "how? surely it is nothing more than debt." "have you not heard? but that is no wonder. happily you are a stranger to mercantile anxieties and revolutions. your fortune does not rest on a basis which an untoward blast may sweep away, or four strokes of a pen may demolish. that hoary dealer in suspicions was persuaded to put his hand to three notes for eight hundred dollars each. the _eight_ was then dexterously prolonged to eigh_teen_; they were duly deposited in time and place, and the next day welbeck was credited for fifty-three hundred and seventy-three, which, an hour after, were _told out_ to his messenger. hard to say whether the old man's grief, shame, or rage, be uppermost. he disdains all comfort but revenge, and that he will procure at any price. jamieson, who deals in the same _stuff_ with thetford, was outwitted in the same manner, to the same amount, and on the same day. "this welbeck must have powers above the common rate of mortals. grown gray in studying the follies and the stratagems of men, these veterans were overreached. no one pities them. 'twere well if his artifices had been limited to such, and he had spared the honest and the poor. it is for his injuries to men who have earned their scanty subsistence without forfeiting their probity, that i hate him, and shall exult to see him suffer all the rigours of the law." here wortley's engagements compelled him to take his leave. chapter xxv. while musing upon these facts, i could not but reflect with astonishment on the narrow escapes which mervyn's virtue had experienced. i was by no means certain that his fame or his life was exempt from all danger, or that the suspicions which had already been formed respecting him could possibly be wiped away. nothing but his own narrative, repeated with that simple but nervous eloquence which we had witnessed, could rescue him from the most heinous charges. was there any tribunal that would not acquit him on merely hearing his defence? surely the youth was honest. his tale could not be the fruit of invention; and yet, what are the bounds of fraud? nature has set no limits to the combinations of fancy. a smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a specious tale, are, a thousand times, exhibited in human intercourse by craft and subtlety. motives are endlessly varied, while actions continue the same; and an acute penetration may not find it hard to select and arrange motives, suited to exempt from censure any action that a human being can commit. had i heard mervyn's story from another, or read it in a book, i might, perhaps, have found it possible to suspect the truth; but, as long as the impression made by his tones, gestures, and looks, remained in my memory, this suspicion was impossible. wickedness may sometimes be ambiguous, its mask may puzzle the observer; our judgment may be made to falter and fluctuate, but the face of mervyn is the index of an honest mind. calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is full of benevolence and candour. he that listens to his words may question their truth, but he that looks upon his countenance when speaking cannot withhold his faith. it was possible, however, to find evidence supporting or confuting his story. i chanced to be acquainted with a family, by name althorpe, who were natives of that part of the country where his father resided. i paid them a visit, and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned, as if by accident, the name of mervyn. they immediately recognised this name as belonging to one of their ancient neighbours. the death of the wife and sons, and the seduction of the only daughter by colvill, with many pathetic incidents connected with the fate of this daughter, were mentioned. this intelligence induced me to inquire of mrs. althorpe, a sensible and candid woman, if she were acquainted with the recent or present situation of this family. "i cannot say much," she answered, "of my own knowledge. since my marriage, i am used to spend a few weeks of summer at my father's, but am less inquisitive than i once was into the concerns of my old neighbours. i recollect, however, when there, last year, during _the fever_, to have heard that sawny mervyn had taken a second wife; that his only son, a youth of eighteen, had thought proper to be highly offended with his father's conduct, and treated the new mistress of the house with insult and contempt. i should not much wonder at this, seeing children are so apt to deem themselves unjustly treated by a second marriage of their parent; but it was hinted that the boy's jealousy and discontent were excited by no common cause. the new mother was not much older than himself, had been a servant of the family, and a criminal intimacy had subsisted between her, while in that condition, and the son. her marriage with his father was justly accounted by their neighbours a most profligate and odious transaction. the son, perhaps, had, in such a case, a right to scold, but he ought not to have carried his anger to such extremes as have been imputed to him. he is said to have grinned upon her with contempt, and even to have called her _strumpet_ in the presence of his father and of strangers. "it was impossible for such a family to keep together. arthur took leave one night to possess himself of all his father's cash, mount the best horse in his meadow, and elope. for a time, no one knew whither he had gone. at last, one was said to have met with him in the streets of this city, metamorphosed from a rustic lad into a fine gentleman. nothing could be quicker than this change, for he left the country on a saturday morning, and was seen in a french frock and silk stockings, going into christ's church the next day. i suppose he kept it up with a high hand, as long as his money lasted. "my lather paid us a visit last week, and, among other country-news, told us that sawny mervyn had sold his place. his wife had persuaded him to try his fortune in the western country. the price of his hundred acres here would purchase a thousand there, and the man, being very gross and ignorant, and, withal, quite a simpleton, found no difficulty in perceiving that a thousand are ten times more than a hundred. he was not aware that a rood of ground upon schuylkill is tenfold better than an acre on the tennessee. "the woman turned out to be an artful profligate. having sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed it in her keeping, and she, to enjoy it with the more security, ran away to the city; leaving him to prosecute his journey to kentucky moneyless and alone. some time after, mr. althorpe and i were at the play, when he pointed out to me a group of females in an upper box, one of whom was no other than betty lawrence. it was not easy to recognise, in her present gaudy trim, all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the same betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and superintend her basket of cantaloupes in the jersey market, in pasteboard bonnet and linsey petticoat. her companions were of the infamous class. if arthur were still in the city, there is no doubt that the mother and son might renew the ancient terms of their acquaintance. "the old man, thus robbed and betrayed, sought consolation in the bottle, of which he had been at all times over-fond. he wandered from one tavern to another till his credit was exhausted, and then was sent to jail, where, i believe, he is likely to continue till his death. such, my friend, is the history of the mervyns." "what proof," said i, "have you of the immoral conduct of the son? of his mistreatment of his mother, and his elopement with his father's horse and money?" "i have no proof but the unanimous report of mervyn's neighbours. respectable and honest men have affirmed, in my hearing, that they had been present when the boy treated his mother in the way that i have described. i was, besides, once in company with the old man, and heard him bitterly inveigh against his son, and charge him with the fact of stealing his horse and money. i well remember that tears rolled from his eyes while talking on the subject. as to his being seen in the city the next day after his elopement, dressed in a most costly and fashionable manner, i can doubt that as little as the rest, for he that saw him was my father, and you, who know my father, know what credit is due to his eyes and his word. he had seen arthur often enough not to be mistaken, and described his appearance with great exactness. the boy is extremely handsome, give him his due; has dark hazel eyes, auburn hair, and very elegant proportions. his air and gait have nothing of the clown in them. take away his jacket and trousers, and you have as spruce a fellow as ever came from dancing-school or college. he is the exact picture of his mother, and the most perfect contrast to the sturdy legs, squat figure, and broad, unthinking, sheepish face of the father that can be imagined. you must confess that his appearance here is a pretty strong proof of the father's assertions. the money given for these clothes could not possibly have been honestly acquired. it is to be presumed that they were bought or stolen, for how else should they have been gotten?" "what was this lad's personal deportment during the life of his mother, and before his father's second marriage?" "very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects. being the youngest son, the only one who at length survived, and having a powerful resemblance to herself, he became the mother's favourite. his constitution was feeble, and he loved to stroll in the woods more than to plough or sow. this idleness was much against his father's inclination and judgment; and, indeed, it was the foundation of all his vices. when he could be prevailed upon to do any thing it was in a bungling manner, and so as to prove that his thoughts were fixed on any thing except his business. when his assistance was wanted he was never to be found at hand. they were compelled to search for him among the rocks and bushes, and he was generally discovered sauntering along the bank of a river, or lolling in the shade of a tree. this disposition to inactivity and laziness, in so young a man, was very strange. persons of his age are rarely fond of work, but then they are addicted to company, and sports, and exercises. they ride, or shoot, or frolic; but this being moped away his time in solitude, never associated with other young people, never mounted a horse but when he could not help it, and never fired a gun or angled for a fish in his life. some people supposed him to be half an idiot, or, at least, not to be right in his mind; and, indeed, his conduct was so very perverse and singular, that i do not wonder at those who accounted for it in this way." "but surely," said i, "he had some object of pursuit. perhaps he was addicted to books." "far from it. on the contrary, his aversion to school was as great as his hatred of the plough. he never could get his lessons or bear the least constraint. he was so much indulged by his mother at home, that tasks and discipline of any kind were intolerable. he was a perpetual truant; till, the master one day attempting to strike him, he ran out of the room and never entered it more. the mother excused and countenanced his frowardness, and the foolish father was obliged to give way. i do not believe he had two months' schooling in his life." "perhaps," said i, "he preferred studying by himself, and at liberty. i have known boys endowed with great curiosity and aptitude to learning, who never could endure set tasks, and spurned at the pedagogue and his rod." "i have known such likewise, but this was not one of them. i know not whence he could derive his love of knowledge or the means of acquiring it. the family were totally illiterate. the father was a scotch peasant, whose ignorance was so great that he could not sign his name. his wife, i believe, could read, and might sometimes decipher the figures in an almanac; but that was all. i am apt to think that the son's ability was not much greater. you might as well look for silver platters or marble tables in his house, as for a book or a pen. "i remember calling at their house one evening in the winter before last. it was intensely cold; and my father, who rode with me, having business with sawny mervyn, we stopped a minute at his gate; and, while the two old men were engaged in conversation, i begged leave to warm myself by the kitchen fire. here, in the chimney-corner, seated on a block, i found arthur busily engaged in _knitting stockings_! i thought this a whimsical employment for a young active man. i told him so, for i wanted to put him to the blush; but he smiled in my face, and answered, without the least discomposure, 'just as whimsical a business for a young active woman. pray, did you never knit a stocking?' "'yes; but that was from necessity. were i of a different sex, or did i possess the strength of a man, i should rather work in my field or study my book.' "'rejoice that you are a woman, then, and are at liberty to pursue that which costs least labour and demands most skill. you see, though a man, i use your privilege, and prefer knitting yarn to threshing my brain with a book or the barn-floor with a flail.' "'i wonder,' said i, contemptuously, 'you do not put on the petticoat as well as handle the needle.' "'do not wonder,' he replied; 'it is because i hate a petticoat encumbrance as much as i love warm feet. look there,' (offering the stocking to my inspection:) 'is it not well done?' "i did not touch it, but sneeringly said, 'excellent! i wonder you do not apprentice yourself to a tailor.' "he looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity, and said, 'how prone the woman is to _wonder_! you call the work excellent, and yet _wonder_ that i do not make myself a slave to improve my skill! did you learn needlework from seven years' squatting on a tailor's board? had you come to me, i would have taught you in a day.' "'i was taught at school.' "'and paid your instructor?' "'to-be-sure.' "''twas liberty and money thrown away. send your sister, if you have one, to me, and i will teach her without either rod or wages. will you?' "'you have an old and a violent antipathy, i believe, to any thing like a school.' "'true. it was early and violent. had not you?' "'no. i went to school with pleasure; for i thought to read and write were accomplishments of some value.' "'indeed? then i misunderstood you just now. i thought you said that, had you the strength of a man, you should prefer the plough and the book to the needle. whence, supposing you a female, i inferred that you had a woman's love for the needle and a fool's hatred of books.' "my father calling me from without, i now made a motion to go. 'stay,' continued he, with great earnestness, throwing aside his knitting-apparatus, and beginning in great haste to pull off his stockings. 'draw these stockings over your shoes. they will save your feet from the snow while walking to your horse.' "half angry, and half laughing, i declined the offer. he had drawn them off, however, and, holding them in his hand, 'be persuaded,' said he; 'only lift your feet, and i will slip them on in a trice.' "finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the stockings; and, without more ado, caught me up in his arms, rushed out of the room, and, running barefoot through the snow, set me fairly on my horse. all was done in a moment, and before i had time to reflect on his intentions. he then seized my hand, and, kissing it with great fervour, exclaimed, 'a thousand thanks to you for not accepting my stockings. you have thereby saved yourself and me the time and toil of drawing on and drawing off. since you have taught me to wonder, let me practise the lesson in wondering at your folly, in wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings at a season like this. take my counsel, and turn your silk to worsted and your worsted to leather. then may you hope for warm feet and dry. what! leave the gate without a blessing on your counsellor?' "i spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from so strange a being. i could give you many instances of behaviour equally singular, and which betrayed a mixture of shrewdness and folly, of kindness and impudence, which justified, perhaps, the common notion that his intellects were unsound. nothing was more remarkable than his impenetrability to ridicule and censure. you might revile him for hours, and he would listen to you with invincible composure. to awaken anger or shame in him was impossible. he would answer, but in such a way as to show him totally unaware of your true meaning. he would afterwards talk to you with all the smiling affability and freedom of an old friend. every one despised him for his idleness and folly, no less conspicuous in his words than his actions; but no one feared him, and few were angry with him, till after the detection of his commerce with _betty_, and his inhuman treatment of his father." "have you good reasons for supposing him to have been illicitly connected with that girl?" "yes. such as cannot be discredited. it would not be proper for me to state these proofs. nay, he never denied it. when reminded, on one occasion, of the inference which every impartial person would draw from appearances, he acknowledged, with his usual placid effrontery, that the inference was unavoidable. he even mentioned other concurring and contemporary incidents, which had eluded the observation of his censurer, and which added still more force to the conclusion. he was studious to palliate the vices of this woman, as long as he was her only paramour; but, after her marriage with his father, the tone was changed. he confessed that she was tidy, notable, industrious; but, then, she was a prostitute. when charged with being instrumental in making her such, and when his companions dwelt upon the depravity of reviling her for vices which she owed to him, 'true,' he would say, 'there is depravity and folly in the conduct you describe. make me out, if you please, to be a villain. what then? i was talking, not of myself, but of betty. still this woman is a prostitute. if it were i that made her such, with more confidence may i make the charge. but think not that i blame betty. place me in her situation, and i should have acted just so. i should have formed just such notions of my interest, and pursued it by the same means. still, say i, i would fain have a different woman for my father's wife, and the mistress of his family.'" chapter xxvi. this conversation was interrupted by a messenger from my wife, who desired my return immediately. i had some hopes of meeting with mervyn, some days having now elapsed since his parting from us, and not being conscious of any extraordinary motives for delay. it was wortley, however, and not mervyn, to whom i was called. my friend came to share with me his suspicions and inquietudes respecting welbeck and mervyn. an accident had newly happened which had awakened these suspicions afresh. he desired a patient audience while he explained them to me. these were his words:-"to-day a person presented me a letter from a mercantile friend at baltimore. i easily discerned the bearer to be a sea-captain. he was a man of sensible and pleasing aspect, and was recommended to my friendship and counsel in the letter which he brought. the letter stated, that a man, by name amos watson, by profession a mariner, and a resident at baltimore, had disappeared in the summer of last year, in a mysterious and incomprehensible manner. he was known to have arrived in this city from jamaica, and to have intended an immediate journey to his family, who lived at baltimore; but he never arrived there, and no trace of his existence has since been discovered. the bearer had come to investigate, if possible, the secret of his fate, and i was earnestly entreated to afford him all the assistance and advice in my power, in the prosecution of his search. i expressed my willingness to serve the stranger, whose name was williams; and, after offering him entertainment at my house, which was thankfully accepted, he proceeded to unfold to me the particulars of this affair. his story was this. "'on the 20th of last june, i arrived,' said he, 'from the west indies, in company with captain watson. i commanded the ship in which he came as a passenger, his own ship being taken and confiscated by the english. we had long lived in habits of strict friendship, and i loved him for his own sake, as well as because he had married my sister. we landed in the morning, and went to dine with mr. keysler, since dead, but who then lived in water street. he was extremely anxious to visit his family, and, having a few commissions to perform in the city, which would not demand more than a couple of hours, he determined to set out next morning in the stage. meanwhile, i had engagements which required me to repair with the utmost expedition to new york. i was scarcely less anxious than my brother to reach baltimore, where my friends also reside; but there was an absolute necessity of going eastward. i expected, however, to return hither in three days, and then to follow watson home. shortly after dinner we parted; he to execute his commissions, and i to embark in the mail-stage. "'in the time prefixed i returned. i arrived early in the morning, and prepared to depart again at noon. meanwhile, i called at keysler's. this is an old acquaintance of watson's and mine; and, in the course of talk, he expressed some surprise that watson had so precipitately deserted his house. i stated the necessity there was for watson's immediate departure _southward_, and added, that no doubt my brother had explained this necessity. "'why, (said keysler,) it is true, captain watson mentioned his intention of leaving town early next day; but then he gave me reason to expect that he would sup and lodge with me that night, whereas he has not made his appearance since. besides, his trunk was brought to my house. this, no doubt, he intended to carry home with him, but here it remains still. it is not likely that in the hurry of departure his baggage was forgotten. hence, i inferred that he was still in town, and have been puzzling myself these three days with conjectures as to what is become of him. what surprises me more is, that, on inquiring among the few friends which he has in this city, i find them as ignorant of his motions as myself. i have not, indeed, been wholly without apprehensions that some accident or other has befallen him.' "'i was not a little alarmed by this intimation. i went myself, agreeably to keysler's directions, to watson's friends, and made anxious inquiries, but none of them had seen my brother since his arrival. i endeavoured to recollect the commissions which he designed to execute, and, if possible, to trace him to the spot where he last appeared. he had several packets to deliver, one of which was addressed to walter thetford. him, after some inquiry, i found out, but unluckily he chanced to be in the country. i found, by questioning a clerk, who transacted his business in his absence, that a person, who answered the minute description which i gave of watson, had been there on the day on which i parted with him, and had left papers relative to the capture of one of thetford's vessels by the english. this was the sum of the information he was able to afford me. "'i then applied to three merchants for whom my brother had letters. they all acknowledged the receipt of these letters, but they were delivered through the medium of the post-office. "'i was extremely anxious to reach home. urgent engagements compelled me to go on without delay. i had already exhausted all the means of inquiry within my reach, and was obliged to acquiesce in the belief that watson had proceeded homeward at the time appointed, and left, by forgetfulness or accident, his trunk behind him. on examining the books kept at the stage-offices, his name nowhere appeared, and no conveyance by water had occurred during the last week. still, the only conjecture i could form was that he had gone homeward. "'arriving at baltimore, i found that watson had not yet made his appearance. his wife produced a letter, which, by the postmark, appeared to have been put into the office at philadelphia, on the morning after our arrival, and on which he had designed to commence his journey. this letter had been written by my brother, in my presence, but i had dissuaded him from sending it, since the same coach that should bear the letter was likewise to carry himself. i had seen him put it unwafered in his pocket-book, but this letter, unaltered in any part, and containing money which he had at first intended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to his wife's hand. in this letter he mentioned his design of setting out for baltimore on the _twenty-first_, yet on that day the letter itself had been put into the office. "'we hoped that a short time would clear up this mystery, and bring the fugitive home; but, from that day till the present, no atom of intelligence has been received concerning him. the yellow fever, which quickly followed, in this city, and my own engagements, have hindered me, till now, from coming hither and resuming the search. "'my brother was one of the most excellent of men. his wife loved him to distraction, and, together with his children, depended for subsistence upon his efforts. you will not, therefore, be surprised that his disappearance excited, in us, the deepest consternation and distress; but i have other and peculiar reasons for wishing to know his fate. i gave him several bills of exchange on merchants of baltimore, which i had received in payment of my cargo, in order that they might, as soon as possible, be presented and accepted. these have disappeared with the bearer. there is likewise another circumstance that makes his existence of no small value. "'there is an english family, who formerly resided in jamaica, and possessed an estate of great value, but who, for some years, have lived in the neighbourhood of baltimore. the head of this family died a year ago, and left a widow and three daughters. the lady thought it eligible to sell her husband's property in jamaica, the island becoming hourly more exposed to the chances of war and revolution, and transfer it to the united states, where she purposes henceforth to reside. watson had been her husband's friend, and, his probity and disinterestedness being well known, she intrusted him with legal powers to sell this estate. this commission was punctually performed, and the purchase-money was received. in order to confer on it the utmost possible security, he rolled up four bills of exchange, drawn upon opulent, merchants of london, in a thin sheet of lead, and, depositing this roll in a leathern girdle, fastened it round his waist, and under his clothes; a second set he gave to me, and a third he despatched to mr. keysler, by a vessel which sailed a few days before him. on our arrival in this city, we found that keysler had received those transmitted to him, and which he had been charged to keep till our arrival. they were now produced, and, together with those which i had carried, were delivered to watson. by him they were joined to those in the girdle, which he still wore, conceiving this method of conveyance to be safer than any other, and, at the same time, imagining it needless, in so short a journey as remained to be performed, to resort to other expedients. "'the sum which he thus bore about him was no less than ten thousand pounds sterling. it constituted the whole patrimony of a worthy and excellent family, and the loss of it reduces them to beggary. it is gone with watson, and whither watson has gone it is impossible even to guess. "'you may now easily conceive, sir, the dreadful disasters which may be connected with this man's fate, and with what immeasurable anxiety his family and friends have regarded his disappearance. that he is alive can scarcely be believed; for in what situation could he be placed in which he would not be able and willing to communicate some tidings of his fate to his family? "'our grief has been unspeakably aggravated by the suspicions which mrs. maurice and her friends have allowed themselves to admit. they do not scruple to insinuate that watson, tempted by so great a prize, has secretly embarked for england, in order to obtain payment for these bills and retain the money for his own use. "'no man was more impatient of poverty than watson, but no man's honesty was more inflexible. he murmured at the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice his ease, and risk his life upon the ocean in order to procure the means of subsistence; and all the property which he had spent the best part of his life in collecting had just been ravished away from him by the english; but, if he had yielded to this temptation at any time, it would have been on receiving these bills at jamaica. instead of coming hither, it would have been infinitely more easy and convenient to have embarked directly for london; but none who thoroughly knew him can, for a moment, harbour a suspicion of his truth. "'if he be dead, and if the bills are not to be recovered, yet to ascertain this will, at least, serve to vindicate his character. as long as his fate is unknown, his fame will be loaded with the most flagrant imputations, and, if these bills be ever paid in london, these imputations will appear to be justified. if he has been robbed, the robber will make haste to secure the payment, and the maurices may not unreasonably conclude that the robber was watson himself.' many other particulars were added by the stranger, to show the extent of the evils flowing from the death of his brother, and the loss of the papers which he carried with him. "i was greatly at a loss," continued wortley, "what directions or advice to afford this man. keysler, as you know, died early of the pestilence; but keysler was the only resident in this city with whom williams had any acquaintance. on mentioning the propriety of preventing the sale of these bills in america, by some public notice, he told me that this caution had been early taken; and i now remembered seeing the advertisement, in which the bills had been represented as having been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward of a thousand dollars was offered to any one who should restore them. this caution had been published in september, in all the trading-towns from portsmouth to savannah, but had produced no satisfaction. "i accompanied williams to the mayor's office, in hopes of finding in the records of his proceedings, during the last six months, some traces of watson; but neither these records nor the memory of the magistrate afforded us any satisfaction. watson's friends had drawn up, likewise, a description of the person and dress of the fugitive, an account of the incidents attending his disappearance, and of the papers which he had in his possession, with the manner in which these papers had been secured. these had been already published in the southern newspapers, and have been just reprinted in our own. as the former notice had availed nothing, this second expedient was thought necessary to be employed. "after some reflection, it occurred to me that it might be proper to renew the attempt which williams had made to trace the footsteps of his friend to the moment of his final disappearance. he had pursued watson to thetford's; but thetford himself had not been seen, and he had been contented with the vague information of his clerk. thetford and his family, including his clerk, had perished, and it seemed as if this source of information was dried up. it was possible, however, that old thetford might have some knowledge of his nephew's transactions, by which some light might chance to be thrown upon this obscurity. i therefore called on him, but found him utterly unable to afford me the light that i wished. my mention of the packet which watson had brought to thetford, containing documents respecting the capture of a certain ship, reminded him of the injuries which he had received from welbeck, and excited him to renew his menaces and imputations on that wretch. having somewhat exhausted this rhetoric, he proceeded to tell me what connection there was between the remembrance of his injuries and the capture of this vessel. "this vessel and its cargo were, in fact, the property of welbeck. they had been sent to a good market, and had been secured by an adequate insurance. the value of this ship and cargo, and the validity of the policy, he had taken care to ascertain by means of his two nephews, one of whom had gone out supercargo. this had formed his inducement to lend his three notes to welbeck, in exchange for three other notes, the whole amount of which included the _equitable interest_ of _five per cent. per month_ on his own loan. for the payment of these notes he by no means relied, as the world foolishly imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret funds of welbeck. these were illusions too gross to have any influence on him. he was too old a bird to be decoyed into the net by _such_ chaff. no; his nephew, the supercargo, would of course receive the produce of the voyage, and so much of this produce as would pay his debt he had procured the owner's authority to intercept its passage from the pocket of his nephew to that of welbeck. in case of loss, he had obtained a similar security upon the policy. jamieson's proceedings had been the same with his own, and no affair in which he had ever engaged had appeared to be more free from hazard than this. their calculations, however, though plausible, were defeated. the ship was taken and condemned, for a cause which rendered the insurance ineffectual. "i bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of extortions and frauds, and on that course of events which so often disconcerts the stratagems of cunning. the names of welbeck and watson were thus associated together, and filled my thoughts with restlessness and suspicion. welbeck was capable of any weakness. it was possible an interview had happened between these men, and that the fugitive had been someway instrumental in watson's fate. these thoughts were mentioned to williams, whom the name of welbeck threw into the utmost perturbation. on finding that one of this name had dwelt in this city, and that he had proved a villain, he instantly admitted the most dreary forebodings. "'i have heard,' said williams, 'the history of this welbeck a score of times from my brother. there formerly subsisted a very intimate connection between them. my brother had conferred, upon one whom he thought honest, innumerable benefits; but all his benefits had been repaid by the blackest treachery. welbeck's character and guilt had often been made the subject of talk between us, but, on these occasions, my brother's placid and patient temper forsook him. his grief for the calamities which had sprung from this man, and his desire of revenge, burst all bounds, and transported him to a pitch of temporary frenzy. i often inquired in what manner he intended to act if a meeting should take place between them. he answered, that doubtless he should act like a maniac, in defiance of his sober principles, and of the duty which he owed his family. "'what! (said i,) would you stab or pistol him? "'no. i was not born for an assassin. i would upbraid him in such terms as the furious moment might suggest, and then challenge him to a meeting, from which either he or i should not part with life. i would allow time for him to make his peace with heaven, and for me to blast his reputation upon earth, and to make such provision for my possible death as duty and discretion would prescribe. "'now, nothing is more probable than that welbeck and my brother have met. thetford would of course mention his name and interest in the captured ship, and hence the residence of this detested being in this city would be made known. their meeting could not take place without some dreadful consequence. i am fearful that to that meeting we must impute the disappearance of my brother.' chapter xxvii. "here was new light thrown upon the character of welbeck, and new food administered to my suspicions. no conclusion could be more plausible than that which williams had drawn; but how should it be rendered certain? walter thetford, or some of his family, had possibly been witnesses of something, which, added to our previous knowledge, might strengthen or prolong that clue, one end of which seemed now to be put into our hands; but thetford's father-in-law was the only one of his family, who, by seasonable flight from the city, had escaped the pestilence. to him, who still resided in the country, i repaired with all speed, accompanied by williams. "the old man, being reminded, by a variety of circumstances, of the incidents of that eventful period, was, at length, enabled to relate that he had been present at the meeting which took place between watson and his son walter, when certain packets were delivered by the former, relative, as he quickly understood, to the condemnation of a ship in which thomas thetford had gone supercargo. he had noticed some emotion of the stranger, occasioned by his son's mentioning the concern which welbeck had in the vessel. he likewise remembered the stranger's declaring his intention of visiting welbeck, and requesting walter to afford him directions to his house. "'next morning at the breakfast-table,' continued the old man, 'i adverted to yesterday's incidents, and asked my son how welbeck had borne the news of the loss of his ship. "he bore it," said walter, "as a man of his wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. but there was something very strange in his behaviour," says my son, "when i mentioned the name of the captain who brought the papers; and, when i mentioned the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared upon me, for a moment, as if he were frighted out of his wits, and then, snatching up his hat, ran furiously out of the house." this was all my son said upon that occasion; but, as i have since heard, it was on that very night that welbeck absconded from his creditors.' "i have this moment returned from this interview with old thetford. i come to you, because i thought it possible that mervyn, agreeably to your expectations, had returned, and i wanted to see the lad once more. my suspicions with regard to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was this day issued for apprehending him as welbeck's accomplice." i was startled by this news. "my friend," said i, "be cautious how you act, i beseech you. you know not in what evils you may involve the innocent. mervyn i know to be blameless; but welbeck is indeed a villain. the latter i shall not be sorry to see brought to justice; but the former, instead of meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards." "so you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps, his plausible lies might produce the same effect upon me; but i must stay till he thinks proper to exert his skill. the suspicions to which he is exposed will not easily be obviated; but, if he has any thing to say in his defence, his judicial examination will afford him the suitable opportunity. why are you so much afraid to subject his innocence to this test? it was not till you heard his tale that your own suspicions were removed. allow me the same privilege of unbelief. "but you do me wrong, in deeming me the cause of his apprehension. it is jamieson and thetford's work, and they have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and the impulses of mere revenge. facts have come to light of which you are wholly unaware, and which, when known to you, will conquer even your incredulity as to the guilt of mervyn." "facts? let me know them, i beseech you. if mervyn has deceived me, there is an end to my confidence in human nature. all limits to dissimulation, and all distinctness between vice and virtue, will be effaced. no man's word, nor force of collateral evidence, shall weigh with me a hair." "it was time," replied my friend, "that your confidence in smooth features and fluent accents should have ended long ago. till i gained from my present profession some knowledge of the world, a knowledge which was not gained in a moment, and has not cost a trifle, i was equally wise in my own conceit; and, in order to decide upon the truth of any one's pretensions, needed only a clear view of his face and a distinct hearing of his words. my folly, in that respect, was only to be cured, however, by my own experience, and i suppose your credulity will yield to no other remedy. these are the facts:-"mrs. wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which welbeck lived, has furnished some intelligence respecting mervyn, whose truth cannot be doubted, and which furnishes the strongest evidence of a conspiracy between this lad and his employer. it seems that, some years since, a nephew of this lady left his father's family clandestinely, and has not been heard of since. this nephew was intended to inherit her fortunes, and her anxieties and inquiries respecting him have been endless and incessant. these, however, have been fruitless. welbeck, knowing these circumstances, and being desirous of substituting a girl whom he had moulded for his purpose, in place of the lost youth, in the affections of the lady while living, and in her testament when dead, endeavoured to persuade her that the youth had died in some foreign country. for this end, mervyn was to personate a kinsman of welbeck who had just arrived from europe, and who had been a witness of her nephew's death. a story was, no doubt, to be contrived, where truth should be copied with the most exquisite dexterity; and, the lady being prevailed upon to believe the story, the way was cleared for accomplishing the remainder of the plot. "in due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully prepared by welbeck, the pupil made his appearance; and, in a conversation full of studied ambiguities, assured the lady that her nephew was dead. for the present he declined relating the particulars of his death, and displayed a constancy and intrepidity in resisting her entreaties that would have been admirable in a better cause. before she had time to fathom this painful mystery, welbeck's frauds were in danger of detection, and he and his pupil suddenly disappeared. "while the plot was going forward, there occurred an incident which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded, and which possibly might have created some confusion or impediment in their designs. a bundle was found one night in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes, and containing, in the midst of it, the miniature portrait of mrs. wentworth's nephew. it fell into the hands of one of that lady's friends, who immediately despatched the bundle to her. mervyn, in his interview with this lady, spied the portrait on the mantel-piece. led by some freak of fancy, or some web of artifice, he introduced the talk respecting her nephew, by boldly claiming it as his; but, when the mode in which it had been found was mentioned, he was disconcerted and confounded, and precipitately withdrew. "this conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad, afforded ground enough to question the truth of his intelligence respecting her nephew; but it has since been confuted, in a letter just received from her brother in england. in this letter, she is informed that her nephew had been seen by one who knew him well, in charleston; that some intercourse took place between the youth and the bearer of the news, in the course of which the latter had persuaded the nephew to return to his family, and that the youth had given some tokens of compliance. the letter-writer, who was father to the fugitive, had written to certain friends at charleston, entreating them to use their influence with the runaway to the same end, and, at any rate, to cherish and protect him. thus, i hope you will admit that the duplicity of mervyn is demonstrated." "the facts which you have mentioned," said i, after some pause, "partly correspond with mervyn's story; but the last particular is irreconcilably repugnant to it. now, for the first time, i begin to feel that my confidence is shaken. i feel my mind bewildered and distracted by the multitude of new discoveries which have just taken place. i want time to revolve them slowly, to weigh them accurately, and to estimate their consequences fully. i am afraid to speak; fearing that, in the present trouble of my thoughts, i may say something which i may afterwards regret, i want a counsellor; but you, wortley, are unfit for the office. your judgment is unfurnished with the same materials; your sufferings have soured your humanity and biassed your candour. the only one qualified to divide with me these cares, and aid in selecting the best mode of action, is my wife. she is mistress of mervyn's history; an observer of his conduct during his abode with us; and is hindered, by her education and temper, from deviating into rigour and malevolence. will you pardon me, therefore, if i defer commenting on your narrative till i have had an opportunity of reviewing it and comparing it with my knowledge of the lad, collected from himself and from my own observation?" wortley could not but admit the justice of my request, and, after some desultory conversation, we parted. i hastened to communicate to my wife the various intelligence which i had lately received. mrs. althorpe's portrait of the mervyns contained lineaments which the summary detail of arthur did not enable us fully to comprehend. the treatment which the youth is said to have given to his father; the illicit commerce that subsisted between him and his father's wife; the pillage of money and his father's horse, but ill accorded with the tale which we had heard, and disquieted our minds with doubts, though far from dictating our belief. what, however, more deeply absorbed our attention, was the testimony of williams and of mrs. wentworth. that which was mysterious and inscrutable to wortley and the friends of watson was luminous to us. the coincidence between the vague hints laboriously collected by these inquirers, and the narrative of mervyn, afforded the most cogent attestation of the truth of that narrative. watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where rested his remains was known to us. the girdle spoken of by williams would not be suspected to exist by his murderer. it was unmolested, and was doubtless buried with him. that which was so earnestly sought, and which constituted the subsistence of the maurices, would probably be found adhering to his body. what conduct was incumbent upon me who possessed this knowledge? it was just to restore these bills to their true owner; but how could this be done without hazardous processes and tedious disclosures? to whom ought these disclosures to be made? by what authority or agency could these half-decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost treasure be taken from amidst the horrible corruption in which it was immersed? this ought not to be the act of a single individual. this act would entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions, of concealments and evasions, from which he could not hope to escape with his reputation inviolate. the proper method was through the agency of the law. it is to this that mervyn must submit his conduct. the story which he told to me he must tell to the world. suspicions have fixed themselves upon him, which allow him not the privilege of silence and obscurity. while he continued unknown and unthought of, the publication of his story would only give unnecessary birth to dangers; but now dangers are incurred which it may probably contribute to lessen, if not to remove. meanwhile the return of mervyn to the city was anxiously expected. day after day passed, and no tidings were received. i had business of an urgent nature which required my presence in jersey, but which, in the daily expectation of the return of my young friend, i postponed a week longer than rigid discretion allowed. at length i was obliged to comply with the exigence, and left the city, but made such arrangements that i should be apprized by my wife of mervyn's return with all practicable expedition. these arrangements were superfluous, for my business was despatched, and my absence at an end, before the youth had given us any tokens of his approach. i now remembered the warnings of wortley, and his assertions that mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from our view. the event had hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions, and a thousand doubts and misgivings were awakened. one evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy thoughts by a visit to a friend, some one knocked at my door, and left a billet containing these words:-"_dr. stevens is requested to come immediately to the debtors' apartments in prune street._" this billet was without signature. the handwriting was unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bearer left me wholly at a loss with respect to the person of the writer, or the end for which my presence was required. this uncertainty only hastened my compliance with the summons. the evening was approaching,--a time when the prison-doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to be excluded. this furnished an additional reason for despatch. as i walked swiftly along, i revolved the possible motives that might have prompted this message. a conjecture was soon formed, which led to apprehension and inquietude. one of my friends, by name carlton, was embarrassed with debts which he was unable to discharge. he had lately been menaced with arrest by a creditor not accustomed to remit any of his claims. i dreaded that this catastrophe had now happened, and called to mind the anguish with which this untoward incident would overwhelm his family. i knew his incapacity to take away the claim of his creditor by payment, or to soothe him into clemency by supplication. so prone is the human mind to create for itself distress, that i was not aware of the uncertainty of this evil till i arrived at the prison. i checked myself at the moment when i opened my lips to utter the name of my friend, and was admitted without particular inquiries. i supposed that he by whom i had been summoned hither would meet me in the common room. the apartment was filled with pale faces and withered forms. the marks of negligence and poverty were visible in all; but few betrayed, in their features or gestures, any symptoms of concern on account of their condition. ferocious gayety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit upon every brow. the vapour from a heated stove, mingled with the fumes of beer and tallow that were spilled upon it, and with the tainted breath of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the stagnant atmosphere. at my first transition from the cold and pure air without, to this noxious element, i found it difficult to breathe. a moment, however, reconciled me to my situation, and i looked anxiously round to discover some face which i knew. almost every mouth was furnished with a cigar, and every hand with a glass of porter. conversation, carried on with much emphasis of tone and gesture, was not wanting. sundry groups, in different corners, were beguiling the tedious hours at whist. others, unemployed, were strolling to and fro, and testified their vacancy of thought and care by humming or whistling a tune. i fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived me. this hope was strengthened by reflecting that the billet received was written in a different hand from that of my friend. meanwhile i continued my search. seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd, his eyes fixed upon the floor, and his face half concealed by his hand, a form was at length discovered which verified all my conjectures and fears. carlton was he. my heart drooped and my tongue faltered at this sight. i surveyed him for some minutes in silence. at length, approaching the bench on which he sat, i touched his hand and awakened him from his reverie. he looked up. a momentary gleam of joy and surprise was succeeded by a gloom deeper than before. it was plain that my friend needed consolation. he was governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace. he was impatient of constraint. he shrunk, with fastidious abhorrence, from the contact of the vulgar and the profligate. his constitution was delicate and feeble. impure airs, restraint from exercise, unusual aliment, unwholesome or incommodious accommodations, and perturbed thoughts, were, at any time, sufficient to generate disease and to deprive him of life. to these evils he was now subjected. he had no money wherewith to purchase food. he had been dragged hither in the morning. he had not tasted a morsel since his entrance. he had not provided a bed on which to lie; or inquired in what room, or with what companions, the night was to be spent. fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. he was more prone to shrink from danger than encounter it, and to yield to the flood rather than sustain it; but it is just to observe that his anguish, on the present occasion, arose not wholly from selfish considerations. his parents were dead, and two sisters were dependent on him for support. one of these was nearly of his own age. the other was scarcely emerged from childhood. there was an intellectual as well as a personal resemblance between my friend and his sisters. they possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement passions, and refinements of taste; and the misery of his condition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on the feelings which would be awakened in them by the knowledge of his state, and the hardships to which the loss of his succour would expose them. chapter xxviii. it was not in my power to release my friend by the payment of his debt; but, by contracting with the keeper of the prison for his board, i could save him from famine; and, by suitable exertions, could procure him lodging as convenient as the time would admit. i could promise to console and protect his sisters, and, by cheerful tones and frequent visits, dispel some part of the evil which encompassed him. after the first surprise had subsided, he inquired by what accident this meeting had been produced. conscious of my incapacity to do him any essential service, and unwilling to make me a partaker in his miseries, he had forborne to inform me of his condition. this assurance was listened to with some wonder. i showed him the billet. it had not been written by him. he was a stranger to the penmanship. none but the attorney and officer were apprized of his fate. it was obvious to conclude, that this was the interposition of some friend, who, knowing my affection for carlton, had taken this mysterious method of calling me to his succour. conjectures as to the author and motives of this inter position were suspended by more urgent considerations. i requested an interview with the keeper, and inquired how carlton could be best accommodated. he said that all his rooms were full but one, which, in consequence of the dismission of three persons in the morning, had at present but one tenant. this person had lately arrived, was sick, and had with him, at this time, one of his friends. carlton might divide the chamber with this person. no doubt his consent would be readily given; though this arrangement, being the best, must take place whether he consented or not. this consent i resolved immediately to seek, and, for that purpose, desired to be led to the chamber. the door of the apartment was shut. i knocked for admission. it was instantly opened, and i entered. the first person who met my view was--arthur mervyn. i started with astonishment. mervyn's countenance betrayed nothing but satisfaction at the interview. the traces of fatigue and anxiety gave place to tenderness and joy. it readily occurred to me that mervyn was the writer of the note which i had lately received. to meet him within these walls, and at this time, was the most remote and undesirable of all contingencies. the same hour had thus made me acquainted with the kindred and unwelcome fate of two beings whom i most loved. i had scarcely time to return his embrace, when, taking my hand, he led me to a bed that stood in one corner. there was stretched upon it one whom a second glance enabled me to call by his name, though i had never before seen him. the vivid portrait which mervyn had drawn was conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage before me. this face had, indeed, proportions and lines which could never be forgotten or mistaken. welbeck, when once seen or described, was easily distinguished from the rest of mankind. he had stronger motives than other men for abstaining from guilt, the difficulty of concealment or disguise being tenfold greater in him than in others, by reason of the indelible and eye-attracting marks which nature had set upon him. he was pallid and emaciated. he did not open his eyes on my entrance. he seemed to be asleep; but, before i had time to exchange glances with mervyn, or to inquire into the nature of the scene, he awoke. on seeing me he started, and cast a look of upbraiding on my companion. the latter comprehended his emotion, and endeavoured to appease him. "this person," said he, "is my friend. he is likewise a physician; and, perceiving your state to require medical assistance, i ventured to send for him." welbeck replied, in a contemptuous and indignant tone, "thou mistakest my condition, boy. my disease lies deeper than his scrutiny will ever reach. i had hoped thou wert gone. thy importunities are well meant, but they aggravate my miseries." he now rose from the bed, and continued, in a firm and resolute tone, "you are intruders into this apartment. it is mine, and i desire to be left alone." mervyn returned, at first, no answer to this address. he was immersed in perplexity. at length, raising his eyes from the floor, he said, "my intentions are indeed honest, and i am grieved that i want the power of persuasion. to-morrow, perhaps, i may reason more cogently with your despair, or your present mood may be changed. to aid my own weakness i will entreat the assistance of this friend." these words roused a new spirit in welbeck. his confusion and anger increased. his tongue faltered as he exclaimed, "good god! what mean you? headlong and rash as you are, you will not share with this person your knowledge of me?" here he checked himself, conscious that the words he had already uttered tended to the very end which he dreaded. this consciousness, added to the terror of more ample disclosures, which the simplicity and rectitude of mervyn might prompt him to make, chained up his tongue, and covered him with dismay. mervyn was not long in answering:--"i comprehend your fears and your wishes. i am bound to tell you the truth. to this person your story has already been told. whatever i have witnessed under your roof, whatever i have heard from your lips, have been faithfully disclosed to him." the countenance of welbeck now betrayed a mixture of incredulity and horror. for a time his utterance was stifled by his complicated feelings:-"it cannot be. so enormous a deed is beyond thy power. thy qualities are marvellous. every new act of thine outstrips the last, and belies the newest calculations. but this--this perfidy exceeds--this outrage upon promises, this violation of faith, this blindness to the future, is incredible." there he stopped; while his looks seemed to call upon mervyn for a contradiction of his first assertion. "i know full well how inexpiably stupid or wicked my act will appear to you, but i will not prevaricate or lie. i repeat, that every thing is known to him. your birth; your early fortunes; the incidents at charleston and wilmington; your treatment of the brother and sister; your interview with watson, and the fatal issue of that interview--i have told him all, just as it was told to me." here the shock that was felt by welbeck overpowered his caution and his strength. he sunk upon the side of the bed. his air was still incredulous, and he continued to gaze upon mervyn. he spoke in a tone less vehement:-"and hast thou then betrayed me? hast thou shut every avenue to my return to honour? am i known to be a seducer and assassin? to have meditated all crimes, and to have perpetrated the worst? "infamy and death are my portion. i know they are reserved for me; but i did not think to receive them at thy hands, that under that innocent guise there lurked a heart treacherous and cruel. but go; leave me to myself. this stroke has exterminated my remnant of hope. leave me to prepare my neck for the halter, and my lips for this last and bitterest cup." mervyn struggled with his tears, and replied, "all this was foreseen, and all this i was prepared to endure. my friend and i will withdraw, as you wish; but to-morrow i return; not to vindicate my faith or my humanity; not to make you recant your charges, or forgive the faults which i seem to have committed, but to extricate you from your present evil, or to arm you with fortitude." so saying, he led the way out of the room. i followed him in silence. the strangeness and abruptness of this scene left me no power to assume a part in it. i looked on with new and indescribable sensations. i reached the street before my recollection was perfectly recovered. i then reflected on the purpose that had led me to welbeck's chamber. this purpose was yet unaccomplished. i desired mervyn to linger a moment while i returned into the house. i once more inquired for the keeper, and told him i should leave to him the province of acquainting welbeck with the necessity of sharing his apartment with a stranger. i speedily rejoined mervyn in the street. i lost no time in requiring an explanation of the scene that i had witnessed. "how became you once more the companion of welbeck? why did you not inform me by letter of your arrival at malverton, and of what occurred during your absence? what is the fate of mr. hadwin and of wallace?" "alas!" said he, "i perceive that, though i have written, you have never received my letters. the tale of what has occurred since we parted is long and various. i am not only willing but eager to communicate the story; but this is no suitable place. have patience till we reach your house. i have involved myself in perils and embarrassments from which i depend upon your counsel and aid to release me." i had scarcely reached my own door, when i was overtaken by a servant, whom i knew to belong to the family in which carlton and his sisters resided. her message, therefore, was readily guessed. she came, as i expected, to inquire for my friend, who had left his home in the morning with a stranger, and had not yet returned. his absence had occasioned some inquietude, and his sister had sent this message to me, to procure what information respecting the cause of his detention i was able to give. my perplexity hindered me, for some time, from answering. i was willing to communicate the painful truth with my own mouth. i saw the necessity of putting an end to her suspense, and of preventing the news from reaching her with fallacious aggravations or at an unseasonable time. i told the messenger that i had just parted with mr. carlton, that he was well, and that i would speedily come and acquaint his sister with the cause of his absence. though burning with curiosity respecting mervyn and welbeck, i readily postponed its gratification till my visit to miss carlton was performed. i had rarely seen this lady; my friendship for her brother, though ardent, having been lately formed, and chiefly matured by interviews at my house. i had designed to introduce her to my wife, but various accidents had hindered the execution of my purpose. now consolation and counsel were more needed than ever, and delay or reluctance in bestowing it would have been, in a high degree, unpardonable. i therefore parted with mervyn, requesting him to await my return, and promising to perform the engagement which compelled me to leave him, with the utmost despatch. on entering miss carlton's apartment, i assumed an air of as much tranquillity as possible. i found the lady seated at a desk, with pen in hand and parchment before her. she greeted me with affectionate dignity, and caught from my countenance that cheerfulness of which on my entrance she was destitute. "you come," said she, "to inform me what has made my brother a truant to-day. till your message was received i was somewhat anxious. this day he usually spends in rambling through the fields; but so bleak and stormy an atmosphere, i suppose, would prevent his excursion. i pray, sir, what is it detains him?" to conquer my embarrassment, and introduce the subject by indirect and cautious means, i eluded her question, and, casting an eye at the parchment,--"how now?" said i; "this is strange employment for a lady. i knew that my friend pursued this trade, and lived by binding fast the bargains which others made; but i knew not that the pen was ever usurped by his sister." "the usurpation was prompted by necessity. my brother's impatient temper and delicate frame unfitted him for the trade. he pursued it with no less reluctance than diligence, devoting to the task three nights in the week, and the whole of each day. it would long ago have killed him, had i not bethought myself of sharing his tasks. the pen was irksome and toilsome at first, but use has made it easy, and far more eligible than the needle, which was formerly my only tool. "this arrangement affords my brother opportunities of exercise and recreation, without diminishing our profits; and my time, though not less constantly, is more agreeably, as well as more lucratively, employed than formerly." "i admire your reasoning. by this means provision is made against untoward accidents. if sickness should disable him, you are qualified to pursue the same means of support." at these words the lady's countenance changed. she put her hand on my arm, and said, in a fluttering and hurried accent, "is my brother sick?" "no. he is in perfect health. my observation was a harmless one. i am sorry to observe your readiness to draw alarming inferences. if i were to say that your scheme is useful to supply deficiencies, not only when your brother is disabled by sickness, but when thrown, by some inhuman creditor, into jail, no doubt you would perversely and hastily infer that he is now in prison." i had scarcely ended the sentence, when the piercing eyes of the lady were anxiously fixed upon mine. after a moment's pause, she exclaimed, "the inference, indeed, is too plain. i know his fate. it has long been foreseen and expected, and i have summoned up my equanimity to meet it. would to heaven he may find the calamity as light as i should find it! but i fear his too irritable spirit." when her fears were confirmed, she started out into no vehemence of exclamation. she quickly suppressed a few tears which would not be withheld, and listened to my narrative of what had lately occurred, with tokens of gratitude. formal consolation was superfluous. her mind was indeed more fertile than my own in those topics which take away its keenest edge from affliction. she observed that it was far from being the heaviest calamity which might have happened. the creditor was perhaps vincible by arguments and supplications. if these should succeed, the disaster would not only be removed, but that security from future molestation be gained, to which they had for a long time been strangers. should he be obdurate, their state was far from being hopeless. carlton's situation allowed him to pursue his profession. his gains would be equal, and his expenses would not be augmented. by their mutual industry they might hope to amass sufficient to discharge the debt at no very remote period. what she chiefly dreaded was the pernicious influence of dejection and sedentary labour on her brother's health. yet this was not to be considered as inevitable. fortitude might be inspired by exhortation and example, and no condition precluded us from every species of bodily exertion. the less inclined he should prove to cultivate the means of deliverance and happiness within his reach, the more necessary it became for her to stimulate and fortify his resolution. if i were captivated by the charms of this lady's person and carriage, my reverence was excited by these proofs of wisdom and energy. i zealously promised to concur with her in every scheme she should adopt for her own or her brother's advantage; and, after spending some hours with her, took my leave. i now regretted the ignorance in which i had hitherto remained respecting this lady. that she was, in an eminent degree, feminine and lovely, was easily discovered; but intellectual weakness had been rashly inferred from external frailty. she was accustomed to shrink from observation, and reserve was mistaken for timidity. i called on carlton only when numerous engagements would allow, and when, by some accident, his customary visits had been intermitted. on those occasions, my stay was short, and my attention chiefly confined to her brother. i now resolved to atone for my ancient negligence, not only by my own assiduities, but by those of my wife. on my return home, i found mervyn and my wife in earnest discourse. i anticipated the shock which the sensibility of the latter would receive from the tidings which i had to communicate respecting carlton. i was unwilling, and yet perceived the necessity of disclosing the truth. i desired to bring these women, as soon as possible, to the knowledge of each other, but the necessary prelude to this was an acquaintance with the disaster that had happened. scarcely had i entered the room, when mervyn turned to me, and said, with an air of anxiety and impatience, "pray, my friend, have you any knowledge of francis carlton?" the mention of this name by mervyn produced some surprise. i acknowledged my acquaintance with him. "do you know in what situation he now is?" in answer to this question, i stated by what singular means his situation had been made known to me, and the purpose from the accomplishment of which i had just returned. i inquired in my turn, "whence originated this question?" he had overheard the name of carlton in the prison. two persons were communing in a corner, and accident enabled him to catch this name, though uttered by them in a half whisper, and to discover that the person talked about had lately been conveyed thither. this name was not now heard for the first time. it was connected with remembrances that made him anxious for the fate of him to whom it belonged. in discourse with my wife, this name chanced to be again mentioned, and his curiosity was roused afresh. i was willing to communicate all that i knew, but mervyn's own destiny was too remarkable not to absorb all my attention, and i refused to discuss any other theme till that were fully explained. he postponed his own gratification to mine, and consented to relate the incidents that had happened from the moment of our separation till the present. chapter xxix. at parting with you, my purpose was to reach the abode of the hadwins as speedily as possible. i travelled therefore with diligence. setting out so early, i expected, though on foot, to reach the end of my journey before noon. the activity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. so far from being inconsistent with intense musing, it is, in my own case, propitious to that state of mind. probably no one had stronger motives for ardent meditation than i. my second journey to the city was prompted by reasons, and attended by incidents, that seemed to have a present existence. to think upon them was to view, more deliberately and thoroughly, objects and persons that still hovered in my sight. instead of their attributes being already seen, and their consequences at an end, it seemed as if a series of numerous years and unintermitted contemplation were requisite to comprehend them fully, and bring into existence their most momentous effects. if men be chiefly distinguished from each other by the modes in which attention is employed, either on external and sensible objects, or merely on abstract ideas and the creatures of reflection, i may justly claim to be enrolled in the second class. my existence is a series of thoughts rather than of motions. ratiocination and deduction leave my senses unemployed. the fulness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and inactive. sensations do not precede and suggest, but follow and are secondary to, the acts of my mind. there was one motive, however, which made me less inattentive to the scene that was continually shifting before and without me than i am wont to be. the loveliest form which i had hitherto seen was that of clemenza lodi. i recalled her condition as i had witnessed it, as welbeck had described, and as you had painted it. the past was without remedy; but the future was, in some degree, within our power to create and to fashion. her state was probably dangerous. she might already be forlorn, beset with temptation or with anguish; or danger might only be approaching her, and the worst evils be impending ones. i was ignorant of her state. could i not remove this ignorance? would not some benefit redound to her from beneficent and seasonable interposition? you had mentioned that her abode had lately been with mrs. villars, and that this lady still resided in the country. the residence had been sufficiently described, and i perceived that i was now approaching it. in a short time i spied its painted roof and five chimneys through an avenue of _catalpas_. when opposite the gate which led into this avenue, i paused. it seemed as if this moment were to decide upon the liberty and innocence of this being. in a moment i might place myself before her, ascertain her true condition, and point out to her the path of honour and safety. this opportunity might be the last. longer delay might render interposition fruitless. but how was i to interpose? i was a stranger to her language, and she was unacquainted with mine. to obtain access to her, it was necessary only to demand it. but how should i explain my views and state my wishes when an interview was gained? and what expedient was it in my power to propose? "now," said i, "i perceive the value of that wealth which i have been accustomed to despise. the power of eating and drinking, the nature and limits of existence and physical enjoyment, are not changed or enlarged by the increase of wealth. our corporeal and intellectual wants are supplied at little expense; but our own wants are the wants of others, and that which remains, after our own necessities are obviated, it is always easy and just to employ in relieving the necessities of others. "there are no superfluities in my store. it is not in my power to supply this unfortunate girl with decent raiment and honest bread. i have no house to which to conduct her. i have no means of securing her from famine and cold. "yet, though indigent and feeble, i am not destitute of friends and of home. cannot she be admitted to the same asylum to which i am now going?" this thought was sudden and new. the more it was revolved, the more plausible it seemed. this was not merely the sole expedient, but the best that could have been suggested. the hadwins were friendly, hospitable, unsuspicious. their board, though simple and uncouth, was wholesome and plenteous. their residence was sequestered and obscure, and not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and malignant animadversion. their frank and ingenuous temper would make them easy of persuasion, and their sympathies were prompt and overflowing. "i am nearly certain," continued i, "that they will instantly afford protection to this desolate girl. why shall i not anticipate their consent, and present myself to their embraces and their welcomes in her company?" slight reflection showed me that this precipitation was improper. whether wallace had ever arrived at malverton, whether mr. hadwin had escaped infection, whether his house were the abode of security and quiet, or a scene of desolation, were questions yet to be determined. the obvious and best proceeding was to hasten forward, to afford the hadwins, if in distress, the feeble consolations of my friendship; or, if their state were happy, to procure their concurrence to my scheme respecting clemenza. actuated by these considerations, i resumed my journey. looking forward, i perceived a chaise and horse standing by the left-hand fence, at the distance of some hundred yards. this object was not uncommon or strange, and, therefore, it was scarcely noticed. when i came near, however, methought i recognised in this carriage the same in which my importunities had procured a seat for the languishing wallace, in the manner which i have formerly related. it was a crazy vehicle and old-fashioned. when once seen it could scarcely be mistaken or forgotten. the horse was held by his bridle to a post, but the seat was empty. my solicitude with regard to wallace's destiny, of which he to whom the carriage belonged might possibly afford me some knowledge, made me stop and reflect on what measures it was proper to pursue. the rider could not be at a great distance from this spot. his absence would probably be short. by lingering a few minutes an interview might be gained, and the uncertainty and suspense of some hours be thereby precluded. i therefore waited, and the same person whom i had formerly encountered made his appearance, in a short time, from under a copse that skirted the road. he recognised me with more difficulty than attended my recognition of him. the circumstances, however, of our first meeting were easily recalled to his remembrance. i eagerly inquired when and where he had parted with the youth who had been, on that occasion, intrusted to his care. he answered that, on leaving the city and inhaling the purer air of the fields and woods, wallace had been, in a wonderful degree, invigorated and refreshed. an instantaneous and total change appeared to have been wrought in him. he no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but became full of gayety and talk. the suddenness of this transition; the levity with which he related and commented on his recent dangers and evils, excited the astonishment of his companion, to whom he not only communicated the history of his disease, but imparted many anecdotes of a humorous kind. some of these my companion repeated. i heard them with regret and dissatisfaction. they betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse with the thoughtless and depraved of both sexes, and particularly with infamous and profligate women. my companion proceeded to mention that wallace's exhilaration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. he was seized with deadly sickness, and insisted upon leaving the carriage, whose movements shocked his stomach and head to an insupportable degree. his companion was not void of apprehensions on his own account, but was unwilling to desert him, and endeavoured to encourage him. his efforts were vain. though the nearest house was at the distance of some hundred yards, and though it was probable that the inhabitants of this house would refuse to accommodate one in his condition, yet wallace could not be prevailed on to proceed; and, in spite of persuasion and remonstrance, left the carriage and threw himself on the grassy bank beside the road. this person was not unmindful of the hazard which he incurred by contact with a sick man. he conceived himself to have performed all that was consistent with duty to himself and to his family; and wallace, persisting in affirming that, by attempting to ride farther, he should merely hasten his death, was at length left to his own guidance. these were unexpected and mournful tidings. i had fondly imagined that his safety was put beyond the reach of untoward accidents. now, however, there was reason to suppose him to have perished by a lingering and painful disease, rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, by the want of seasonable remedies, and exposure to inclement airs. some uncertainty, however, rested on his fate. it was my duty to remove it, and to carry to the hadwins no mangled and defective tale. where, i asked, had wallace and his companion parted? it was about three miles farther onward. the spot, and the house within view from the spot, were accurately described. in this house it was possible that wallace had sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting him might be gained from its inhabitants. my informant was journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to separate. in consequence of this man's description of wallace's deportment, and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless temper which he had given, i began to regard his death as an event less deplorable. such a one was unworthy of a being so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and tenderness, as susan hadwin. if he loved, it was probable that, in defiance of his vows, he would seek a different companion. if he adhered to his first engagements, his motives would be sordid, and the disclosure of his latent defects might produce more exquisite misery to his wife than his premature death or treacherous desertion. the preservation of this man was my sole motive for entering the infected city, and subjecting my own life to the hazards from which my escape may almost be esteemed miraculous. was not the end disproportioned to the means? was there arrogance in believing my life a price too great to be given for his? i was not, indeed, sorry for the past. my purpose was just, and the means which i selected were the best my limited knowledge supplied. my happiness should be drawn from reflecting on the equity of my intentions. that these intentions were frustrated by the ignorance of others, or my own, was the consequence of human frailty. honest purposes, though they may not bestow happiness on others, will, at least, secure it to him who fosters them. by these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and i prepared to rejoice alike, whether wallace should be found to have escaped or to have perished. the house to which i had been directed was speedily brought into view. i inquired for the master or mistress of the mansion, and was conducted to a lady of a plain and housewifely appearance. my curiosity was fully gratified. wallace, whom my description easily identified, had made his appearance at her door on the evening of the day on which he left the city. the dread of _the fever_ was descanted on with copious and rude eloquence. i supposed her eloquence on this theme to be designed to apologize to me for her refusing entrance to the sick man. the peroration, however, was different. wallace was admitted, and suitable attention paid to his wants. happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but extreme weakness. repose, nourishing diet, and salubrious airs restored him in a short time to health. he lingered under this roof for three weeks, and then, without any professions of gratitude, or offers of pecuniary remuneration, or information of the course which he determined to take, he left them. these facts, added to that which i had previously known, threw no advantageous light upon the character of wallace. it was obvious to conclude that he had gone to malverton, and thither there was nothing to hinder me from following him. perhaps one of my grossest defects is a precipitate temper. i choose my path suddenly, and pursue it with impetuous expedition. in the present instance, my resolution was conceived with unhesitating zeal, and i walked the faster that i might the sooner execute it. miss hadwin deserved to be happy. love was in her heart the all-absorbing sentiment. a disappointment there was a supreme calamity. depravity and folly must assume the guise of virtue before it can claim her affection. this disguise might be maintained for a time, but its detection must inevitably come, and the sooner this detection takes place the more beneficial it must prove. i resolved to unbosom myself, with equal and unbounded confidence, to wallace and his mistress. i would choose for this end, not the moment when they were separate, but that in which they were together. my knowledge, and the sources of my knowledge, relative to wallace, should be unfolded to the lady with simplicity and truth. the lover should be present, to confute, to extenuate, or to verify the charges. during the rest of the day these images occupied the chief place in my thoughts. the road was miry and dark, and my journey proved to be more tedious and fatiguing than i expected. at length, just as the evening closed, the well-known habitation appeared in view. since my departure, winter had visited the world, and the aspect of nature was desolate and dreary. all around this house was vacant, negligent, forlorn. the contrast between these appearances and those which i had noticed on my first approach to it, when the ground and the trees were decked with the luxuriance and vivacity of summer, was mournful, and seemed to foretoken ill. my spirits drooped as i noticed the general inactivity and silence. i entered, without warning, the door that led into the parlour. no face was to be seen or voice heard. the chimney was ornamented, as in summer, with evergreen shrubs. though it was now the second month of frost and snow, fire did not appear to have been lately kindled on this hearth. this was a circumstance from which nothing good could be deduced. had there been those to share its comforts who had shared them on former years, this was the place and hour at which they commonly assembled. a door on one side led, through a narrow entry, into the kitchen. i opened this door, and passed towards the kitchen. no one was there but an old man, squatted in the chimney-corner. his face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed health and an unbending spirit. a homespun coat, leathern breeches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn hose, were well suited to his lean and shrivelled form. on his right knee was a wooden bowl, which he had just replenished from a pipkin of hasty pudding still smoking on the coals; and in his left hand a spoon, which he had, at that moment, plunged into a bottle of molasses that stood beside him. this action was suspended by my entrance. he looked up and exclaimed, "heyday! who's this that comes into other people's houses without so much as saying 'by your leave'? what's thee business? who's thee want?" i had never seen this personage before. i supposed it to be some new domestic, and inquired for mr. hadwin. "ah!" replied he, with a sigh, "william hadwin. is it him thee wants? poor man! he is gone to rest many days since." my heart sunk within me at these tidings. "dead!" said i; "do you mean that he is dead?"--this exclamation was uttered in a tone of some vehemence. it attracted the attention of some one who was standing without, who immediately entered the kitchen. it was eliza hadwin. the moment she beheld me she shrieked aloud, and, rushing into my arms, fainted away. the old man dropped his bowl; and, starting from his seat, stared alternately at me and at the breathless girl. my emotion, made up of joy, and sorrow, and surprise, rendered me for a moment powerless as she. at length he said, "i understand this. i know who thee is, and will tell her thee's come." so saying, he hastily left the room. chapter xxx. in a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. she did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, but, leaning on my bosom, she resigned herself to passionate weeping. i did not endeavour to check this effusion, believing that its influence would be salutary. i had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and artless graces of this girl. i had not forgotten the scruples which had formerly made me check a passion whose tendency was easily discovered. these new proofs of her affection were, at once, mournful and delightful. the untimely fate of her father and my friend pressed with new force upon my heart, and my tears, in spite of my fortitude, mingled with hers. the attention of both was presently attracted by a faint scream, which proceeded from above. immediately tottering footsteps were heard in the passage, and a figure rushed into the room, pale, emaciated, haggard, and wild. she cast a piercing glance at me, uttered a feeble exclamation, and sunk upon the floor without signs of life. it was not difficult to comprehend this scene. i now conjectured, what subsequent inquiry confirmed, that the old man had mistaken me for wallace, and had carried to the elder sister the news of his return. this fatal disappointment of hopes that had nearly been extinct, and which were now so powerfully revived, could not be endured by a frame verging to dissolution. this object recalled all the energies of eliza, and engrossed all my solicitude. i lifted the fallen girl in my arms; and, guided by her sister, carried her to her chamber. i had now leisure to contemplate the changes which a few months had made in this lovely frame. i turned away from the spectacle with anguish, but my wandering eyes were recalled by some potent fascination, and fixed in horror upon a form which evinced the last stage of decay. eliza knelt on one side, and, leaning her face upon the bed, endeavoured in vain to smother her sobs. i sat on the other motionless, and holding the passive and withered hand of the sufferer. i watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life. it returned at length, but merely to betray symptoms that it would speedily depart forever. for a time my faculties were palsied, and i was made an impotent spectator of the ruin that environed me. this pusillanimity quickly gave way to resolutions and reflections better suited to the exigencies of the time. the first impulse was to summon a physician; but it was evident that the patient had been sinking by slow degrees to this state, and that the last struggle had begun. nothing remained but to watch her while expiring, and perform for her, when dead, the rites of interment. the survivor was capable of consolation and of succour. i went to her and drew her gently into another apartment. the old man, tremulous and wonder-struck, seemed anxious to perform some service. i directed him to kindle a fire in eliza's chamber. meanwhile i persuaded my gentle friend to remain in this chamber, and resign to me the performance of every office which her sister's condition required. i sat beside the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle was past. i perceived that the house had no inhabitant besides the two females and the old man. i went in search of the latter, and found him crouched, as before, at the kitchen-fire, smoking his pipe. i placed myself on the same bench, and entered into conversation with him. i gathered from him that he had, for many years, been mr. hadwin's servant. that lately he had cultivated a small farm in this neighbourhood for his own advantage. stopping one day in october, at the tavern, he heard that his old master had lately been in the city, had caught _the fever_, and after his return had died with it. the moment he became sick, his servants fled from the house, and the neighbours refused to approach it. the task of attending his sick-bed was allotted to his daughters, and it was by their hands that his grave was dug and his body covered with earth. the same terror of infection existed after his death as before, and these hapless females were deserted by all mankind. old caleb was no sooner informed of these particulars, than he hurried to the house, and had since continued in their service. his heart was kind, but it was easily seen that his skill extended only to execute the directions of another. grief for the death of wallace and her father preyed upon the health of the eldest daughter. the younger became her nurse, and caleb was always at hand to execute any orders the performance of which was on a level with his understanding. their neighbours had not withheld their good offices, but they were still terrified and estranged by the phantoms of pestilence. during the last week susan had been too weak to rise from her bed; yet such was the energy communicated by the tidings that wallace was alive, and had returned, that she leaped upon her feet and rushed down-stairs. how little did that man deserve so strenuous and immortal an affection! i would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings of these women. i endeavoured to think only of the best expedients for putting an end to these calamities. after a moment's deliberation i determined to go to a house at some miles' distance; the dwelling of one who, though not exempt from the reigning panic, had shown more generosity towards these unhappy girls than others. during my former abode in this district, i had ascertained his character, and found him to be compassionate and liberal. overpowered by fatigue and watching, eliza was no sooner relieved, by my presence, of some portion of her cares, than she sunk into profound slumber. i directed caleb to watch the house till my return, which should be before midnight, and then set out for the dwelling of mr. ellis. the weather was temperate and moist, and rendered the footing of the meadows extremely difficult. the ground, that had lately been frozen and covered with snow, was now changed into gullies and pools, and this was no time to be fastidious in the choice of paths. a brook, swelled by the recent _thaw_, was likewise to be passed. the rail which i had formerly placed over it by way of bridge had disappeared, and i was obliged to wade through it. at length i approached the house to which i was going. at so late an hour, farmers and farmers' servants are usually abed, and their threshold is intrusted to their watch-dogs. two belonged to mr. ellis, whose ferocity and vigilance were truly formidable to a stranger; but i hoped that in me they would recognise an old acquaintance, and suffer me to approach. in this i was not mistaken. though my person could not be distinctly seen by starlight, they seemed to scent me from afar, and met me with a thousand caresses. approaching the house, i perceived that its tenants were retired to their repose. this i expected, and hastened to awaken mr. ellis, by knocking briskly at the door. presently he looked out of a window above, and, in answer to his inquiries, in which impatience at being so unseasonably disturbed was mingled with anxiety, i told him my name, and entreated him to come down and allow me a few minutes' conversation. he speedily dressed himself, and, opening the kitchen door, we seated ourselves before the fire. my appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his wonder; he had heard of my elopement from the house of mr. hadwin, he was a stranger to the motives that prompted my departure, and to the events that had befallen me, and no interview was more distant from his expectations than the present. his curiosity was written in his features, but this was no time to gratify his curiosity. the end that i now had in view was to procure accommodation for eliza hadwin in this man's house. for this purpose it was my duty to describe, with simplicity and truth, the inconveniences which at present surrounded her, and to relate all that had happened since my arrival. i perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and i continued with new zeal to paint to him the helplessness of this girl. the death of her father and sister left her the property of this farm. her sex and age disqualified her for superintending the harvest-field and the threshing-floor; and no expedient was left but to lease the land to another, and, taking up her abode in the family of some kinsman or friend, to subsist, as she might easily do, upon the rent. meanwhile her continuance in this house was equally useless and dangerous, and i insinuated to my companion the propriety of immediately removing her to his own. some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which i immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection. i endeavoured, by appealing to his reason as well as to his pity, to conquer this dread. i pointed out the true cause of the death of the elder daughter, and assured him the youngest knew no indisposition but that which arose from distress. i offered to save him from any hazard that might attend his approaching the house, by accompanying her hither myself. all that her safety required was that his doors should not be shut against her when she presented herself before them. still he was fearful and reluctant; and, at length, mentioned that her uncle resided not more than sixteen miles farther; that he was her natural protector, and, he dared to say, would find no difficulty in admitting her into his house. for his part, there might be reason in what i said, but he could not bring himself to think but that there was still some danger of _the fever_. it was right to assist people in distress, to-be-sure; but to risk his own life he did not think to be his duty. he was no relation of the family, and it was the duty of relations to help each other. her uncle was the proper person to assist her, and no doubt he would be as willing as able. the marks of dubiousness and indecision which accompanied these words encouraged me in endeavouring to subdue his scruples. the increase of his aversion to my scheme kept pace with my remonstrances, and he finally declared that he would, on no account, consent to it. ellis was by no means hard of heart. his determination did not prove the coldness of his charity, but merely the strength of his fears. he was himself an object more of compassion than of anger; and he acted like the man whose fear of death prompts him to push his companion from the plank which saved him from drowning, but which is unable to sustain both. finding him invincible to my entreaties, i thought upon the expedient which he suggested of seeking the protection of her uncle. it was true that the loss of parents had rendered her uncle her legal protector. his knowledge of the world; his house and property and influence, would, perhaps, fit him for this office in a more eminent degree than i was fitted. to seek a different asylum might, indeed, be unjust to both; and, after some reflection, i not only dismissed the regret which ellis's refusal had given me, but even thanked him for the intelligence and counsel which he had afforded me. i took leave of him, and hastened back to hadwin's. eliza, by caleb's report, was still asleep. there was no urgent necessity for awakening her; but something was forthwith to be done with regard to the unhappy girl that was dead. the proceeding incumbent on us was obvious. all that remained was to dig a grave, and to deposit the remains with as much solemnity and decency as the time would permit. there were two methods of doing this. i might wait till the next day; till a coffin could be made and conveyed hither; till the woman, whose trade it was to make and put on the habiliments assigned by custom to the dead, could be sought out and hired to attend; till kindred, friends, and neighbours could be summoned to the obsequies; till a carriage were provided to remove the body to a burying-ground, belonging to a meeting-house, and five miles distant; till those whose trade it was to dig graves had prepared one, within the sacred enclosure, for her reception; or, neglecting this toilsome, tedious, and expensive ceremonial, i might seek the grave of hadwin, and lay the daughter by the side of her parent. perhaps i was strong in my preference of the latter mode. the customs of burial may, in most cases, be in themselves proper. if the customs be absurd, yet it may be generally proper to adhere to them; but doubtless there are cases in which it is our duty to omit them. i conceived the present case to be such a one. the season was bleak and inclement. much time, labour, and expense would be required to go through the customary rites. there was none but myself to perform these, and i had not the suitable means. the misery of eliza would only be prolonged by adhering to these forms, and her fortune be needlessly diminished by the expenses unavoidably to be incurred. after musing upon these ideas for some time, i rose from my seat, and desired caleb to follow me. we proceeded to an outer shed where farmers' tools used to be kept. i supplied him and myself with a spade, and requested him to lead me to the spot where mr. hadwin was laid. he betrayed some hesitation to comply, and appeared struck with some degree of alarm, as if my purpose had been to molest, instead of securing, the repose of the dead. i removed his doubts by explaining my intentions; but he was scarcely less shocked, on discovering the truth, than he had been alarmed by his first suspicions. he stammered out his objections to my scheme. there was but one mode of burial, he thought, that was decent and proper, and he could not be free to assist me in pursuing any other mode. perhaps caleb's aversion to the scheme might have been easily overcome; but i reflected that a mind like his was at once flexible and obstinate. he might yield to arguments and entreaties, and act by their immediate impulse; but the impulse passed away in a moment, old and habitual convictions were resumed, and his deviation from the beaten track would be merely productive of compunction. his aid, on the present occasion, though of some use, was by no means indispensable. i forbore to solicit his concurrence, or even to vanquish the scruples he entertained against directing me to the grave of hadwin. it was a groundless superstition that made one spot more suitable for this purpose than another. i desired caleb, in a mild tone, to return to the kitchen, and leave me to act as i thought proper. i then proceeded to the orchard. one corner of this field was somewhat above the level of the rest. the tallest tree of the group grew there, and there i had formerly placed a bench, and made it my retreat at periods of leisure. it had been recommended by its sequestered situation, its luxuriant verdure, and profound quiet. on one side was a potato-field, on the other a _melon-patch_; and before me, in rows, some hundreds of apple-trees. here i was accustomed to seek the benefits of contemplation and study the manuscripts of lodi. a few months had passed since i had last visited this spot. what revolutions had since occurred, and how gloomily contrasted was my present purpose with what had formerly led me hither! in this spot i had hastily determined to dig the grave of susan. the grave was dug. all that i desired was a cavity of sufficient dimensions to receive her. this being made, i returned to the house, lifted the corpse in my arms, and bore it without delay to the spot. caleb, seated in the kitchen, and eliza, asleep in her chamber, were wholly unapprized of my motions. the grave was covered, the spade reposited under the shed, and my seat by the kitchen-fire resumed in a time apparently too short for so solemn and momentous a transaction. i look back upon this incident with emotions not easily described. it seems as if i acted with too much precipitation; as if insensibility, and not reason, had occasioned that clearness of conceptions, and bestowed that firmness of muscles, which i then experienced. i neither trembled nor wavered in my purpose. i bore in my arms the being whom i had known and loved, through the whistling gale and intense darkness of a winter's night; i heaped earth upon her limbs, and covered them from human observation, without fluctuations or tremors, though not without feelings that were awful and sublime. perhaps some part of my steadfastness was owing to my late experience, and some minds may be more easily inured to perilous emergencies than others. if reason acquires strength only by the diminution of sensibility, perhaps it is just for sensibility to be diminished. chapter xxxi. the safety of eliza was the object that now occupied my cares. to have slept, after her example, had been most proper; but my uncertainty with regard to her fate, and my desire to conduct her to some other home, kept my thoughts in perpetual motion. i waited with impatience till she should awake and allow me to consult with her on plans for futurity. her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen. having recovered the remembrance of what had lately happened, she inquired for her sister. she wanted to view once more the face and kiss the lips of her beloved susan. some relief to her anguish she expected to derive from this privilege. when informed of the truth, when convinced that susan had disappeared forever, she broke forth into fresh passion. it seemed as if her loss was not hopeless or complete as long as she was suffered to behold the face of her friend and to touch her lips. she accused me of acting without warrant and without justice; of defrauding her of her dearest and only consolation; and of treating her sister's sacred remains with barbarous indifference and rudeness. i explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my conduct. i was not surprised or vexed that she, at first, treated them as futile, and as heightening my offence. such was the impulse of a grief which was properly excited by her loss. to be tranquil and steadfast, in the midst of the usual causes of impetuosity and agony, is either the prerogative of wisdom that sublimes itself above all selfish considerations, or the badge of giddy and unfeeling folly. the torrent was at length exhausted. upbraiding was at an end; and gratitude, and tenderness, and implicit acquiescence in any scheme which my prudence should suggest, succeeded. i mentioned her uncle as one to whom it would be proper, in her present distress, to apply. she started and betrayed uneasiness at this name. it was evident that she by no means concurred with me in my notions of propriety; that she thought with aversion of seeking her uncle's protection. i requested her to state her objections to this scheme, or to mention any other which she thought preferable. she knew nobody. she had not a friend in the world but myself. she had never been out of her father's house. she had no relation but her uncle philip, and he--she could not live with him. i must not insist upon her going to his house. it was not the place for her. she should never be happy there. i was, at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some capricious and groundless antipathy. i desired her to explain what in her uncle's character made him so obnoxious. she refused to be more explicit, and persisted in thinking that his house was no suitable abode for her. finding her, in this respect, invincible, i sought for some other expedient. might she not easily be accommodated as a boarder in the city, or some village, or in a remote quarter of the country? ellis, her nearest and most opulent neighbour, had refused to receive her; but there were others who had not his fears. there were others, within the compass of a day's journey, who were strangers to the cause of hadwin's death; but would it not be culpable to take advantage of that ignorance? their compliance ought not to be the result of deception. while thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey recurred to my remembrance, and i asked, "is not the honest woman, who entertained wallace, just such a person as that of whom i am in search? her treatment of wallace shows her to be exempt from chimerical fears, proves that she has room in her house for an occasional inmate." encouraged by these views, i told my weeping companion that i had recollected a family in which she would be kindly treated; and that, if she chose, we would not lose a moment in repairing thither. horses, belonging to the farm, grazed in the meadows, and a couple of these would carry us in a few hours to the place which i had selected for her residence. on her eagerly assenting to this proposal, i inquired in whose care, and in what state, our present habitation should be left. the father's property now belonged to the daughter. eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious; but her total inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance of folly. she was eager to fly from this house, and to resign herself and her property, without limitation or condition, to my control. our intercourse had been short, but she relied on my protection and counsel as absolutely as she had been accustomed to do upon her father's. she knew not what answer to make to my inquiry. whatever i pleased to do was the best. what did i think ought to be done? "ah!" thought i, "sweet, artless, and simple girl! how wouldst thou have fared, if heaven had not sent me to thy succour? there are beings in the world who would make a selfish use of thy confidence; who would beguile thee at once of innocence and property. such am not i. thy welfare is a precious deposit, and no father or brother could watch over it with more solicitude than i will do." i was aware that mr. hadwin might have fixed the destination of his property, and the guardianship of his daughters, by will. on suggesting this to my friend, it instantly reminded her of an incident that took place after his last return from the city. he had drawn up his will, and gave it into susan's possession, who placed it in a drawer, whence it was now taken by my friend. by this will his property was now found to be bequeathed to his two daughters; and his brother, philip hadwin, was named executor, and guardian to his daughters till they should be twenty years old. this name was no sooner heard by my friend, than she exclaimed, in a tone of affright, "executor! my uncle! what is that? what power does that give him?" "i know not exactly the power of executors. he will, doubtless, have possession of your property till you are twenty years of age. your person will likewise be under his care till that time." "must he decide where i am to live?" "he is vested with all the power of a father." this assurance excited the deepest consternation. she fixed her eyes on the ground, and was lost, for a time, in the deepest reverie. recovering, at length, she said, with a sigh, "what if my father had made no will?" "in that case, a guardian could not be dispensed with, but the right of naming him would belong to yourself." "and my uncle would have nothing to do with my affairs?" "i am no lawyer," said i; "but i presume all authority over your person and property would devolve upon the guardian of your own choice." "then i am free." saying this, with a sudden motion, she tore in several pieces the will, which, during this dialogue, she had held in her hand, and threw the fragments into the fire. no action was more unexpected to me than this. my astonishment hindered me from attempting to rescue the paper from the flames. it was consumed in a moment. i was at a loss in what manner to regard this sacrifice. it denoted a force of mind little in unison with that simplicity and helplessness which this girl had hitherto displayed. it argued the deepest apprehensions of mistreatment from her uncle. whether his conduct had justified this violent antipathy, i had no means of judging. mr. hadwin's choice of him, as his executor, was certainly one proof of his integrity. my abstraction was noticed by eliza with visible anxiety. it was plain that she dreaded the impression which this act of seeming temerity had made upon me. "do not be angry with me," said she; "perhaps i have been wrong, but i could not help it. i will have but one guardian and one protector." the deed was irrevocable. in my present ignorance of the domestic history of the hadwins, i was unqualified to judge how far circumstances might extenuate or justify the act. on both accounts, therefore, it was improper to expatiate upon it. it was concluded to leave the care of the house to honest caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, carrying away the money which was found in one of them, and which amounted to no inconsiderable sum, to repair to the house formerly mentioned. the air was cold; a heavy snow began to fall in the night; the wind blew tempestuously; and we were compelled to confront it. in leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her whole life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sorrow. it made her feeble and helpless. when placed upon the horse, she was scarcely able to maintain her seat. already chilled by the cold, blinded by the drifting snow, and cut by the blast, all my remonstrances were needed to inspire her with resolution. i am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suffer them to retard or divert me from any design that i have formed. i had overlooked the weak and delicate frame of my companion, and made no account of her being less able to support cold and fatigue than myself. it was not till we had made some progress in our way, that i began to view, in their true light, the obstacles that were to be encountered. i conceived it, however, too late to retreat, and endeavoured to push on with speed. my companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was refractory and unmanageable. she was able, however, to curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve miles from malverton. the wind and the cold became too violent to be longer endured, and i resolved to stop at the first house which should present itself to my view, for the sake of refreshment and warmth. we now entered a wood of some extent, at the termination of which i remembered that a dwelling stood. to pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that remained before we could reach a hospitable asylum. i endeavoured to sustain, by this information, the sinking spirits of my companion. while busy in conversing with her, a blast of irresistible force twisted off the highest branch of a tree before us. it fell in the midst of the road, at the distance of a few feet from her horse's head. terrified by this accident, the horse started from the path, and, rushing into the wood, in a moment threw himself and his rider on the ground, by encountering the rugged stock of an oak. i dismounted and flew to her succour. the snow was already dyed with the blood which flowed from some wound in her head, and she lay without sense or motion. my terrors did not hinder me from anxiously searching for the hurt which was received, and ascertaining the extent of the injury. her forehead was considerably bruised; but, to my unspeakable joy, the blood flowed from the nostrils, and was, therefore, to be regarded as no mortal symptom. i lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for some means of relief. the house at which i proposed to stop was upwards of a mile distant. i remembered none that was nearer. to place the wounded girl on my own horse, and proceed gently to the house in question, was the sole expedient; but, at present, she was senseless, and might, on recovering, be too feeble to sustain her own weight. to recall her to life was my first duty; but i was powerless, or unacquainted with the means. i gazed upon her features, and endeavoured, by pressing her in my arms, to inspire her with some warmth. i looked towards the road, and listened for the wished-for sound of some carriage that might be prevailed on to stop and receive her. nothing was more improbable than that either pleasure or business would induce men to encounter so chilling and vehement a blast. to be lighted on by some traveller was, therefore, a hopeless event. meanwhile, eliza's swoon continued, and my alarm increased. what effect her half-frozen blood would have in prolonging this condition, or preventing her return to life, awakened the deepest apprehensions. i left the wood, still bearing her in my arms, and re-entered the road, from the desire of descrying, as soon as possible, the coming passenger. i looked this way and that, and again listened. nothing but the sweeping blast, rent and fallen branches, and snow that filled and obscured the air, were perceivable. each moment retarded the course of my own blood and stiffened my sinews, and made the state of my companion more desperate. how was i to act? to perish myself, or see her perish, was an ignoble fate; courage and activity were still able to avert it. my horse stood near, docile and obsequious; to mount him and to proceed on my way, holding my lifeless burden in my arms, was all that remained. at this moment my attention was called by several voices issuing from the wood. it was the note of gayety and glee. presently a sleigh, with several persons of both sexes, appeared, in a road which led through the forest into that in which i stood. they moved at a quick pace, but their voices were hushed, and they checked the speed of their horses, on discovering us. no occurrence was more auspicious than this; for i relied with perfect confidence on the benevolence of these persons, and, as soon as they came near, claimed their assistance. my story was listened to with sympathy, and one of the young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in placing eliza in the place which he had left. a female, of sweet aspect and engaging manners, insisted upon turning back and hastening to the house, where it seems her father resided, and which the party had just left. i rode after the sleigh, which in a few minutes arrived at the house. the dwelling was spacious and neat, and a venerable man and woman, alarmed by the quick return of the young people, came forth to know the cause. they received their guest with the utmost tenderness, and provided her with all the accommodations which her condition required. their daughter relinquished the scheme of pleasure in which she had been engaged, and, compelling her companions to depart without her, remained to nurse and console the sick. a little time showed that no lasting injury had been suffered. contusions, more troublesome than dangerous, and easily curable by such applications as rural and traditional wisdom has discovered, were the only consequences of the fall. my mind, being relieved from apprehensions on this score, had leisure to reflect upon the use which might be made of the present state of things. when i remarked the structure of this house, and the features and deportment of its inhabitants, methought i discerned a powerful resemblance between this family and hadwin's. it seemed as if some benignant power had led us hither as to the most suitable asylum that could be obtained; and, in order to supply to the forlorn eliza the place of those parents and that sister she had lost, i conceived that, if their concurrence could be gained, no abode was more suitable than this. no time was to be lost in gaining this concurrence. the curiosity of our host and hostess, whose name was curling, speedily afforded me an opportunity to disclose the history and real situation of my friend. there were no motives to reserve or prevarication. there was nothing which i did not faithfully and circumstantially relate. i concluded with stating my wishes that they would admit my friend as a boarder into their house. the old man was warm in his concurrence. his wife betrayed some scruples; which, however, her husband's arguments and mine removed. i did not even suppress the tenor and destruction of the will, and the antipathy which eliza had conceived for her uncle, and which i declared myself unable to explain. it presently appeared that mr. curling had some knowledge of philip hadwin, and that the latter had acquired the repute of being obdurate and profligate. he employed all means to accomplish his selfish ends, and would probably endeavour to usurp the property which his brother had left. to provide against his power and his malice would be particularly incumbent on us, and my new friend readily promised his assistance in the measures which we should take to that end. chapter xxxii. the state of my feelings may be easily conceived to consist of mixed, but, on the whole, of agreeable, sensations. the death of hadwin and his elder daughter could not be thought upon without keen regrets. these it was useless to indulge, and were outweighed by reflections on the personal security in which the survivor was now placed. it was hurtful to expend my unprofitable cares upon the dead, while there existed one to whom they could be of essential benefit, and in whose happiness they would find an ample compensation. this happiness, however, was still incomplete. it was still exposed to hazard, and much remained to be done before adequate provision was made against the worst of evils, poverty. i now found that eliza, being only fifteen years old, stood in need of a guardian, and that the forms of law required that some one should make himself her father's administrator. mr. curling, being tolerably conversant with these subjects, pointed out the mode to be pursued, and engaged to act on this occasion as eliza's friend. there was another topic on which my happiness, as well as that of my friend, required us to form some decision. i formerly mentioned, that, during my abode at malverton, i had not been insensible to the attractions of this girl. an affection had stolen upon me, for which it was easily discovered that i should not have been denied a suitable return. my reasons for stifling these emotions, at that time, have been mentioned. it may now be asked, what effect subsequent events had produced on my feelings, and how far partaking and relieving her distresses had revived a passion which may readily be supposed to have been, at no time, entirely extinguished. the impediments which then existed were removed. our union would no longer risk the resentment or sorrow of her excellent parent. she had no longer a sister to divide with her the property of the farm, and make what was sufficient for both, when living together, too little for either separately. her youth and simplicity required, beyond most others, a legal protector, and her happiness was involved in the success of those hopes which she took no pains to conceal. as to me, it seemed at first view as if every incident conspired to determine my choice. omitting all regard to the happiness of others, my own interest could not fail to recommend a scheme by which the precious benefits of competence and independence might be honestly obtained. the excursions of my fancy had sometimes carried me beyond the bounds prescribed by my situation, but they were, nevertheless, limited to that field to which i had once some prospect of acquiring a title. all i wanted for the basis of my gaudiest and most dazzling structures was a hundred acres of plough-land and meadow. here my spirit of improvement, my zeal to invent and apply new maxims of household luxury and convenience, new modes and instruments of tillage, new arts connected with orchard, garden, and cornfield, were supplied with abundant scope. though the want of these would not benumb my activity, or take away content, the possession would confer exquisite and permanent enjoyments. my thoughts have ever hovered over the images of wife and children with more delight than over any other images. my fancy was always active on this theme, and its reveries sufficiently ecstatic and glowing; but, since my intercourse with this girl, my scattered visions were collected and concentrated. i had now a form and features before me; a sweet and melodious voice vibrated in my ear; my soul was filled, as it were, with her lineaments and gestures, actions and looks. all ideas, possessing any relation to beauty or sex, appeared to assume this shape. they kept an immovable place in my mind, they diffused around them an ineffable complacency. love is merely of value as a prelude to a more tender, intimate, and sacred union. was i not in love? and did i not pant after the irrevocable bounds, the boundless privileges, of wedlock? the question which others might ask, i have asked myself:--was i not in love? i am really at a loss for an answer. there seemed to be irresistible weight in the reasons why i should refuse to marry, and even forbear to foster love in my friend. i considered my youth, my defective education, and my limited views. i had passed from my cottage into the world. i had acquired, even in my transient sojourn among the busy haunts of men, more knowledge than the lucubrations and employments of all my previous years had conferred. hence i might infer the childlike immaturity of my understanding, and the rapid progress i was still capable of making. was this an age to form an irrevocable contract; to choose the companion of my future life, the associate of my schemes of intellectual and benevolent activity? i had reason to contemn my own acquisitions; but were not those of eliza still more slender? could i rely upon the permanence of her equanimity and her docility to my instructions? what qualities might not time unfold, and how little was i qualified to estimate the character of one whom no vicissitude or hardship had approached before the death of her father,--whose ignorance was, indeed, great, when it could justly be said even to exceed my own! should i mix with the world, enroll myself in different classes of society, be a witness to new scenes; might not my modes of judging undergo essential variations? might i not gain the knowledge of beings whose virtue was the gift of experience and the growth of knowledge? who joined to the modesty and charms of woman the benefits of education, the maturity and steadfastness of age, and with whose character and sentiments my own would be much more congenial than they could possibly be with the extreme youth, rustic simplicity, and mental imperfections of eliza hadwin? to say truth, i was now conscious of a revolution in my mind. i can scarcely assign its true cause. no tokens of it appeared during my late retreat to malverton. subsequent incidents, perhaps, joined with the influence of meditation, had generated new views. on my first visit to the city, i had met with nothing but scenes of folly, depravity, and cunning. no wonder that the images connected with the city were disastrous and gloomy; but my second visit produced somewhat different impressions. maravegli, estwick, medlicote, and you, were beings who inspired veneration and love. your residence appeared to beautify and consecrate this spot, and gave birth to an opinion that, if cities are the chosen seats of misery and vice, they are likewise the soil of all the laudable and strenuous productions of mind. my curiosity and thirst of knowledge had likewise received a new direction. books and inanimate nature were cold and lifeless instructors. men, and the works of men, were the objects of rational study, and our own eyes only could communicate just conceptions of human performances. the influence of manners, professions, and social institutions, could be thoroughly known only by direct inspection. competence, fixed property and a settled abode, rural occupations and conjugal pleasures, were justly to be prized; but their value could be known and their benefits fully enjoyed only by those who have tried all scenes; who have mixed with all classes and ranks; who have partaken of all conditions; and who have visited different hemispheres and climates and nations. the next five or eight years of my life should be devoted to activity and change; it should be a period of hardship, danger, and privation; it should be my apprenticeship to fortitude and wisdom, and be employed to fit me for the tranquil pleasures and steadfast exertions of the remainder of my life. in consequence of these reflections, i determined to suppress that tenderness which the company of miss hadwin produced, to remove any mistakes into which she had fallen, and to put it out of my power to claim for her more than the dues of friendship. all ambiguities, in a case like this, and all delays, were hurtful. she was not exempt from passion, but this passion, i thought, was young, and easily extinguished. in a short time her health was restored, and her grief melted down into a tender melancholy. i chose a suitable moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of others, to reveal my thoughts. my disclosure was ingenuous and perfect. i laid before her the whole train of my thoughts, nearly in the order, though in different and more copious terms than those, in which i have just explained them to you. i concealed nothing. the impression which her artless loveliness had made upon me at malverton; my motives for estranging myself from her society; the nature of my present feelings with regard to her, and my belief of the state of her heart; the reasonings into which i had entered; the advantages of wedlock and its inconveniences; and, finally, the resolution i had formed of seeking the city, and, perhaps, of crossing the ocean, were minutely detailed. she interrupted me not, but changing looks, blushes, flutterings, and sighs, showed her to be deeply and variously affected by my discourse. i paused for some observation or comment. she seemed conscious of my expectation, but had no power to speak. overpowered, at length, by her emotions, she burst into tears. i was at a loss in what manner to construe these symptoms. i waited till her vehemence was somewhat subsided, and then said, "what think you of my schemes? your approbation is of some moment: do you approve of them or not?" this question excited some little resentment, and she answered, "you have left me nothing to say. go, and be happy; no matter what becomes of me. i hope i shall be able to take care of myself." the tone in which this was said had something in it of upbraiding. "your happiness," said i, "is too dear to me to leave it in danger. in this house you will not need my protection, but i shall never be so far from you as to be disabled from hearing how you fare, by letter, and of being active for your good. you have some money, which you must husband well. any rent from your farm cannot be soon expected; but what you have got, if you remain with mr. curling, will pay your board and all other expenses for two years; but you must be a good economist. i shall expect," continued i, with a serious smile, "a punctual account of all your sayings and doings. i must know how every minute is employed and every penny is expended, and, if i find you erring, i must tell you so in good round terms." these words did not dissipate the sullenness which her looks had betrayed. she still forbore to look at me, and said, "i do not know how i should tell you every thing. you care so little about me that--i should only be troublesome. i am old enough to think and act for myself, and shall advise with nobody but myself." "that is true," said i. "i shall rejoice to see you independent and free. consult your own understanding, and act according to its dictates. nothing more is wanting to make you useful and happy. i am anxious to return to the city, but, if you will allow me, will go first to malverton, see that things are in due order, and that old caleb is well. from thence, if you please, i will call at your uncle's, and tell him what has happened. he may, otherwise, entertain pretensions and form views erroneous in themselves and injurious to you. he may think himself entitled to manage your estate. he may either suppose a will to have been made, or may actually have heard from your father, or from others, of that which you burnt, and in which he was named executor. his boisterous and sordid temper may prompt him to seize your house and goods, unless seasonably apprized of the truth; and, when he knows the truth, he may start into rage, which i shall be more fitted to encounter than you. i am told that anger transforms him into a ferocious madman. shall i call upon him?" she shuddered at the picture which i had drawn of her uncle's character; but this emotion quickly gave place to self-upbraiding for the manner in which she had repelled my proffers of service. she melted once more into tears, and exclaimed,-"i am not worthy of the pains you take for me. i am unfeeling and ungrateful. why should i think ill of you for despising me, when i despise myself?" "you do yourself injustice, my friend. i think i see your most secret thoughts; and these, instead of exciting anger or contempt, only awaken compassion and tenderness. you love; and must, therefore, conceive my conduct to be perverse and cruel. i counted on your harbouring such thoughts. time only and reflection will enable you to see my motives in their true light. hereafter you will recollect my words, and find them sufficient to justify my conduct. you will acknowledge the propriety of my engaging in the cares of the world before i sit down in retirement and ease." "ah! how much you mistake me! i admire and approve of your schemes. what angers and distresses me is, that you think me unworthy to partake of your cares and labours; that you regard my company as an obstacle and encumbrance; that assistance and counsel must all proceed from you; and that no scene is fit for me, but what you regard as slothful and inglorious. "have i not the same claims to be wise, and active, and courageous, as you? if i am ignorant and weak, do i not owe it to the same cause that has made you so? and will not the same means which promote your improvement be likewise useful to me? you desire to obtain knowledge, by travelling and conversing with many persons, and studying many sciences; but you desire it for yourself alone. me you think poor, weak, and contemptible; fit for nothing but to spin and churn. provided i exist, am screened from the weather, have enough to eat and drink, you are satisfied. as to strengthening my mind and enlarging my knowledge, these things are valuable to you, but on me they are thrown away. i deserve not the gift." this strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly unexpected. i was surprised and disconcerted. in my previous reasonings i had certainly considered her sex as utterly unfitting her for those scenes and pursuits to which i had destined myself. not a doubt of the validity of my conclusion had insinuated itself; but now my belief was shaken, though it was not subverted. i could not deny that human ignorance was curable by the same means in one sex as in the other; that fortitude and skill were of no less value to one than to the other. questionless, my friend was rendered, by her age and inexperience, if not by sex, more helpless and dependent than i; but had i not been prone to overrate the difficulties which i should encounter? had i not deemed unjustly of her constancy and force of mind? marriage would render her property joint, and would not compel me to take up my abode in the woods, to abide forever in one spot, to shackle my curiosity, or limit my excursions. but marriage was a contract awful and irrevocable. was this the woman with whom my reason enjoined me to blend my fate, without the power of dissolution? would not time unfold qualities in her which i did not at present suspect, and which would evince an incurable difference in our minds? would not time lead me to the feet of one who more nearly approached that standard of ideal excellence which poets and romancers had exhibited to my view? these considerations were powerful and delicate. i knew not in what terms to state them to my companion, so as to preclude the imputation of arrogance or indecorum. it became me, however, to be explicit, and to excite her resentment rather than mislead her judgment. she collected my meaning from a few words, and, interrupting me, said,-"how very low is the poor eliza in your opinion! we are, indeed, both too young to be married. may i not see you, and talk with you, without being your wife? may i not share your knowledge, relieve your cares, and enjoy your confidence, as a sister might do? may i not accompany you in your journeys and studies, as one friend accompanies another? my property may be yours; you may employ it for your benefit and mine; not because you are my husband, but my friend. you are going to the city. let me go along with you. let me live where you live. the house that is large enough to hold you will hold me. the fare that is good enough for you will be luxury to me. oh! let it be so, will you? "you cannot think how studious, how thoughtful, how inquisitive, i will be. how tenderly i will nurse you when sick! it is possible you may be sick, you know, and, no one in the world will be half so watchful and affectionate as i shall be. will you let me?" in saying this, her earnestness gave new pathos to her voice. insensibly she put her face close to mine, and, transported beyond the usual bounds of reserve by the charms of that picture which her fancy contemplated, she put her lips to my cheek, and repeated, in a melting accent, "will you let me?" you, my friends, who have not seen eliza hadwin, cannot conceive what effect this entreaty was adapted to produce in me. she has surely the sweetest voice, the most speaking features, and most delicate symmetry, that ever woman possessed. her guileless simplicity and tenderness made her more enchanting. to be the object of devotion to a heart so fervent and pure was, surely, no common privilege. thus did she tender me herself; and was not the gift to be received with eagerness and gratitude? no. i was not so much a stranger to mankind as to acquiesce in this scheme. as my sister or my wife, the world would suffer us to reside under the same roof; to apply to common use the same property; and daily to enjoy the company of each other; but she was not my sister, and marriage would be an act of the grossest indiscretion. i explained to her, in few words, the objections to which her project was liable. "well, then," said she, "let me live in the next house, in the neighbourhood, or, at least, in the same city. let me be where i may see you once a day, or once a week, or once a month. shut me not wholly from your society, and the means of becoming, in time, less ignorant and foolish than i now am." after a pause, i replied, "i love you too well not to comply with this request. perhaps the city will be as suitable a residence as any other for you, as it will, for some time, be most convenient to me. i shall be better able to watch over your welfare, and supply you with the means of improvement, when you are within a small distance. at present, you must consent to remain here, while i visit your uncle, and afterwards go to the city. i shall look out for you a suitable lodging, and inform you when it is found. if you then continue in the same mind, i will come, and, having gained the approbation of mr. curling, will conduct you to town." here ended our dialogue. chapter xxxiii. though i had consented to this scheme, i was conscious that some hazards attended it. i was afraid of calumny, which might trouble the peace or destroy the reputation of my friend. i was afraid of my own weakness, which might be seduced into an indiscreet marriage by the charms or sufferings of this bewitching creature. i felt that there was no price too dear to save her from slander. a fair fame is of the highest importance to a young female, and the loss of it but poorly supplied by the testimony of her own conscience. i had reason for tenfold solicitude on this account, since i was her only protector and friend. hence, i cherished some hopes that time might change her views, and suggest less dangerous schemes. meanwhile, i was to lose no time in visiting malverton and philip hadwin. about ten days had elapsed since we had deserted malverton. these were days of successive storms, and travelling had been rendered inconvenient. the weather was now calm and clear, and, early in the morning that ensued the dialogue which i have just related, i set out on horseback. honest caleb was found eating his breakfast nearly in the spot where he had been first discovered. he answered my inquiries by saying, that, two days after our departure, several men had come to the house, one of whom was philip hadwin. they had interrogated him as to the condition of the farm, and the purpose of his remaining on it. william hadwin they knew to have been some time dead; but where were the girls, his daughters? caleb answered that susy, the eldest, was likewise dead. these tidings excited astonishment. when died she, and how, and where was she buried? it happened two days before, and she was buried, he believed, but could not tell where. not tell where? by whom, then, was she buried? really, he could not tell. some strange man came there just as she was dying. he went to the room, and, when she was dead, took her away, but what he did with the body was more than he could say, but he had a notion that he buried it. the man stayed till the morning, and then went off with lizzy, leaving him to keep house by himself. he had not seen either of them, nor, indeed, a single soul since. this was all the information that caleb could afford the visitants. it was so lame and incredible that they began to charge the man with falsehood, and to threaten him with legal animadversion. just then mr. ellis entered the house, and, being made acquainted with the subject of discourse, told all that he himself knew. he related the midnight visit which i had paid him, explained my former situation in the family, and my disappearance in september. he stated the advice he had given me to carry eliza to her uncle's, and my promise to comply with his counsel. the uncle declared he had seen nothing of his niece, and caleb added, that, when she set out, she took the road that led to town. these hints afforded grounds for much conjecture and suspicion. ellis now mentioned some intelligence that he had gathered respecting me in a late journey to ----. it seems i was the son of an honest farmer in that quarter, who married a tidy girl of a milkmaid that lived with him. my father had detected me in making some atrocious advances to my mother-in-law, and had turned me out of doors. i did not go off, however, without rifling his drawer of some hundreds of dollars, which he had laid up against a rainy day. i was noted for such pranks, and was hated by all the neighbours for my pride and laziness. it was easy, by comparison of circumstances, for ellis to ascertain that hadwin's servant mervyn was the same against whom such heavy charges were laid. previously to this journey, he had heard of me from hadwin, who was loud in praise of my diligence, sobriety, and modesty. for his part, he had always been cautious of giving countenance to vagrants that came from nobody knew where, and worked their way with a plausible tongue. he was not surprised to hear it whispered that betsy hadwin had fallen in love with the youth, and now, no doubt, he had persuaded her to run away with him. the heiress of a fine farm was a prize not to be met with every day. philip broke into rage at this news; swore that if it turned out so, his niece should starve upon the town, and that he would take good care to balk the lad. his brother he well knew had left a will, to which he was executor, and that this will would in good time be forthcoming. after much talk and ransacking the house, and swearing at his truant niece, he and his company departed, charging caleb to keep the house and its contents for his use. this was all that caleb's memory had retained of that day's proceedings. curling had lately commented on the character of philip hadwin. this man was totally unlike his brother, was a noted brawler and bully, a tyrant to his children, a plague to his neighbours, and kept a rendezvous for drunkards and idlers, at the sign of the bull's head, at ----. he was not destitute of parts, and was no less dreaded for cunning than malignity. he was covetous, and never missed an opportunity of overreaching his neighbour. there was no doubt that his niece's property would be embezzled should it ever come into his hands, and any power which he might obtain over her person would be exercised to her destruction. his children were tainted with the dissoluteness of their father, and marriage had not repaired the reputation of his daughters, or cured them of depravity: this was the man whom i now proposed to visit. i scarcely need to say that the calumny of betty lawrence gave me no uneasiness. my father had no doubt been deceived, as well as my father's neighbours, by the artifices of this woman. i passed among them for a thief and a profligate, but their error had hitherto been harmless to me. the time might come which should confute the tale without my efforts. betty, sooner or later, would drop her mask, and afford the antidote to her own poisons, unless some new incident should occur to make me hasten the catastrophe. i arrived at hadwin's house. i was received with some attention as a guest. i looked, among the pimpled visages that filled the piazza, for that of the landlord, but found him in an inner apartment with two or three more seated round a table. on intimating my wish to speak with him alone, the others withdrew. hadwin's visage had some traces of resemblance to his brother; but the meek, placid air, pale cheeks, and slender form of the latter were powerfully contrasted with the bloated arrogance, imperious brow, and robust limbs of the former. this man's rage was awakened by a straw; it impelled him in an instant to oaths and buffetings, and made his life an eternal brawl. the sooner my interview with such a personage should be at an end, the better. i therefore explained the purpose of my coming as fully and in as few words as possible. "your name, sir, is philip hadwin. your brother william, of malverton, died lately and left two daughters. the youngest only is now alive, and i come, commissioned from her, to inform you that, as no will of her father's is extant, she is preparing to administer to his estate. as her father's brother, she thought you entitled to this information." the change which took place in the countenance of this man, during this address, was remarkable, but not easily described. his cheeks contracted a deeper crimson, his eyes sparkled, and his face assumed an expression in which curiosity was mingled with rage. he bent forward, and said, in a hoarse and contemptuous tone, "pray, is your name mervyn?" i answered, without hesitation, and as if the question were wholly unimportant, "yes; my name is mervyn." "god damn it! you then are the damned rascal"--(but permit me to repeat his speech without the oaths with which it was plentifully interlarded. not three words were uttered without being garnished with a--"god damn it!" "damnation!" "i'll be damned to hell if"--and the like energetic expletives.) "you then are the rascal that robbed billy's house; that ran away with the fool his daughter; persuaded her to burn her father's will, and have the hellish impudence to come into this house! but i thank you for it. i was going to look for you; you've saved me trouble. i'll settle all accounts with you here. fair and softly, my good lad! if i don't bring you to the gallows--if i let you escape without such a dressing! damned impudence! fellow! i've been at malverton. i've heard of your tricks. so! finding the will not quite to your mind, knowing that the executor would balk your schemes, you threw the will into the fire; you robbed the house of all the cash, and made off with the girl!--the old fellow saw it all, and will swear to the truth." these words created some surprise. i meant not to conceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the will, nor even the measures which his niece had taken or intended to take. what i supposed to be unknown to him appeared to have been communicated by the talkative caleb, whose mind was more inquisitive and less sluggish than first appearances had led me to imagine. instead of moping by the kitchen-fire when eliza and i were conversing in an upper room, it now appeared that he had reconnoitred our proceedings through some keyhole or crevice, and had related what he had seen to hadwin. hadwin proceeded to exhaust his rage in oaths and menaces. he frequently clenched his fist and thrust it in my face, drew it back as if to render his blow more deadly; ran over the same series of exclamations on my impudence and villany, and talked of the gallows and the whipping-post; enforced each word by the epithets _damnable_ and _hellish_; closed each sentence with--"and be curst to you!" there was but one mode for me to pursue; all forcible opposition to a man of his strength was absurd. it was my province to make his anger confine itself to words, and patiently to wait till the paroxysm should end or subside of itself. to effect this purpose, i kept my seat, and carefully excluded from my countenance every indication of timidity and panic on the one hand, and of scorn and defiance on the other. my look and attitude were those of a man who expected harsh words, but who entertained no suspicion that blows would be inflicted. i was indebted for my safety to an inflexible adherence to this medium. to have strayed, for a moment, to either side, would have brought upon me his blows. that he did not instantly resort to violence inspired me with courage, since it depended on myself whether food should be supplied to his passion. rage must either progress or decline; and, since it was in total want of provocation, it could not fail of gradually subsiding. my demeanour was calculated to damp the flame, not only by its direct influence, but by diverting his attention from the wrongs which he had received, to the novelty of my behaviour. the disparity in size and strength between us was too evident to make him believe that i confided in my sinews for my defence; and, since i betrayed neither contempt nor fear, he could not but conclude that i trusted to my own integrity or to his moderation. i seized the first pause in his rhetoric to enforce this sentiment. "you are angry, mr. hadwin, and are loud in your threats; but they do not frighten me. they excite no apprehension or alarm, because i know myself able to convince you that i have not injured you. this is an inn, and i am your guest. i am sure i shall find better entertainment than blows. come," continued i, smiling, "it is possible that i am not so mischievous a wretch as your fancy paints me. i have no claims upon your niece but that of friendship, and she is now in the house of an honest man, mr. curling, where she proposes to continue as long as is convenient. "it is true that your brother left a will, which his daughter burnt in my presence, because she dreaded the authority which that will gave you, not only over her property, but person. it is true that on leaving the house she took away the money which was now her own, and which was necessary to subsistence. it is true that i bore her company, and have left her in an honest man's keeping. i am answerable for nothing more. as to you, i meant not to injure you; i advised not the burning of the will. i was a stranger, till after that event, to your character. i knew neither good nor ill of you. i came to tell you all this, because, as eliza's uncle, you had a right to the information." "so! you come to tell me that she burnt the will, and is going to administer--to what, i beseech you? to her father's property? ay, i warrant you. but take this along with you:--that property is mine; land, house, stock, every thing. all is safe and snug under cover of a mortgage, to which billy was kind enough to add a bond. one was sued, and the other _entered up_, a week ago. so that all is safe under my thumb, and the girl may whistle or starve for me. i shall give myself no concern about the strumpet. you thought to get a prize; but, damn me, you've met with your match in me. phil haddin's not so easily choused, i promise you. i intended to give you this news, and a drubbing into the bargain; but you may go, and make haste. she burnt the will, did she, because i was named in it,--and sent you to tell me so? good souls! it was kind of you, and i am bound to be thankful. take her back news of the mortgage; and, as for you, leave my house. you may go scot-free this time; but i pledge my word for a sound beating when you next enter these doors. i'll pay it to you with interest. leave my house, i say!" "a mortgage," said i, in a low voice, and affecting not to hear his commands; "that will be sad news for my friend. why, sir, you are a fortunate man. malverton is an excellent spot; well watered and manured; newly and completely fenced; not a larger barn in the county; oxen and horses and cows in the best order; i never set eyes on a finer orchard. by my faith, sir, you are a fortunate man. but, pray, what have you for dinner? i am hungry as a wolf. order me a beef-steak, and some potation or other. the bottle there,--it is cider, i take it; pray, push it to this side." saying this, i stretched out my hand towards the bottle which stood before him. i confided in the power of a fearless and sedate manner. methought that, as anger was the food of anger, it must unavoidably subside in a contest with equability. this opinion was intuitive, rather than the product of experience, and perhaps i gave no proof of my sagacity in hazarding my safety on its truth. hadwin's character made him dreaded and obeyed by all. he had been accustomed to ready and tremulous submission from men far more brawny and robust than i was, and to find his most vehement menaces and gestures totally ineffectual on a being so slender and diminutive at once wound up his rage and excited his astonishment. one motion counteracted and suspended the other. he lifted his hand, but delayed to strike. one blow, applied with his usual dexterity, was sufficient to destroy me. though seemingly careless, i was watchful of his motions, and prepared to elude the stroke by shrinking or stooping. meanwhile, i stretched my hand far enough to seize the bottle, and, pouring its contents into a tumbler, put it to my lips:-"come, sir, i drink your health, and wish you speedy possession of malverton. i have some interest with eliza, and will prevail on her to forbear all opposition and complaint. why should she complain? while i live, she shall not be a beggar. no doubt your claim is legal, and therefore ought to be admitted. what the law gave, the law has taken away. blessed be the dispensers of law! excellent cider! open another bottle, will you, and, i beseech, hasten dinner, if you would not see me devour the table." it was just, perhaps, to conjure up the demon avarice to fight with the demon anger. reason alone would, in such a contest, be powerless, but, in truth, i spoke without artifice or disguise. if his claim were legal, opposition would be absurd and pernicious. i meant not to rely upon his own assertions, and would not acknowledge the validity of his claim till i had inspected the deed. having instituted suits, this was now in a public office, and there the inspection should be made. meanwhile, no reason could be urged why i should part from him in anger, while his kindred to eliza, and his title to her property, made it useful to secure his favour. it was possible to obtain a remission of his claims, even when the law enforced them; it would be imprudent at least to diminish the chances of remission by fostering his wrath and provoking his enmity. "what!" he exclaimed, in a transport of fury, "a'n't i master of my own house? out, i say!" these were harsh terms, but they were not accompanied by gestures and tones so menacing as those which had before been used. it was plain that the tide, which so lately threatened my destruction, had begun to recede. this encouraged me to persist. "be not alarmed, my good friend," said i, placidly and smiling. "a man of your bone need not fear a pigmy like me. i shall scarcely be able to dethrone you in your own castle, with an army of hostlers, tapsters, and cooks at your beck. you shall still be master here, provided you use your influence to procure me a dinner." his acquiescence in a pacific system was extremely reluctant and gradual. he laid aside one sullen tone and wrathful look after the other; and, at length, consented not only to supply me with a dinner, but to partake of it with me. nothing was more a topic of surprise to himself than his forbearance. he knew not how it was. he had never been treated so before. he was not proof against entreaty and submission; but i had neither supplicated nor submitted. the stuff that i was made of was at once damnably tough and devilishly pliant. when he thought of my impudence, in staying in his house after he had bade me leave it, he was tempted to resume his passion. when he reflected on my courage, in making light of his anger, notwithstanding his known impetuosity and my personal inferiority, he could not withhold his esteem. but my patience under his rebukes, my unalterable equanimity, and my ready consent to the validity of his claims, soothed and propitiated him. an exemption from blows and abuse was all that i could gain from this man. i told him the truth, with regard to my own history, so far as it was connected with the hadwins. i exhibited, in affecting colours, the helpless condition of eliza; but could extort from him nothing but his consent that, if she chose, she might come and live with him. he would give her victuals and clothes for so much house-work as she was able to do. if she chose to live elsewhere, he promised not to molest her, or intermeddle in her concerns. the house and land were his by law, and he would have them. it was not my province to revile or expostulate with him. i stated what measures would be adopted by a man who regarded the interest of others more than his own; who was anxious for the welfare of an innocent girl, connected with him so closely by the ties of kindred, and who was destitute of what is called natural friends. if he did not cancel, for her sake, his bond and mortgage, he would, at least, afford her a frugal maintenance. he would extend to her, in all emergencies, his counsel and protection. all that, he said, was sheer nonsense. he could not sufficiently wonder at my folly, in proposing to him to make a free gift of a hundred rich acres, to a girl too who scarcely knew her right hand from her left; whom the first cunning young rogue like myself would _chouse_ out of the whole, and take herself into the bargain. but my folly was even surpassed by my impudence, since, as the _friend_ of this girl, i was merely petitioning on my own account. i had come to him, whom i never saw before, on whom i had no claim, and who, as i well knew, had reason to think me a sharper, and modestly said, "here's a girl who has no fortune. i am greatly in want of one. pray, give her such an estate that you have in your possession. if you do, i'll marry her, and take it into my own hands." i might be thankful that he did not answer such a petition with a horse-whipping. but if he did not give her his estate, he might extend to her, forsooth, his counsel and protection. "that i've offered to do," continued he. "she may come and live in my house, if she will. she may do some of the family work. i'll discharge the chambermaid to make room for her. lizzy, if i remember right, has a pretty face. she can't have a better market for it than as chambermaid to an inn. if she minds her p's and q's she may make up a handsome sum at the year's end." i thought it time to break off the conference; and, my dinner being finished, took my leave, leaving behind me the character of _a queer sort of chap_. i speeded to the prothonotary's office, which was kept in the village, and quickly ascertained the truth of hadwin's pretensions. there existed a mortgage, with bond and warrant of attorney, to so great an amount as would swallow up every thing at malverton. furnished with these tidings, i prepared, with a drooping heart, to return to mr. curling's. chapter xxxiv. this incident necessarily produced a change in my views with regard to my friend. her fortune consisted of a few hundreds of dollars, which, frugally administered, might procure decent accommodation in the country. when this was consumed, she must find subsistence in tending the big wheel or the milk-pail, unless fortune should enable me to place her in a more favourable situation. this state was, in some respects, but little different from that in which she had spent the former part of her life; but, in her father's house, these employments were dignified by being, in some degree, voluntary, and relieved by frequent intervals of recreation and leisure. now they were likely to prove irksome and servile, in consequence of being performed for hire and imposed by necessity. equality, parental solicitudes, and sisterly endearments, would be wanting to lighten the yoke. these inconveniences, however, were imaginary. this was the school in which fortitude and independence were to be learned. habit, and the purity of rural manners, would, likewise, create anew those ties which death had dissolved. the affections of parent and sister would be supplied by the fonder and more rational attachments of friendship. these toils were not detrimental to beauty or health. what was to be dreaded from them was their tendency to quench the spirit of liberal curiosity; to habituate the person to bodily, rather than intellectual, exertions; to supersede and create indifference or aversion to the only instruments of rational improvement, the pen and the book. this evil, however, was at some distance from eliza. her present abode was quiet and serene. here she might enjoy domestic pleasures and opportunities of mental improvement for the coming twelvemonth at least. this period would, perhaps, be sufficient for the formation of studious habits. what schemes should be adopted for this end would be determined by the destiny to which i myself should be reserved. my path was already chalked out, and my fancy now pursued it with uncommon pleasure. to reside in your family; to study your profession; to pursue some subordinate or casual mode of industry, by which i might purchase leisure for medical pursuits, for social recreations, and for the study of mankind on your busy and thronged stage, was the scope of my wishes. this destiny would not hinder punctual correspondence and occasional visits to eliza. her pen might be called into action, and her mind be awakened by books, and every hour be made to add to her stores of knowledge and enlarge the bounds of her capacity. i was spiritless and gloomy when i left ----; but reflections on my future lot, and just views of the situation of my friend, insensibly restored my cheerfulness. i arrived at mr. curling's in the evening, and hastened to impart to eliza the issue of my commission. it gave her uneasiness, merely as it frustrated the design, on which she had fondly mused, of residing in the city. she was somewhat consoled by my promises of being her constant correspondent and occasional visitor. next morning i set out on my journey hither, on foot. the way was not long; the weather, though cold, was wholesome and serene. my spirits were high, and i saw nothing in the world before me but sunshine and prosperity. i was conscious that my happiness depended not on the revolutions of nature or the caprice of man. all without was, indeed, vicissitude and uncertainty; but within my bosom was a centre not to be shaken or removed. my purposes were honest and steadfast. every sense was the inlet of pleasure, because it was the avenue of knowledge; and my soul brooded over the world to ideas, and glowed with exultation at the grandeur and beauty of its own creations. this felicity was too rapturous to be of long duration. i gradually descended from these heights; and the remembrance of past incidents, connected with the images of your family, to which i was returning, led my thoughts into a different channel. welbeck and the unhappy girl whom he had betrayed; mrs. villars and wallace, were recollected anew. the views which i had formed, for determining the fate and affording assistance to clemenza, were recalled. my former resolutions with regard to her had been suspended by the uncertainty in which the fate of the hadwins was, at that time, wrapped. had it not become necessary wholly to lay aside these resolutions? that, indeed, was an irksome conclusion. no wonder that i struggled to repel it; that i fostered the doubt whether money was the only instrument of benefit; whether caution, and fortitude, and knowledge, were not the genuine preservatives from evil. had i not the means in my hands of dispelling her fatal ignorance of welbeck and of those with whom she resided? was i not authorized, by my previous though slender intercourse, to seek her presence? suppose i should enter mrs. villars's house, desire to be introduced to the lady, accost her with affectionate simplicity, and tell her the truth? why be anxious to smooth the way? why deal in apologies, circuities, and innuendoes? all these are feeble and perverse refinements, unworthy of an honest purpose and an erect spirit. to believe her inaccessible to my visit was absurd. to wait for the permission of those whose interest it might be to shut out visitants was cowardice. this was an infringement of her liberty which equity and law equally condemned. by what right could she be restrained from intercourse with others? doors and passages may be between her and me. with a purpose such as mine, no one had a right to close the one or obstruct the other. away with cowardly reluctances and clownish scruples, and let me hasten this moment to her dwelling. mrs. villars is the portress of the mansion. she will probably present herself before me, and demand the reason of my visit. what shall i say to her? the truth. to falter, or equivocate, or dissemble to this woman would be wicked. perhaps her character has been misunderstood and maligned. can i render her a greater service than to apprize her of the aspersions that have rested on it, and afford her the opportunity of vindication? perhaps she is indeed selfish and profligate; the betrayer of youth and the agent of lasciviousness. does she not deserve to know the extent of her errors and the ignominy of her trade? does she not merit the compassion of the good and the rebukes of the wise? to shrink from the task would prove me cowardly and unfirm. thus far, at least, let my courage extend. alas! clemenza is unacquainted with my language. my thoughts cannot make themselves apparent but by words, and to my words she will be able to affix no meaning. yet is not that a hasty decision? the version from the dramas of zeno which i found in her toilet was probably hers, and proves her to have a speculative knowledge of our tongue. near half a year has since elapsed, during which she has dwelt with talkers of english, and consequently could not fail to have acquired it. this conclusion is somewhat dubious, but experiment will give it certainty. hitherto i had strolled along the path at a lingering pace. time enough, methought, to reach your threshold between sunrise and moonlight, if my way had been three times longer than it was. you were the pleasing phantom that hovered before me and beckoned me forward. what a total revolution had occurred in the course of a few seconds! for thus long did my reasonings with regard to clemenza and the villars require to pass through my understanding, and escape, in half-muttered soliloquy, from my lips. my muscles trembled with eagerness, and i bounded forward with impetuosity. i saw nothing but a vista of catalpas, leafless, loaded with icicles, and terminating in four chimneys and a painted roof. my fancy outstripped my footsteps, and was busy in picturing faces and rehearsing dialogues. presently i reached this new object of my pursuit, darted through the avenue, noticed that some windows of the house were unclosed, drew thence a hasty inference that the house was not without inhabitants, and knocked, quickly and loudly, for admission. some one within crept to the door, opened it with seeming caution, and just far enough to allow the face to be seen. it was the timid, pale, and unwashed face of a girl who was readily supposed to be a servant, taken from a cottage, and turned into a bringer of wood and water and a scourer of tubs and trenches. she waited in timorous silence the delivery of my message. was mrs. villars at home? "no; she has gone to town." were any of her daughters within? she could not tell; she believed--she thought--which did i want? miss hetty or miss sally? "let me see miss hetty." saying this, i pushed gently against the door. the girl, half reluctant, yielded way; i entered the passage, and, putting my hand on the lock of a door that seemed to lead into a parlour,--"is miss hetty in this room?" no; there was nobody there. "go call her, then. tell her there is one who wishes to see her on important business. i will wait for her coming in this room." so saying, i opened the door, and entered the apartment, while the girl withdrew to perform my message. the parlour was spacious and expensively furnished, but an air of negligence and disorder was everywhere visible. the carpet was wrinkled and unswept; a clock on the table, in a glass frame, so streaked and spotted with dust as scarcely to be transparent, and the index motionless, and pointing at four instead of nine; embers scattered on the marble hearth, and tongs lying on the fender with the handle in the ashes; a harpsichord, uncovered, one end loaded with _scores_, tumbled together in a heap, and the other with volumes of novels and plays, some on their edges, some on their backs, gaping open by the scorching of their covers; rent; blurred; stained; blotted; dog-eared; tables awry; chairs crowding each other; in short, no object but indicated the neglect or the ignorance of domestic neatness and economy. my leisure was employed in surveying these objects, and in listening for the approach of miss hetty. some minutes elapsed, and no one came. a reason for delay was easily imagined, and i summoned patience to wait. i opened a book; touched the instrument; surveyed the vases on the mantel-tree; the figures on the hangings, and the print of apollo and the sibyl, taken from salvator, and hung over the chimney. i eyed my own shape and garb in the mirror, and asked how my rustic appearance would be regarded by that supercilious and voluptuous being to whom i was about to present myself. presently the latch of the door was softly moved: it opened, and the simpleton, before described, appeared. she spoke, but her voice was so full of hesitation, and so near a whisper, that much attention was needed to make out her words:--miss hetty was not at home; she was gone to town with her _mistress_. this was a tale not to be credited. how was i to act? she persisted in maintaining the truth of it.--"well, then," said i, at length, "tell miss sally that i wish to speak with her. she will answer my purpose just as well." miss sally was not at home neither. she had gone to town too. they would not be back, she did not know when; not till night, she supposed. it was so indeed; none of them wasn't at home; none but she and nanny in the kitchen: indeed there wasn't. "go tell nanny to come here; i will leave my message with her." she withdrew, but nanny did not receive the summons, or thought proper not to obey it. all was vacant and still. my state was singular and critical. it was absurd to prolong it; but to leave the house with my errand unexecuted would argue imbecility and folly. to ascertain clemenza's presence in this house, and to gain an interview, were yet in my power. had i not boasted of my intrepidity in braving denials and commands when they endeavoured to obstruct my passage to this woman? but here were no obstacles nor prohibition. suppose the girl had said truth, that the matron and her daughters were absent, and that nanny and herself were the only guardians of the mansion. so much the better. my design will not be opposed. i have only to mount the stair, and go from one room to another till i find what i seek. there was hazard, as well as plausibility, in this scheme. i thought it best once more to endeavour to extort information from the girl, and persuade her to be my guide to whomsoever the house contained. i put my hand to the bell and rung a brisk peal. no one came. i passed into the entry, to the foot of a staircase, and to a back-window. nobody was within hearing or sight. once more i reflected on the rectitude of my intentions, on the possibility that the girl's assertions might be true, on the benefits of expedition, and of gaining access to the object of my visit without interruption or delay. to these considerations was added a sort of charm, not easily explained, and by no means justifiable, produced by the very temerity and hazardness accompanying this attempt. i thought, with scornful emotions, on the bars and hinderances which pride, and caprice, and delusive maxims of decorum, raise in the way of human intercourse. i spurned at these semblances and substitutes of honesty, and delighted to shake such fetters into air and trample such impediments to dust. i wanted to see a human being, in order to promote her happiness. it was doubtful whether she was within twenty paces of the spot where i stood. the doubt was to be solved. how? by examining the space. i forthwith proceeded to examine it. i reached the second story. i approached a door that was closed. i knocked. after a pause, a soft voice said, "who is there?" the accents were as musical as those of clemenza, but were in other respects different. i had no topic to discuss with this person. i answered not, yet hesitated to withdraw. presently the same voice was again heard:--"what is it you want? why don't you answer? come in!" i complied with the command, and entered the room. it was deliberation and foresight that led me hither, and not chance or caprice. hence, instead of being disconcerted or vanquished by the objects that i saw, i was tranquil and firm. my curiosity, however, made me a vigilant observer. two females, arrayed with voluptuous negligence, in a manner adapted to the utmost seclusion, and seated in a careless attitude on a sofa, were now discovered. both darted glances at the door. one, who appeared to be the youngest, no sooner saw me, than she shrieked, and, starting from her seat, betrayed in the looks which she successively cast upon me, on herself, and on the chamber, whose apparatus was in no less confusion than that of the apartment below, her consciousness of the unseasonableness of this meeting. the other shrieked likewise, but in her it seemed to be the token of surprise rather than that of terror. there was, probably, somewhat in my aspect and garb that suggested an apology for this intrusion, as arising from simplicity and mistake. she thought proper, however, to assume the air of one offended, and, looking sternly,--"how now, fellow," said she, "what is this? why come you hither?" this questioner was of mature age, but had not passed the period of attractiveness and grace. all the beauty that nature had bestowed was still retained, but the portion had never been great. what she possessed was so modelled and embellished by such a carriage and dress as to give it most power over the senses of the gazer. in proportion, however, as it was intended and adapted to captivate those who know none but physical pleasures, it was qualified to breed distaste and aversion in me. i am sensible how much error may have lurked in this decision. i had brought with me the belief of their being unchaste; and seized, perhaps with too much avidity, any appearance that coincided with my prepossessions. yet the younger by no means inspired the same disgust; though i had no reason to suppose her more unblemished than the elder. her modesty seemed unaffected, and was by no means satisfied, like that of the elder, with defeating future curiosity. the consciousness of what had already been exposed filled her with confusion, and she would have flown away, if her companion had not detained her by some degree of force. "what ails the girl? there's nothing to be frightened at. fellow!" she repeated, "what brings you here?" i advanced and stood before them. i looked steadfastly, but, i believe, with neither effrontery nor anger, on the one who addressed me. i spoke in a tone serious and emphatical. "i come for the sake of speaking to a woman who formerly resided in this house, and probably resides here still. her name is clemenza lodi. if she be here, i request you to conduct me to her instantly." methought i perceived some inquietude, a less imperious and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hearing the name of clemenza. it was momentary, and gave way to peremptory looks. "what is your business with her? and why did you adopt this mode of inquiry? a very extraordinary intrusion! be good enough to leave the chamber. any questions proper to be answered will be answered below." "i meant not to intrude or offend. it was not an idle or impertinent motive that led me hither. i waited below for some time after soliciting an audience of you through the servant. she assured me you were absent, and laid me under the necessity of searching for clemenza lodi myself, and without a guide. i am anxious to withdraw, and request merely to be directed to the room which she occupies." "i direct you," replied she, in a more resolute tone, "to quit the room and the house." "impossible, madam," i replied, still looking at her earnestly; "leave the house without seeing her! you might as well enjoin me to pull the andes on my head!--to walk barefoot to pekin! impossible!" some solicitude was now mingled with her anger. "this is strange insolence! unaccountable behaviour!--begone from my room! will you compel me to call the gentlemen?" "be not alarmed," said i, with augmented mildness. there was, indeed, compassion and sorrow at my heart, and these must have somewhat influenced my looks. "be not alarmed. i came to confer a benefit, not to perpetrate an injury. i came not to censure or expostulate with you, but merely to counsel and aid a being that needs both; all i want is to see her. in this chamber i sought not you, but her. only lead me to her, or tell me where she is. i will then rid you of my presence." "will you compel me to call those who will punish this insolence as it deserves?" "dearest madam! i compel you to nothing. i merely supplicate. i would ask you to lead me to these gentlemen, if i did not know that there are none but females in the house. it is you who must receive and comply with my petition. allow me a moment's interview with clemenza lodi. compliance will harm you not, but will benefit her. what is your objection?" "this is the strangest proceeding! the most singular conduct! is this a place fit to parley with you? i warn you of the consequence of staying a moment longer. depend upon it, you will sorely repent it." "you are obdurate," said i, and turned towards the younger, who listened to this discourse in tremors and panic. i took her hand with an air of humility and reverence. "here," said i, "there seems to be purity, innocence, and condescension. i took this house to be the temple of voluptuousness. females i expected to find in it, but such only as traded in licentious pleasures; specious, perhaps not destitute of talents, beauty, and address, but dissolute and wanton, sensual and avaricious; yet in this countenance and carriage there are tokens of virtue. i am born to be deceived, and the semblance of modesty is readily assumed. under this veil, perhaps, lurk a tainted heart and depraved appetites. is it so?" she made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks seemed to evince that my favourable prepossessions were just. i noticed likewise that the alarm of the elder was greatly increased by this address to her companion. the thought suddenly occurred that this girl might be in circumstances not unlike those of clemenza lodi; that she was not apprized of the character of her associates, and might by this meeting be rescued from similar evils. this suspicion filled me with tumultuous feelings. clemenza was for a time forgotten. i paid no attention to the looks or demeanour of the elder, but was wholly occupied in gazing on the younger. my anxiety to know the truth gave pathos and energy to my tones while i spoke:-"who, where, what are you? do you reside in this house? are you a sister or daughter in this family, or merely a visitant? do you know the character, profession, and views of your companions? do you deem them virtuous, or know them to be profligate? speak! tell me, i beseech you!" the maiden confusion which had just appeared in the countenance of this person now somewhat abated. she lifted her eyes, and glanced by turns at me and at her who sat by her side. an air of serious astonishment overspread her features, and she seemed anxious for me to proceed. the elder, meanwhile, betrayed the utmost alarm, again upbraided my audacity, commanded me to withdraw, and admonished me of the danger i incurred by lingering. i noticed not her interference, but again entreated to know of the younger her true state. she had no time to answer me, supposing her not to want the inclination, for every pause was filled by the clamorous importunities and menaces of the other. i began to perceive that my attempts were useless to this end, but the chief and most estimable purpose was attainable. it was in my power to state the knowledge i possessed, through your means, of mrs. villars and her daughters. this information might be superfluous, since she to whom it was given might be one of this licentious family. the contrary, however, was not improbable, and my tidings, therefore, might be of the utmost moment to her safety. a resolute and even impetuous manner reduced my incessant interrupter to silence. what i had to say, i compressed in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity and candour with the utmost care. i still held the hand that i had taken, and fixed my eyes upon her countenance with a steadfastness that hindered her from lifting her eyes. "i know you not; whether you be dissolute or chaste, i cannot tell. in either case, however, what i am going to say will be useful. let me faithfully repeat what i have heard. it is mere rumour, and i vouch not for its truth. rumour as it is, i submit it to your judgment, and hope that it may guide you into paths of innocence and honour. "mrs. villars and her three daughters are englishwomen, who supported for a time an unblemished reputation, but who, at length, were suspected of carrying on the trade of prostitution. this secret could not be concealed forever. the profligates who frequented their house betrayed them. one of them, who died under their roof, after they had withdrawn from it into the country, disclosed to his kinsman, who attended his death-bed, their genuine character. "the dying man likewise related incidents in which i am deeply concerned. i have been connected with one by name welbeck. in his house i met an unfortunate girl, who was afterwards removed to mrs. villars's. her name was clemenza lodi. residence in this house, under the control of a woman like mrs. villars and her daughters, must be injurious to her innocence, and from this control i now come to rescue her." i turned to the elder, and continued,--"by all that is sacred, i adjure you to tell me whether clemenza lodi be under this roof! if she be not, whither has she gone? to know this i came hither, and any difficulty or reluctance in answering will be useless; till an answer be obtained, i will not go hence." during this speech, anger had been kindling in the bosom of this woman. it now burst upon me in a torrent of opprobrious epithets. i was a villain, a calumniator, a thief. i had lurked about the house, till those whose sex and strength enabled them to cope with me had gone. i had entered these doors by fraud. i was a wretch, guilty of the last excesses of insolence and insult. to repel these reproaches, or endure them, was equally useless. the satisfaction that i sought was only to be gained by searching the house. i left the room without speaking. did i act illegally in passing from one story and one room to another? did i really deserve the imputations of rashness and insolence? my behaviour, i well know, was ambiguous and hazardous, and perhaps wanting in discretion, but my motives were unquestionably pure. i aimed at nothing but the rescue of a human creature from distress and dishonour. i pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age; to the praise of forethought or subtlety. i choose the obvious path, and pursue it with headlong expedition. good intentions, unaided by knowledge, will, perhaps, produce more injury than benefit, and therefore knowledge must be gained, but the acquisition is not momentary; is not bestowed unasked and untoiled for. meanwhile, we must not be inactive because we are ignorant. our good purposes must hurry to performance, whether our knowledge be greater or less. chapter xxxv. to explore the house in this manner was so contrary to ordinary rules, that the design was probably wholly unsuspected by the women whom i had just left. my silence, at parting, might have been ascribed by them to the intimidating influence of invectives and threats. hence i proceeded in my search without interruption. presently i reached a front chamber in the third story. the door was ajar. i entered it on tiptoe. sitting on a low chair by the fire, i beheld a female figure, dressed in a negligent but not indecent manner. her face, in the posture in which she sat, was only half seen. its hues were sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with a feeble and emaciated form. her eyes were fixed upon a babe that lay stretched upon a pillow at her feet. the child, like its mother, for such she was readily imagined to be, was meagre and cadaverous. either it was dead, or could not be very distant from death. the features of clemenza were easily recognised, though no contrast could be greater, in habit and shape and complexion, than that which her present bore to her former appearance. all her roses had faded, and her brilliancies vanished. still, however, there was somewhat fitted to awaken the tenderest emotions. there were tokens of inconsolable distress. her attention was wholly absorbed by the child. she lifted not her eyes till i came close to her and stood before her. when she discovered me, a faint start was perceived. she looked at me for a moment, then, putting one spread hand before her eyes, she stretched out the other towards the door, and waving it in silence, as if to admonish me to depart. this motion, however emphatical, i could not obey. i wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what words to claim it. i was silent. in a moment she removed her hand from her eyes, and looked at me with new eagerness. her features bespoke emotions which, perhaps, flowed from my likeness to her brother, joined with the memory of my connection with welbeck. my situation was full of embarrassment. i was by no means certain that my language would be understood. i knew not in what light the policy and dissimulation of welbeck might have taught her to regard me. what proposal, conducive to her comfort and her safety, could i make to her? once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed, in a feeble voice, "go away! begone!" as if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her attention to her child. she stooped and lifted it in her arms, gazing, meanwhile, on its almost lifeless features with intense anxiety. she crushed it to her bosom, and, again looking at me, repeated, "go away! go away! begone!" there was somewhat in the lines of her face, in her tones and gestures, that pierced to my heart. added to this, was my knowledge of her condition; her friendlessness; her poverty; the pangs of unrequited love; and her expiring infant. i felt my utterance choked, and my tears struggling for passage. i turned to the window, and endeavoured to regain my tranquillity. "what was it," said i, "that brought me hither? the perfidy of welbeck must surely have long since been discovered. what can i tell her of the villars which she does not already know, or of which the knowledge will be useful? if their treatment has been just, why should i detract from their merit? if it has been otherwise, their own conduct will have disclosed their genuine character. though voluptuous themselves, it does not follow that they have laboured to debase this creature. though wanton, they may not be inhuman. "i can propose no change in her condition for the better. should she be willing to leave this house, whither is it in my power to conduct her? oh that i were rich enough to provide food for the hungry, shelter for the houseless, and raiment for the naked!" i was roused from these fruitless reflections by the lady, whom some sudden thought induced to place the child in its bed, and, rising, to come towards me. the utter dejection which her features lately betrayed was now changed for an air of anxious curiosity. "where," said she, in her broken english,--"where is signor welbeck?" "alas!" returned i, "i know not. that question might, i thought, with more propriety be put to you than me." "i know where he be; i fear where he be." so saying, the deepest sighs burst from her heart. she turned from me, and, going to the child, took it again into her lap. its pale and sunken cheek was quickly wet with the mother's tears, which, as she silently hung over it, dropped fast from her eyes. this demeanour could not but awaken curiosity, while it gave a new turn to my thoughts. i began to suspect that in the tokens which i saw there was not only distress for her child, but concern for the fate of welbeck. "know you," said i, "where mr. welbeck is? is he alive? is he near? is he in calamity?" "i do not know if he be alive. he be sick. he be in prison. they will not let me go to him. and"--here her attention and mine was attracted by the infant, whose frame, till now motionless, began to be tremulous. its features sunk into a more ghastly expression. its breathings were difficult, and every effort to respire produced a convulsion harder than the last. the mother easily interpreted these tokens. the same mortal struggle seemed to take place in her features as in those of her child. at length her agony found way in a piercing shriek. the struggle in the infant was past. hope looked in vain for a new motion in its heart or its eyelids. the lips were closed, and its breath was gone forever! the grief which overwhelmed the unhappy parent was of that outrageous and desperate kind which is wholly incompatible with thinking. a few incoherent motions and screams, that rent the soul, were followed by a deep swoon. she sunk upon the floor, pale and lifeless as her babe. i need not describe the pangs which such a scene was adapted to produce in me. these were rendered more acute by the helpless and ambiguous situation in which i was placed. i was eager to bestow consolation and succour, but was destitute of all means. i was plunged into uncertainties and doubts. i gazed alternately at the infant and its mother. i sighed. i wept. i even sobbed. i stooped down and took the lifeless hand of the sufferer. i bathed it with my tears, and exclaimed, "ill-fated woman! unhappy mother! what shall i do for thy relief? how shall i blunt the edge of this calamity, and rescue thee from new evils?" at this moment the door of the apartment was opened, and the younger of the women whom i had seen below entered. her looks betrayed the deepest consternation and anxiety. her eyes in a moment were fixed by the decayed form and the sad features of clemenza. she shuddered at this spectacle, but was silent. she stood in the midst of the floor, fluctuating and bewildered. i dropped the hand that i was holding, and approached her. "you have come," said i, "in good season. i know you not, but will believe you to be good. you have a heart, it may be, not free from corruption, but it is still capable of pity for the miseries of others. you have a hand that refuses not its aid to the unhappy. see; there is an infant dead. there is a mother whom grief has, for a time, deprived of life. she has been oppressed and betrayed; been robbed of property and reputation--but not of innocence. she is worthy of relief. have you arms to receive her? have you sympathy, protection, and a home to bestow upon a forlorn, betrayed, and unhappy stranger? i know not what this house is; i suspect it to be no better than a brothel. i know not what treatment this woman has received. when her situation and wants are ascertained, will you supply her wants? will you rescue her from evils that may attend her continuance here?" she was disconcerted and bewildered by this address. at length she said, "all that has happened, all that i have heard and seen, is so unexpected, so strange, that i am amazed and distracted. your behaviour i cannot comprehend, nor your motive for making this address to me. i cannot answer you, except in one respect. if this woman has suffered injury, i have had no part in it. i knew not of her existence nor her situation till this moment; and whatever protection or assistance she may justly claim, i am both able and willing to bestow. i do not live here, but in the city. i am only an occasional visitant in this house." "what, then!" i exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and a rapturous accent, "you are not profligate; are a stranger to the manners of this house, and a detester of these manners? be not a deceiver, i entreat you. i depend only on your looks and professions, and these may be dissembled." these questions, which indeed argued a childish simplicity, excited her surprise. she looked at me, uncertain whether i was in earnest or in jest. at length she said, "your language is so singular, that i am at a loss how to answer it. i shall take no pains to find out its meaning, but leave you to form conjectures at leisure. who is this woman, and how can i serve her?" after a pause, she continued:--"i cannot afford her any immediate assistance, and shall not stay a moment longer in this house. there" (putting a card in my hand) "is my name and place of abode. if you shall have any proposals to make, respecting this woman, i shall be ready to receive them in my own house." so saying, she withdrew. i looked wistfully after her, but could not but assent to her assertion, that her presence here would be more injurious to her than beneficial to clemenza. she had scarcely gone, when the elder woman entered. there was rage, sullenness, and disappointment in her aspect. these, however, were suspended by the situation in which she discovered the mother and child. it was plain that all the sentiments of woman were not extinguished in her heart. she summoned the servants and seemed preparing to take such measures as the occasion prescribed. i now saw the folly of supposing that these measures would be neglected, and that my presence could not essentially contribute to the benefit of the sufferer. still, however, i lingered in the room, till the infant was covered with a cloth, and the still senseless parent was conveyed into an adjoining chamber. the woman then, as if she had not seen me before, fixed scowling eyes upon me, and exclaimed, "thief! villain! why do you stay here?" "i mean to go," said i, "but not till i express my gratitude and pleasure at the sight of your attention to this sufferer. you deem me insolent and perverse, but i am not such; and hope that the day will come when i shall convince you of my good intentions." "begone!" interrupted she, in a more angry tone. "begone this moment, or i will treat you as a thief." she now drew forth her hand from under her gown, and showed a pistol. "you shall see," she continued, "that i will not be insulted with impunity. if you do not vanish, i will shoot you as a robber." this woman was far from wanting a force and intrepidity worthy of a different sex. her gestures and tones were full of energy. they denoted a haughty and indignant spirit. it was plain that she conceived herself deeply injured by my conduct; and was it absolutely certain that her anger was without reason? i had loaded her house with atrocious imputations, and these imputations might be false. i had conceived them upon such evidence as chance had provided; but this evidence, intricate and dubious as human actions and motives are, might be void of truth. "perhaps," said i, in a sedate tone, "i have injured you; i have mistaken your character. you shall not find me less ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this injury. my error was without malice, and----" i had not time to finish the sentence, when this rash and enraged woman thrust the pistol close to my head and fired it. i was wholly unaware that her fury would lead her to this excess. it was a sort of mechanical impulse that made me raise my hand and attempt to turn aside the weapon. i did this deliberately and tranquilly, and without conceiving that any thing more was intended by her movement than to intimidate me. to this precaution, however, i was indebted for life. the bullet was diverted from my forehead to my left ear, and made a slight wound upon the surface, from which the blood gushed in a stream. the loudness of this explosion, and the shock which the ball produced in my brain, sunk me into a momentary stupor. i reeled backward, and should have fallen, had not i supported myself against the wall. the sight of my blood instantly restored her reason. her rage disappeared, and was succeeded by terror and remorse. she clasped her hands, and exclaimed, "oh! what! what have i done? my frantic passion has destroyed me." i needed no long time to show me the full extent of the injury which i had suffered and the conduct which it became me to adopt. for a moment i was bewildered and alarmed, but presently perceived that this was an incident more productive of good than of evil. it would teach me caution in contending with the passions of another, and showed me that there is a limit which the impetuosities of anger will sometimes overstep. instead of reviling my companion, i addressed myself to her thus:-"be not frighted. you have done me no injury, and, i hope, will derive instruction from this event. your rashness had like to have sacrificed the life of one who is your friend, and to have exposed yourself to infamy and death, or, at least, to the pangs of eternal remorse. learn from hence to curb your passions, and especially to keep at a distance from every murderous weapon, on occasions when rage is likely to take place of reason. "i repeat that my motives in entering this house were connected with your happiness as well as that of clemenza lodi. if i have erred in supposing you the member of a vile and pernicious trade, that error was worthy of being rectified, but violence and invective tend only to confirm it. i am incapable of any purpose that is not beneficent; but, in the means that i use and in the evidence on which i proceed, i am liable to a thousand mistakes. point out to me the road by which i can do you good, and i will cheerfully pursue it." finding that her fears had been groundless as to the consequences of her rashness, she renewed, though with less vehemence than before, her imprecations on my intermeddling and audacious folly. i listened till the storm was nearly exhausted, and then, declaring my intention to revisit the house if the interest of clemenza should require it, i resumed my way to the city. chapter xxxvi. "why," said i, as i hasted forward, "is my fortune so abundant in unforeseen occurrences? is every man who leaves his cottage and the impressions of his infancy behind him ushered into such a world of revolutions and perils as have trammelled my steps? or is my scene indebted for variety and change to my propensity to look into other people's concerns, and to make their sorrows and their joys mine? "to indulge an adventurous spirit, i left the precincts of the barn-door, enlisted in the service of a stranger, and encountered a thousand dangers to my virtue under the disastrous influence of welbeck. afterwards my life was set at hazard in the cause of wallace, and now am i loaded with the province of protecting the helpless eliza hadwin and the unfortunate clemenza. my wishes are fervent, and my powers shall not be inactive in their defence; but how slender are these powers! "in the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed, some consolation for clemenza. it must be my business to lay before my friend stevens the particulars of what has befallen me, and to entreat his directions how this disconsolate girl may be most effectually succoured. it may be wise to take her from her present abode, and place her under some chaste and humane guardianship, where she may gradually lose remembrance of her dead infant and her specious betrayer. the barrier that severs her from welbeck must be high as heaven and insuperable as necessity. "but, soft! talked she not of welbeck? said she not that he was in prison and was sick? poor wretch! i thought thy course was at an end; that the penalty of guilt no longer weighed down thy heart; that thy misdeeds and thy remorses were buried in a common and obscure grave; but it seems thou art still alive. "is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to innocence and peace? thou art no obdurate criminal; hadst thou less virtue, thy compunctions would be less keen. wert thou deaf to the voice of duty, thy wanderings into guilt and folly would be less fertile of anguish. the time will perhaps come, when the measure of thy transgressions and calamities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be too conspicuous to escape thy discernment. surely, even for such transgressors as thou, there is a salutary power in the precepts of truth and the lessons of experience. "but thou art imprisoned and art sick. this, perhaps, is the crisis of thy destiny. indigence and dishonour were the evils to shun which thy integrity and peace of mind have been lightly forfeited. thou hast found that the price was given in vain; that the hollow and deceitful enjoyments of opulence and dignity were not worth the purchase; and that, frivolous and unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leads to them is that of honesty and diligence. thou art in prison and art sick; and there is none to cheer thy hour with offices of kindness, or uphold thy fainting courage by the suggestions of good counsel. for such as thou the world has no compassion. mankind will pursue thee to the grave with execrations. their cruelty will be justified or palliated, since they know thee not. they are unacquainted with the goadings of thy conscience and the bitter retributions which thou art daily suffering. they are full of their own wrongs, and think only of those tokens of exultation and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming in thy intercourse with them. it is i only that thoroughly know thee and can rightly estimate thy claims to compassion. "i have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou meritest some gratitude at my hands. shall i not visit and endeavour to console thee in thy distress? let me, at least, ascertain thy condition, and be the instrument in repairing the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. let me gain, from the contemplation of thy misery, new motives to sincerity and rectitude." while occupied by these reflections, i entered the city. the thoughts which engrossed my mind related to welbeck. it is not my custom to defer till to-morrow what can be done to-day. the destiny of man frequently hangs upon the lapse of a minute. "i will stop," said i, "at the prison; and, since the moment of my arrival may not be indifferent, i will go thither with all possible haste." i did not content myself with walking, but, regardless of the comments of passengers, hurried along the way at full speed. having inquired for welbeck, i was conducted through a dark room, crowded with beds, to a staircase. never before had i been in a prison. never had i smelt so noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed with filth and misery. the walls and floors were alike squalid and detestable. it seemed that in this house existence would be bereaved of all its attractions; and yet those faces, which could be seen through the obscurity that encompassed them, were either void of care or distorted with mirth. "this," said i, as i followed my conductor, "is the residence of welbeck. what contrasts are these to the repose and splendour, pictured walls, glossy hangings, gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from ceiling to floor, carpets of tauris, and the spotless and transcendent brilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former dwelling! here brawling and the shuffling of rude feet are eternal. the air is loaded with the exhalations of disease and the fumes of debauchery. thou art cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to share thy narrow cell with some stupid ruffian. formerly, the breezes were courted by thy lofty windows. aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. menials, splendid in apparel, showed their faces with diffidence in thy apartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered not the sanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. thy lamp shot its rays through the transparency of alabaster, and thy fragrant lymph flowed from vases of porcelain. such were formerly the decorations of thy hall, the embellishments of thy existence; but now--alas!----" we reached a chamber in the second story. my conductor knocked at the door. no one answered. repeated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the person within. at length, lifting a latch, we entered together. the prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned from the door. i advanced softly, making a sign to the keeper to withdraw. welbeck was not asleep, but merely buried in reverie. i was unwilling to disturb his musing, and stood with my eyes fixed upon his form. he appeared unconscious that any one had entered. at length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture, and perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude. recollect in what circumstances we had last parted. welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with him from that interview a firm belief that i should speedily die. his prognostic, however, was fated to be contradicted. his first emotions were those of surprise. these gave place to mortification and rage. after eyeing me for some time, he averted his glances, and that effort which is made to dissipate some obstacle to breathing showed me that his sensations were of the most excruciating kind. he laid his head upon the pillow, and sunk into his former musing. he disdained, or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or contempt. in the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his countenance, i had observed tokens of a kind very different from those which used to be visible. the gloomy and malignant were more conspicuous. health had forsaken his cheeks, and taken along with it those flexible parts which formerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and insidious purposes beneath a veil of benevolence and cheerfulness. "alas!" said i, loud enough for him to hear me, "here is a monument of ruin. despair and mischievous passions are too deeply rooted in this heart for me to tear them away." these expressions did not escape his notice. he turned once more and cast sullen looks upon me. there was somewhat in his eyes that made me shudder. they denoted that his reverie was not that of grief, but of madness. i continued, in a less steadfast voice than before:-"unhappy clemenza! i have performed thy message. i have visited him that is sick and in prison. thou hadst cause for anguish and terror, even greater cause than thou imaginedst. would to god that thou wouldst be contented with the report which i shall make; that thy misguided tenderness would consent to leave him to his destiny, would suffer him to die alone; but that is a forbearance which no eloquence that i possess will induce thee to practise. thou must come, and witness for thyself." in speaking thus, i was far from foreseeing the effects which would be produced on the mind of welbeck. i was far from intending to instil into him a belief that clemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to enter his apartment; yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have roused him from his lethargy, and awakened that attention which i wished to awaken. he started up, and gazed fearfully at the door. "what!" he cried. "what! is she here? ye powers, that have scattered woes in my path, spare me the sight of her! but from this agony i will rescue myself. the moment she appears i will pluck out these eyes and dash them at her feet." so saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon the door. his hands were lifted to his head, as if ready to execute his frantic purpose. i seized his arm and besought him to lay aside his terror, for that clemenza was far distant. she had no intention, and besides was unable, to visit him. "then i am respited. i breathe again. no; keep her from a prison. drag her to the wheel or to the scaffold; mangle her with stripes; torture her with famine; strangle her child before her face, and cast it to the hungry dogs that are howling at the gate; but--keep her from a prison. never let her enter these doors." there he stopped; his eyes being fixed on the floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. i resumed:-"she is occupied with other griefs than those connected with the fate of welbeck. she is not unmindful of you; she knows you to be sick and in prison; and i came to do for you whatever office your condition might require, and i came at her suggestion. she, alas! has full employment for her tears in watering the grave of her child." he started. "what! dead? say you that the child is dead?" "it is dead. i witnessed its death. i saw it expire in the arms of its mother; that mother whom i formerly met under your roof blooming and gay, but whom calamity has tarnished and withered. i saw her in the raiment of poverty, under an accursed roof: desolate; alone; unsolaced by the countenance or sympathy of human beings; approached only by those who mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence, and push her to infamy. i saw her leaning over the face of her dying babe." welbeck put his hands to his head, and exclaimed, "curses on thy lips, infernal messenger! chant elsewhere thy rueful ditty! vanish! if thou wouldst not feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty than thine." till this moment the uproar in welbeck's mind appeared to hinder him from distinctly recognising his visitant. now it seemed as if the incidents of our last interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance. "what! this is the villain that rifled my cabinet, the maker of my poverty and of all the evils which it has since engendered! that has led me to a prison! execrable fool! you are the author of the scene that you describe, and of horrors without number and name. to whatever crimes i have been urged since that interview, and the fit of madness that made you destroy my property, they spring from your act; they flowed from necessity, which, had you held your hand at that fateful moment, would never have existed. "how dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? why am i not alone? fly! and let my miseries want, at least, the aggravation of beholding their author. my eyes loathe the sight of thee! my heart would suffocate thee with its own bitterness! begone!" "i know not," i answered, "why innocence should tremble at the ravings of a lunatic; why it should be overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches! why it should not deplore the errors of its foe, labour to correct those errors, and----" "thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up by my scorn; thank thy fate that no weapon is within reach. much has passed since i saw thee, and i am a new man. i am no longer inconstant and cowardly. i have no motives but contempt to hinder me from expiating the wrongs which thou hast done me in thy blood. i disdain to take thy life. go; and let thy fidelity, at least, to the confidence which i have placed in thee, be inviolate. thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt, still more. thou canst betray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom, and rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known but to one among the living." this suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the past. i had confided this man's tale to you. the secrecy on which he so fondly leaned was at an end. had i acted culpably or not? but why should i ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon the past? the future was within my power, and the road of my duty was too plain to be mistaken. i would disclose to welbeck the truth, and cheerfully encounter every consequence. i would summon my friend to my aid, and take his counsel in the critical emergency in which i was placed. i ought not to rely upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being, when another was so near whose discernment and benevolence, and knowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief, were far superior to mine. influenced by these thoughts, i left the apartment without speaking; and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you the billet which brought about our meeting. chapter xxxvii. mervyn's auditors allowed no pause in their attention to this story. having ended, a deep silence took place. the clock which stood upon the mantel had sounded twice the customary _larum_, but had not been heard by us. it was now struck a third time. it was _one_. our guest appeared somewhat startled at this signal, and looked, with a mournful sort of earnestness, at the clock. there was an air of inquietude about him which i had never observed in an equal degree before. i was not without much curiosity respecting other incidents than those which had just been related by him; but, after so much fatigue as he had undergone, i thought it improper to prolong the conversation. "come," said i, "my friend, let us to bed. this is a drowsy time, and, after so much exercise of mind and body, you cannot but need some repose. much has happened in your absence, which is proper to be known to you; but our discourse will be best deferred till to-morrow. i will come into your chamber by day-dawn, and unfold to you particulars." "nay," said he, "withdraw not on my account. if i go to my chamber, it will not be to sleep, but to meditate, especially after your assurance that something of moment has occurred in my absence. my thoughts, independently of any cause of sorrow or fear, have received an impulse which solitude and darkness will not stop. it is impossible to know too much for our safety and integrity, or to know it too soon. what has happened?" i did not hesitate to comply with his request, for it was not difficult to conceive that, however tired the limbs might be, the adventures of this day would not be easily expelled from the memory at night. i told him the substance of the conversation with mrs. althorpe. he smiled at those parts of the narrative which related to himself; but when his father's depravity and poverty were mentioned, he melted into tears. "poor wretch! i, that knew thee in thy better days, might have easily divined this consequence. i foresaw thy poverty and degradation in the same hour that i left thy roof. my soul drooped at the prospect, but i said, it cannot be prevented, and this reflection was an antidote to grief; but, now that thy ruin is complete, it seems as if some of it were imputable to me, who forsook thee when the succour and counsel of a son were most needed. thou art ignorant and vicious, but thou art my father still. i see that the sufferings of a better man than thou art would less afflict me than thine. perhaps it is still in my power to restore thy liberty and good name, and yet--that is a fond wish. thou art past the age when the ignorance and grovelling habits of a human being are susceptible of cure." there he stopped, and, after a gloomy pause, continued:- * * * * * i am not surprised or afflicted at the misconceptions of my neighbours with relation to my own character. men must judge from what they see; they must build their conclusions on their knowledge. i never saw in the rebukes of my neighbours any thing but laudable abhorrence of vice. they were too eager to blame, to collect materials of censure rather than of praise. it was not me whom they hated and despised. it was the phantom that passed under my name, which existed only in their imagination, and which was worthy of all their scorn and all their enmity. what i appeared to be in their eyes was as much the object of my own disapprobation as of theirs. their reproaches only evinced the rectitude of their decisions, as well as of my own. i drew from them new motives to complacency. they fortified my perseverance in the path which i had chosen as best; they raised me higher in my own esteem; they heightened the claims of the reproachers themselves to my respect and my gratitude. they thought me slothful, incurious, destitute of knowledge and of all thirst of knowledge, insolent, and profligate. they say that in the treatment of my father i have been ungrateful and inhuman. i have stolen his property, and deserted him in his calamity. therefore they hate and revile me. it is well; i love them for these proofs of their discernment and integrity. their indignation at wrong is the truest test of their virtue. it is true that they mistake me, but that arises from the circumstances of our mutual situation. they examined what was exposed to their view, they grasped at what was placed within their reach. to decide contrary to appearances, to judge from what they knew not, would prove them to be brutish and not rational, would make their decision of no worth, and render them, in their turn, objects of neglect and contempt. it is true that i hated school; that i sought occasions of absence, and finally, on being struck by the master, determined to enter his presence no more. i loved to leap, to run, to swim, to climb trees and to clamber up rocks, to shroud myself in thickets and stroll among woods, to obey the impulse of the moment, and to prate or be silent, just as my humour prompted me. all this i loved more than to go to and fro in the same path, and at stated hours to look off and on a book, to read just as much and of such a kind, to stand up and be seated, just as another thought proper to direct. i hated to be classed, cribbed, rebuked, and feruled at the pleasure of one who, as it seemed to me, knew no guide in his rewards but caprice, and no prompter in his punishments but passion. it is true that i took up the spade and the hoe as rarely, and for as short a time, as possible. i preferred to ramble in the forest and loiter on the hill; perpetually to change the scene; to scrutinize the endless variety of objects; to compare one leaf and pebble with another; to pursue those trains of thought which their resemblances and differences suggested; to inquire what it was that gave them this place, structure, and form, were more agreeable employments than ploughing and threshing. my father could well afford to hire labour. what my age and my constitution enabled me to do could be done by a sturdy boy, in half the time, with half the toil, and with none of the reluctance. the boy was a bond-servant, and the cost of his clothing and food was next to nothing. true it is, that my service would have saved him even this expense, but my motives for declining the effort were not hastily weighed or superficially examined. these were my motives. my frame was delicate and feeble. exposure to wet blasts and vertical suns was sure to make me sick. my father was insensible to this consequence; and no degree of diligence would please him but that which would destroy my health. my health was dearer to my mother than to me. she was more anxious to exempt me from possible injuries than reason justified; but anxious she was, and i could not save her from anxiety but by almost wholly abstaining from labour. i thought her peace of mind was of some value, and that, if the inclination of either of my parents must be gratified at the expense of the other, the preference was due to the woman who bore me; who nursed me in disease; who watched over my safety with incessant tenderness; whose life and whose peace were involved in mine. i should have deemed myself brutish and obdurately wicked to have loaded her with fears and cares merely to smooth the brow of a froward old man, whose avarice called on me to sacrifice my ease and my health, and who shifted to other shoulders the province of sustaining me when sick, and of mourning for me when dead. i likewise believed that it became me to reflect upon the influence of my decision on my own happiness; and to weigh the profits flowing to my father from my labour, against the benefits of mental exercise, the pleasures of the woods and streams, healthful sensations, and the luxury of musing. the pecuniary profit was petty and contemptible. it obviated no necessity. it purchased no rational enjoyment. it merely provoked, by furnishing the means of indulgence, an appetite from which my father was not exempt. it cherished the seeds of depravity in him, and lessened the little stock of happiness belonging to my mother. i did not detain you long, my friends, in portraying my parents, and recounting domestic incidents, when i first told you my story. what had no connection with the history of welbeck and with the part that i have acted upon this stage i thought it proper to omit. my omission was likewise prompted by other reasons. my mind is enervated and feeble, like my body. i cannot look upon the sufferings of those i love without exquisite pain. i cannot steel my heart by the force of reason, and by submission to necessity; and, therefore, too frequently employ the cowardly expedient of endeavouring to forget what i cannot remember without agony. i told you that my father was sober and industrious by habit; but habit is not uniform. there were intervals when his plodding and tame spirit gave place to the malice and fury of a demon. liquors were not sought by him; but he could not withstand entreaty, and a potion that produced no effect upon others changed him into a maniac. i told you that i had a sister, whom the arts of a villain destroyed. alas! the work of her destruction was left unfinished by him. the blows and contumelies of a misjudging and implacable parent, who scrupled not to thrust her, with her new-born infant, out of doors; the curses and taunts of unnatural brothers, left her no alternative but death.----but i must not think of this; i must not think of the wrongs which my mother endured in the person of her only and darling daughter. my brothers were the copyists of the father, whom they resembled in temper and person. my mother doted on her own image in her daughter and in me. this daughter was ravished from her by self-violence, and her other children by disease. i only remained to appropriate her affections and fulfil her hopes. this alone had furnished a sufficient reason why i should be careful of my health and my life, but my father's character supplied me with a motive infinitely more cogent. it is almost incredible, but nevertheless true, that the only being whose presence and remonstrances had any influence on my father, at moments when his reason was extinct, was myself. as to my personal strength, it was nothing; yet my mother's person was rescued from brutal violence; he was checked, in the midst of his ferocious career, by a single look or exclamation from me. the fear of my rebukes had even some influence in enabling him to resist temptation. if i entered the tavern at the moment when he was lifting the glass to his lips, i never weighed the injunctions of decorum, but, snatching the vessel from his hand, i threw it on the ground. i was not deterred by the presence of others; and their censures on my want of filial respect and duty were listened to with unconcern. i chose not to justify myself by expatiating on domestic miseries, and by calling down that pity on my mother which i knew would only have increased her distress. the world regarded my deportment as insolent and perverse to a degree of insanity. to deny my father an indulgence which they thought harmless, and which, indeed, was harmless in its influence on other men; to interfere thus publicly with his social enjoyments, and expose him to mortification and shame, was loudly condemned; but my duty to my mother debarred me from eluding this censure on the only terms on which it could have been eluded. now it has ceased to be necessary to conceal what passed in domestic retirements, and i should willingly confess the truth before any audience. at first my father imagined that threats and blows would intimidate his monitor. in this he was mistaken, and the detection of this mistake impressed him with an involuntary reverence for me, which set bounds to those excesses which disdained any other control. hence i derived new motives for cherishing a life which was useful, in so many ways, to my mother. my condition is now changed. i am no longer on that field to which the law, as well as reason, must acknowledge that i had some right, while there was any in my father. i must hazard my life, if need be, in the pursuit of the means of honest subsistence. i never spared myself while in the service of mr. hadwin; and, at a more inclement season, should probably have incurred some hazard by my diligence. these were the motives of my _idleness_,--for my abstaining from the common toils of the farm passed by that name among my neighbours; though, in truth, my time was far from being wholly unoccupied by manual employments, but these required less exertion of body or mind, or were more connected with intellectual efforts. they were pursued in the seclusion of my chamber or the recesses of a wood. i did not labour to conceal them, but neither was i anxious to attract notice. it was sufficient that the censure of my neighbours was unmerited, to make me regard it with indifference. i sought not the society of persons of my own age, not from sullen or unsociable habits, but merely because those around me were totally unlike myself. their tastes and occupations were incompatible with mine. in my few books, in my pen, in the vegetable and animal existences around me, i found companions who adapted their visits and intercourse to my convenience and caprice, and with whom i was never tired of communing. i was not unaware of the opinion which my neighbours had formed of my being improperly connected with betty lawrence. i am not sorry that i fell into company with that girl. her intercourse has instructed me in what some would think impossible to be attained by one who had never haunted the impure recesses of licentiousness in a city. the knowledge which a residence in this town for ten years gave her audacious and inquisitive spirit she imparted to me. her character, profligate and artful, libidinous and impudent, and made up of the impressions which a city life had produced on her coarse but active mind, was open to my study, and i studied it. i scarcely know how to repel the charge of illicit conduct, and to depict the exact species of intercourse subsisting between us. i always treated her with freedom, and sometimes with gayety. i had no motives to reserve. i was so formed that a creature like her had no power over my senses. that species of temptation adapted to entice me from the true path was widely different from the artifices of betty. there was no point at which it was possible for her to get possession of my fancy. i watched her while she practised all her tricks and blandishments, as i regarded a similar deportment in the _animal salax ignavumque_ who inhabits the sty. i made efforts to pursue my observations unembarrassed; but my efforts were made, not to restrain desire, but to suppress disgust. the difficulty lay, not in withholding my caresses, but in forbearing to repulse her with rage. decorum, indeed, was not outraged, and all limits were not overstepped at once. dubious advances were employed; but, when found unavailing, were displaced by more shameless and direct proceedings. she was too little versed in human nature to see that her last expedient was always worse than the preceding; and that, in proportion as she lost sight of decency, she multiplied the obstacles to her success. betty had many enticements in person and air. she was ruddy, smooth, and plump. to these she added--i must not say what, for it is strange to what lengths a woman destitute of modesty will sometimes go. but, all her artifices availing her not at all in the contest with my insensibilities, she resorted to extremes which it would serve no good purpose to describe in this audience. they produced not the consequences she wished, but they produced another which was by no means displeasing to her. an incident one night occurred, from which a sagacious observer deduced the existence of an intrigue. it was useless to attempt to rectify his mistake by explaining appearances in a manner consistent with my innocence. this mode of explication implied a _continence_ in me which he denied to be possible. the standard of possibilities, especially in vice and virtue, is fashioned by most men after their own character. a temptation which this judge of human nature knew that _he_ was unable to resist, he sagely concluded to be irresistible by any other man, and quickly established the belief among my neighbours, that the woman who married the father had been prostituted to the son. though i never admitted the truth of this aspersion, i believed it useless to deny, because no one would credit my denial, and because i had no power to disprove it. chapter xxxviii. what other inquiries were to be resolved by our young friend, we were now, at this late hour, obliged to postpone till the morrow. i shall pass over the reflections which a story like this would naturally suggest, and hasten to our next interview. after breakfast next morning, the subject of last night's conversation was renewed. i told him that something had occurred in his absence, in relation to mrs. wentworth and her nephew, that had perplexed us not a little. "my information is obtained," continued i, "from wortley; and it is nothing less than that young clavering, mrs. wentworth's nephew, is, at this time, actually alive." surprise, but none of the embarrassment of guilt, appeared in his countenance at these tidings. he looked at me as if desirous that i should proceed. "it seems," added i, "that a letter was lately received by this lady from the father of clavering, who is now in europe. this letter reports that this son was lately met with in charleston, and relates the means which old mr. clavering had used to prevail upon his son to return home; means, of the success of which he entertained well-grounded hopes. what think you?" "i can only reject it," said he, after some pause, "as untrue. the father's correspondent may have been deceived. the father may have been deceived, or the father may conceive it necessary to deceive the aunt, or some other supposition as to the source of the error may be true; but an error it surely is. clavering is not alive. i know the chamber where he died, and the withered pine under which he lies buried." "if she be deceived," said i, "it will be impossible to rectify her error." "i hope not. an honest front and a straight story will be sufficient." "how do you mean to act?" "visit her, without doubt, and tell her the truth. my tale will be too circumstantial and consistent to permit her to disbelieve." "she will not hearken to you. she is too strongly prepossessed against you to admit you even to a hearing." "she cannot help it. unless she lock her door against me, or stuff her ears with wool, she must hear me. her prepossessions are reasonable, but are easily removed by telling the truth. why does she suspect me of artifice? because i seemed to be allied to welbeck, and because i disguised the truth. that she thinks ill of me is not her fault, but my misfortune; and, happily for me, a misfortune easily removed." "then you will try to see her?" "i will see her, and the sooner the better. i will see her to-day; this morning; as soon as i have seen welbeck, whom i shall immediately visit in his prison." "there are other embarrassments and dangers of which you are not aware. welbeck is pursued by many persons whom he has defrauded of large sums. by these persons you are deemed an accomplice in his guilt, and a warrant is already in the hands of officers for arresting you wherever you are found." "in what way," said mervyn, sedately, "do they imagine me a partaker of his crime?" "i know not. you lived with him. you fled with him. you aided and connived at his escape." "are these crimes?" "i believe not, but they subject you to suspicion." "to arrest and to punishment?" "to detention for a while, perhaps. but these alone cannot expose you to punishment." "i thought so. then i have nothing to fear." "you have imprisonment and obloquy, at least, to dread." "true; but they cannot be avoided but by my exile and skulking out of sight,--evils infinitely more formidable. i shall, therefore, not avoid them. the sooner my conduct is subjected to scrutiny, the better. will you go with me to welbeck?" "i will go with you." inquiring for welbeck of the keeper of the prison, we were informed that he was in his own apartment, very sick. the physician attending the prison had been called, but the prisoner had preserved an obstinate and scornful silence; and had neither explained his condition, nor consented to accept any aid. we now went alone into his apartment. his sensibility seemed fast ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was visible in his eyes at the appearance of mervyn. he seemed likewise to recognise in me his late visitant, and made no objection to my entrance. "how are you this morning?" said arthur, seating himself on the bedside, and taking his hand. the sick man was scarcely able to articulate his reply:--"i shall soon be well. i have longed to see you. i want to leave with you a few words." he now cast his languid eyes on me. "you are his friend," he continued. "you know all. you may stay." there now succeeded a long pause, during which he closed his eyes, and resigned himself as if to an oblivion of all thought. his pulse under my hand was scarcely perceptible. from this in some minutes he recovered, and, fixing his eyes on mervyn, resumed, in a broken and feeble accent:-"clemenza! you have seen her. weeks ago, i left her in an accursed house; yet she has not been mistreated. neglected and abandoned indeed, but not mistreated. save her, mervyn. comfort her. awaken charity for her sake. "i cannot tell you what has happened. the tale would be too long,--too mournful. yet, in justice to the living, i must tell you something. my woes and my crimes will be buried with me. some of them, but not all. "ere this, i should have been many leagues upon the ocean, had not a newspaper fallen into my hands while on the eve of embarkation. by that i learned that a treasure was buried with the remains of the ill-fated watson. i was destitute. i was unjust enough to wish to make this treasure my own. prone to think i was forgotten, or numbered with the victims of pestilence, i ventured to return under a careless disguise. i penetrated to the vaults of that deserted dwelling by night. i dug up the bones of my friend, and found the girdle and its valuable contents, according to the accurate description that i had read. "i hastened back with my prize to baltimore, but my evil destiny overtook me at last. i was recognised by emissaries of jamieson, arrested and brought hither, and here shall i consummate my fate and defeat the rage of my creditors by death. but first----" here welbeck stretched out his left hand to mervyn, and, after some reluctance, showed a roll of lead. "receive this," said he. "in the use of it, be guided by your honesty and by the same advertisement that furnished me the clue by which to recover it. that being secured, the world and i will part forever. withdraw, for your presence can help me nothing." we were unwilling to comply with his injunction, and continued some longer time in his chamber; but our kind intent availed nothing. he quickly relapsed into insensibility, from which he recovered not again, but next day expired. such, in the flower of his age, was the fate of thomas welbeck. whatever interest i might feel in accompanying the progress of my young friend, a sudden and unforeseen emergency compelled me again to leave the city. a kinsman, to whom i was bound by many obligations, was suffering a lingering disease, and, imagining, with some reason, his dissolution to be not far distant, he besought my company and my assistance, to soothe, at least, the agonies of his last hour. i was anxious to clear up the mysteries which arthur's conduct had produced, and to shield him, if possible, from the evils which i feared awaited him. it was impossible, however, to decline the invitation of my kinsman, as his residence was not a day's journey from the city. i was obliged to content myself with occasional information, imparted by mervyn's letters or those of my wife. meanwhile, on leaving the prison, i hasted to inform mervyn of the true nature of the scene which had just passed. by this extraordinary occurrence, the property of the maurices was now in honest hands. welbeck, stimulated by selfish motives, had done that which any other person would have found encompassed with formidable dangers and difficulties. how this attempt was suggested or executed, he had not informed us, nor was it desirable to know. it was sufficient that the means of restoring their own to a destitute and meritorious family were now in our possession. having returned home, i unfolded to mervyn all the particulars respecting williams and the maurices which i had lately learned from wortley. he listened with deep attention, and, my story being finished, he said, "in this small compass, then, is the patrimony and subsistence of a numerous family. to restore it to them is the obvious proceeding--but how? where do they abide?" "williams and watson's wife live in baltimore, and the maurices live near that town. the advertisements alluded to by wortley, and which are to be found in any newspaper, will inform us; but, first, are we sure that any or all of these bills are contained in this covering?" the lead was now unrolled, and the bills which williams had described were found enclosed. nothing appeared to be deficient. of this, however, we were scarcely qualified to judge. those that were the property of williams might not be entire, and what would be the consequence of presenting them to him, if any had been embezzled by welbeck? this difficulty was obviated by mervyn, who observed that the advertisement describing these bills would afford us ample information on this head. "having found out where the maurices and mrs. watson live, nothing remains but to visit them, and put an end, as far as lies in my power, to their inquietudes." "what! would you go to baltimore?" "certainly. can any other expedient be proper? how shall i otherwise insure the safe conveyance of these papers?" "you may send them by post." "but why not go myself?" "i can hardly tell, unless your appearance on such an errand may be suspected likely to involve you in embarrassments." "what embarrassments? if they receive their own, ought they not to be satisfied?" "the inquiry will naturally be made as to the manner of gaining possession of these papers. they were lately in the hands of watson, but watson has disappeared. suspicions are awake respecting the cause of his disappearance. these suspicions are connected with welbeck, and welbeck's connection with you is not unknown." "these are evils, but i see not how an ingenious and open conduct is adapted to increase these evils. if they come, i must endure them." "i believe your decision is right. no one is so skilful an advocate in a cause, as he whose cause it is. i rely upon your skill and address, and shall leave you to pursue your own way. i must leave you for a time, but shall expect to be punctually informed of all that passes." with this agreement we parted, and i hastened to perform my intended journey. chapter xxxix. i am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon its journey. what remains of my story may be despatched in a trice. i have just now some vacant hours, which might possibly be more usefully employed, but not in an easier manner or more pleasant. so, let me carry on thy thread. first, let me mention the resolutions i had formed at the time i parted with my friend. i had several objects in view. one was a conference with mrs. wentworth; another was an interview with her whom i met with at villars's. my heart melted when i thought upon the desolate condition of clemenza, and determined me to direct my first efforts for her relief. for this end i was to visit the female who had given me a direction to her house. the name of this person is achsa fielding, and she lived, according to her own direction, at no. 40 walnut street. i went thither without delay. she was not at home. having gained information from the servant as to when she might be found, i proceeded to mrs. wentworth's. in going thither my mind was deeply occupied in meditation; and, with my usual carelessness of forms, i entered the house and made my way to the parlour, where an interview had formerly taken place between us. having arrived, i began, though somewhat unseasonably, to reflect upon the topics with which i should introduce my conversation, and particularly the manner in which i should introduce myself. i had opened doors without warning, and traversed passages without being noticed. this had arisen from my thoughtlessness. there was no one within hearing or sight. what was next to be done? should i not return softly to the outer door, and summon the servant by knocking? preparing to do this, i heard a footstep in the entry which suspended my design. i stood in the middle of the floor, attentive to these movements, when presently the door opened, and there entered the apartment mrs. wentworth herself! she came, as it seemed, without expectation of finding any one there. when, therefore, the figure of a man caught her vagrant attention, she started and cast a hasty look towards me. "pray!" (in a peremptory tone,) "how came you here, sir? and what is your business?" neither arrogance, on the one hand, nor humility, upon the other, had any part in modelling my deportment. i came not to deprecate anger, or exult over distress. i answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and erectly,-"i came to see you, madam, and converse with you; but, being busy with other thoughts, i forgot to knock at the door. no evil was intended by my negligence, though propriety has certainly not been observed. will you pardon this intrusion, and condescend to grant me your attention?" "to what? what have you to say to me? i know you only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to deceive me. there is nothing to justify your coming hither, and i desire you to leave the house with as little ceremony as you entered it." my eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet i did not obey the command. "your treatment of me, madam, is such as i appear to you to deserve. appearances are unfavourable to me, but those appearances are false. i have concurred in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. i have told you nothing but the truth. i came hither to promote no selfish or sinister purpose. i have no favour to entreat, and no petition to offer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which you have harboured respecting me. "i am poor. i am destitute of fame and of kindred. i have nothing to console me in obscurity and indigence, but the approbation of my own heart and the good opinion of those who know me as i am. the good may be led to despise and condemn me. their aversion and scorn shall not make me unhappy; but it is my interest and my duty to rectify their error if i can. i regard your character with esteem. you have been mistaken in condemning me as a liar and impostor, and i came to remove this mistake. i came, if not to procure your esteem, at least to take away hatred and suspicion. "but this is not all my purpose. you are in an error in relation not only to my character, but to the situation of your nephew clavering. i formerly told you, that i saw him die; that i assisted at his burial: but my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have since received intelligence to which you think proper to trust, and which assures you that he is still living. all i now ask is your attention, while i relate the particulars of my knowledge. "proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to be known to you. certainty, on this head, may be of much importance to your happiness, and to the regulation of your future conduct. to hear me patiently can do you no injury, and may benefit you much. will you permit me to go on?" during this address, little abatement of resentment and scorn was visible in my companion. "i will hear you," she replied. "your invention may amuse if it does not edify. but, i pray you, let your story be short." i was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession, and proceeded to begin my narration. i described the situation of my father's dwelling. i mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of her nephew's appearance among us. i expatiated minutely on his form, features, dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. his favourite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described. i had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects were visible in her demeanour which i expected from it. her knowledge of the youth, and of the time and manner of his disappearance, made it impossible for me, with so minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. every word, every incident related, attested my truth, by their agreement with what she herself previously knew. her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged for downcast looks, and stealing tears, and sighs difficultly repressed. meanwhile, i did not pause, but described the treatment he received from my mother's tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his insanity, and, finally, the circumstances of his death and funeral. thence i hastened to the circumstances which brought me to the city; which placed me in the service of welbeck, and obliged me to perform so ambiguous a part in her presence. i left no difficulty to be solved, and no question unanticipated. "i have now finished my story," i continued, "and accomplished my design in coming hither. whether i have vindicated my integrity from your suspicions, i know not. i have done what in me lay to remove your error; and, in that, have done my duty. what more remains? any inquiries you are pleased to make, i am ready to answer. if there be none to make, i will comply with your former commands, and leave the house with as little ceremony as i entered it." "your story," she replied, "has been unexpected. i believe it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances have made me entertain concerning you." here she sunk into mournful silence. "the information," she at length resumed, "which i have received from another quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, astonishes and perplexes me. it is inconsistent with your story, but it must be founded on some mistake, which i am, at present, unable to unravel. welbeck, whose connection has been so unfortunate to you----" "unfortunate! dear madam! how unfortunate? it has done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which i live. it has led me to the situation in which i am now placed. it has introduced me to the knowledge of many good people. it has made me the witness and the subject of many acts of beneficence and generosity. my knowledge of welbeck has been useful to me. it has enabled me to be useful to others. i look back upon that allotment of my destiny which first led me to his door, with gratitude and pleasure. "would to heaven," continued i, somewhat changing my tone, "intercourse with welbeck had been as harmless to all others as it has been to me! that no injury to fortune and fame, and innocence and life, had been incurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head! there is one being, whose connection with him has not been utterly dissimilar in its origin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed, been widely and mournfully different. "and yet, within this moment, a thought has occurred from which i derive some consolation and some hope. you, dear madam, are rich. these spacious apartments, this plentiful accommodation, are yours. you have enough for your own gratification and convenience, and somewhat to spare. will you take to your protecting arms, to your hospitable roof, an unhappy girl whom the arts of welbeck have robbed of fortune, reputation, and honour, who is now languishing in poverty, weeping over the lifeless remains of her babe, surrounded by the agents of vice, and trembling on the verge of infamy?" "what can this mean?" replied the lady. "of whom do you speak?" "you shall know her. you shall be apprized of her claims to your compassion. her story, as far as is known to me, i will faithfully repeat to you. she is a stranger; an italian; her name is clemenza lodi." "clemenza lodi! good heaven!" exclaimed mrs. wentworth; "why, surely--it cannot be. and yet--is it possible that you are that person?" "i do not comprehend you, madam." "a friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. it is scarcely an hour since she told it me. the name of clemenza lodi was mentioned in it, and a young man of most singular deportment was described. but tell me how you were engaged on thursday morning." "i was coming to this city from a distance. i stopped ten minutes at the house of----" "mrs. villars?" "the same. perhaps you know her and her character. perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions concerning her. it is there that the unfortunate clemenza abides. it is thence that i wish her to be speedily removed." "i have heard of you; of your conduct upon that occasion." "of me?" answered i, eagerly. "do you know that woman?" so saying, i produced the card which i had received from her, and on which her name was written. "i know her well. she is my countrywoman and my friend." "your friend? then she is good; she is innocent; she is generous. will she be a sister, a protectress, to clemenza? will you exhort her to a deed of charity? will you be, yourself, an example of beneficence? direct me to miss fielding, i beseech you. i have called on her already, but in vain, and there is no time to be lost." "why are you so precipitate? what would you do?" "take her away from that house instantly--bring her hither--place her under your protection--give her mrs. wentworth for a counsellor--a friend--a mother. shall i do this? shall i hie thither to-day, this very hour--now? give me your consent, and she shall be with you before noon." "by no means," replied she, with earnestness. "you are too hasty. an affair of so much importance cannot be despatched in a moment. there are many difficulties and doubts to be first removed." "let them be reserved for the future. withhold not your helping hand till the struggle has disappeared forever. think on the gulf that is already gaping to swallow her. this is no time to hesitate and falter. i will tell you her story, but not now; we will postpone it till to-morrow, and first secure her from impending evils. she shall tell it you herself. in an hour i will bring her hither, and she herself shall recount to you her sorrows. will you let me?" "your behaviour is extraordinary. i can scarcely tell whether this simplicity be real or affected. one would think that your common sense would show you the impropriety of your request. to admit under my roof a woman notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous house----" "my dearest madam! how can you reflect upon the situation without irresistible pity? i see that you are thoroughly aware of her past calamity and her present danger. do not these urge you to make haste to her relief? can any lot be more deplorable than hers? can any state be more perilous? poverty is not the only evil that oppresses or that threatens her. the scorn of the world, and her own compunction, the death of the fruit of her error and the witness of her shame, are not the worst. she is exposed to the temptations of the profligate; while she remains with mrs. villars, her infamy accumulates; her further debasement is facilitated; her return to reputation and to virtue is obstructed by new bars." "how know i that her debasement is not already complete and irremediable? she is a mother, but not a wife. how came she thus? is her being welbeck's prostitute no proof of her guilt?" "alas! i know not. i believe her not very culpable; i know her to be unfortunate; to have been robbed and betrayed. you are a stranger to her history. i am myself imperfectly acquainted with it. "but let me tell you the little that i know. perhaps my narrative may cause you to think of her as i do." she did not object to this proposal, and i immediately recounted all that i had gained from my own observations, or from welbeck himself, respecting this forlorn girl. having finished my narrative, i proceeded thus:-"can you hesitate to employ that power which was given you for good ends, to rescue this sufferer? take her to your home; to your bosom; to your confidence. keep aloof those temptations which beset her in her present situation. restore her to that purity which her desolate condition, her ignorance, her misplaced gratitude and the artifices of a skilful dissembler, have destroyed, if it be destroyed; for how know we under what circumstances her ruin was accomplished? with what pretences, or appearances, or promises, she was won to compliance?" "true. i confess my ignorance; but ought not that ignorance to be removed before she makes a part of my family?" "oh, no! it may be afterwards removed. it cannot be removed before. by bringing her hither you shield her, at least, from future and possible evils. here you can watch her conduct and sift her sentiments conveniently and at leisure. should she prove worthy of your charity, how justly may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable efforts in her cause! if she prove unworthy, you may then demean yourself according to her demerits." "i must reflect upon it.--to-morrow----" "let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and without delay. this very moment may be the critical one. to-day we may exert ourselves with success, but to-morrow all our efforts may be fruitless. why fluctuate, why linger, when so much good may be done, and no evil can possibly be incurred? it requires but a word from you; you need not move a finger. your house is large. you have chambers vacant and convenient. consent only that your door shall not be barred against her; that you will treat her with civility: to carry your kindness into effect; to persuade her to attend me hither and to place herself in your care, shall be my province." these and many similar entreaties and reasonings were ineffectual. her general disposition was kind, but she was unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. to admit the persuasions of such an advocate to so uncommon a scheme as that of sharing her house with a creature thus previously unknown to her, thus loaded with suspicion and with obloquy, was not possible. i at last forbore importunity, and requested her to tell me when i might expect to meet with mrs. fielding at her lodgings. inquiry was made to what end i sought an interview. i made no secret of my purpose. "are you mad, young man?" she exclaimed. "mrs. fielding has already been egregiously imprudent. on the faith of an ancient slight acquaintance with mrs. villars in europe, she suffered herself to be decoyed into a visit. instead of taking warning by numerous tokens of the real character of that woman, in her behaviour and in that of her visitants, she consented to remain there one night. the next morning took place that astonishing interview with you which she has since described to me. she is now warned against the like indiscretion. and, pray, what benevolent scheme would you propose to her?" "has she property? is she rich?" "she is. unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute mistress of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor parent to control her in the use of it." "has she virtue? does she know the value of affluence and a fair fame? and will not she devote a few dollars to rescue a fellow-creature from indigence and infamy and vice? surely she will. she will hazard nothing by the boon. i will be her almoner. i will provide the wretched stranger with food and raiment and dwelling; i will pay for all, if mrs. fielding, from her superfluity, will supply the means. clemenza shall owe life and honour to your friend, till i am able to supply the needful sum from my own stock." while thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with steadfastness:--"i know not what to make of you. your language and ideas are those of a lunatic. are you acquainted with mrs. fielding?" "yes. i have seen her two days ago, and she has invited me to see her again." "and on the strength of this acquaintance you expect to be her almoner? to be the medium of her charity?" "i desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light and easy as possible. 'twill be better if she perform those offices herself. 'twill redound more to the credit of her reason and her virtue. but i solicit her benignity only in the cause of clemenza. for her only do i wish at present to call forth her generosity and pity." "and do you imagine she will intrust her money to one of your age and sex, whom she knows so imperfectly, to administer to the wants of one whom she found in such a house as mrs. villars's? she never will. she mentioned her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now warned against the folly of such confidence. "you have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this clemenza. i cannot say that i disbelieve them, but i know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit faith so easily. you are an extraordinary young man. you may possibly be honest. such a one as you, with your education and address, may possibly have passed all your life in a hovel; but it is scarcely credible, let me tell you. i believe most of the facts respecting my nephew, because my knowledge of him before his flight would enable me to detect your falsehood; but there must be other proofs besides an innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me give full credit to your pretensions. "i have no claim upon welbeck which can embarrass you. on that score, you are free from any molestation from me or my friends. i have suspected you of being an accomplice in some vile plot, and am now inclined to acquit you; but that is all that you must expect from me, till your character be established by other means than your own assertions. i am engaged at present, and must therefore request you to put an end to your visit." this strain was much unlike the strain which preceded it. i imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners, that her unfavourable prepossessions were removed; but they seemed to have suddenly regained their pristine force. i was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected change. i stood for a minute silent and irresolute. just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently entered that very female whom i had met with at villars's. i caught her figure as i glanced through the window. mrs. wentworth darted at me many significant glances, which commanded me to withdraw; but, with this object in view, it was impossible. as soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me. certain recollections naturally occurred at that moment, and made her cheeks glow. some confusion reigned for a moment, but was quickly dissipated. she did not notice me, but exchanged salutations with her friend. all this while i stood near the window, in a situation not a little painful. certain tremors which i had not been accustomed to feel, and which seemed to possess a mystical relation to the visitant, disabled me at once from taking my leave, or from performing any useful purpose by staying. at length, struggling for composure, i approached her, and, showing her the card she had given me, said,-"agreeably to this direction, i called an hour ago, at your lodgings. i found you not. i hope you will permit me to call once more. when shall i expect to meet you at home?" her eyes were cast on the floor. a kind of indirect attention was fixed on mrs. wentworth, serving to intimidate and check her. at length she said, in an irresolute voice, "i shall be at home this evening." "and this evening," replied i, "i will call to see you." so saying, i left the house. this interval was tedious, but was to be endured with equanimity. i was impatient to be gone to baltimore, and hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next day. meanwhile, i was necessarily to perform something with respect to clemenza. after dinner i accompanied mrs. stevens to visit miss carlton. i was eager to see a woman who could bear adversity in the manner which my friend had described. she met us at the door of her apartment. her seriousness was not abated by her smiles of affability and welcome. "my friend!" whispered i, "how truly lovely is this miss carlton! are the heart and the intelligence within worthy of these features?" "yes, they are. the account of her employments, of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom she loves, proves that they are." my eyes were riveted to her countenance and person. i felt uncontrollable eagerness to speak to her, and to gain her good opinion. "you must know this young man, my dear miss carlton," said my friend, looking at me; "he is my husband's friend, and professes a great desire to be yours. you must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows your character and situation already, as well as that of your brother." she looked at me with benignity:--"i accept his friendship willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavour to convince him that his good opinion is not misplaced." there now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in which this young woman showed a mind vigorous from exercise and unembarrassed by care. she affected no concealment of her own condition, of her wants, or her comforts. she laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself, and some motive for gratitude to heaven, from every wayward incident that had befallen her. this demeanour emboldened me, at length, to inquire into the cause of her brother's imprisonment, and the nature of his debt. she answered frankly and without hesitation:--"it is a debt of his father's, for which he made himself responsible during his father's life. the act was generous but imprudent, as the event has shown; though, at the time, the unhappy effects could not be foreseen. "my father," continued she, "was arrested by his creditor, at a time when the calmness and comforts of his own dwelling were necessary to his health. the creditor was obdurate, and would release him upon no condition but that of receiving a bond from my brother, by which he engaged to pay the debt at several successive times and in small portions. all these instalments were discharged with great difficulty indeed, but with sufficient punctuality, except the last, to which my brother's earnings were not adequate." "how much is the debt?" "four hundred dollars." "and is the state of the creditor such as to make the loss of four hundred dollars of more importance to him than the loss of liberty to your brother?" she answered, smiling, "that is a very abstract view of things. on such a question you and i might, perhaps, easily decide in favour of my brother; but would there not be some danger of deciding partially? his conduct is a proof of his decision, and there is no power to change it." "will not argument change it? methinks in so plain a case i should be able to convince him. you say he is rich and childless. his annual income is ten times more than this sum. your brother cannot pay the debt while in prison; whereas, if at liberty, he might slowly and finally discharge it. if his humanity would not yield, his avarice might be brought to acquiesce." "but there is another passion which you would find it somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengeance. he thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother, not to enforce payment, but to inflict misery. if you could persuade him that there is no hardship in imprisonment, you would speedily gain the victory; but that could not be attempted consistently with truth. in proportion to my brother's suffering is his gratification." "you draw an odious and almost incredible portrait." "and yet such a one would serve for the likeness of almost every second man we meet." "and is such your opinion of mankind? your experience must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justify such hard thoughts of the rest of your species." "by no means. it has been what those whose situation disables them from looking further than the surface of things would regard as unfortunate; but, if my goods and evils were equitably balanced, the former would be the weightiest. i have found kindness and goodness in great numbers, but have likewise met prejudice and rancor in many. my opinion of farquhar is not lightly taken up. i saw him yesterday, and the nature of his motives in the treatment of my brother was plain enough." here this topic was succeeded by others, and the conversation ceased not till the hour had arrived on which i had preconcerted to visit mrs. fielding. i left my two friends for this purpose. i was admitted to mrs. fielding's presence without scruple or difficulty. there were two females in her company, and one of the other sex, well-dressed, elderly, and sedate persons. their discourse turned upon political topics, with which, as you know, i have but slight acquaintance. they talked of fleets and armies, of robespierre and pitt, of whom i had only a newspaper-knowledge. in a short time the women rose, and, huddling on their cloaks, disappeared, in company with the gentleman. being thus left alone with mrs. fielding, some embarrassment was mutually betrayed. with much hesitation, which, however, gradually disappeared, my companion, at length, began the conversation:-"you met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which i look back with trembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation. i was led into it without any fault, unless a too hasty confidence may be styled a fault. i had known mrs. villars in england, where she lived with an untainted reputation, at least; and the sight of my countrywoman, in a foreign land, awakened emotions in the indulgence of which i did not imagine there was either any guilt or any danger. she invited me to see her at her house with so much urgency and warmth, and solicited me to take a place immediately in a chaise in which she had come to the city, that i too incautiously complied. "you are a stranger to me, and i am unacquainted with your character. what little i have seen of your deportment, and what little i have lately heard concerning you from mrs. wentworth, do not produce unfavourable impressions; but the apology i have made was due to my own reputation, and should have been offered to you whatever your character had been." there she stopped. "i came not hither," said i, "to receive an apology. your demeanour, on our first interview, shielded you sufficiently from any suspicions or surmises that i could form. what you have now mentioned was likewise mentioned by your friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. my purpose, in coming, related not to you, but to another. i desired merely to interest your generosity and justice on behalf of one whose destitute and dangerous condition may lay claim to your compassion and your succour." "i comprehend you," said she, with an air of some perplexity. "i know the claims of that person." "and will you comply with them?" "in what manner can i serve her?" "by giving her the means of living." "does she not possess them already?" "she is destitute. her dependence was wholly placed upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dishonoured and her fortune embezzled." "but she still lives. she is not turned into the street. she is not destitute of home." "but what a home!" "such as she may choose to remain in." "she cannot choose it. she must not choose it. she remains through ignorance, or through the incapacity of leaving it." "but how shall she be persuaded to a change?" "i will persuade her. i will fully explain her situation. i will supply her with a new home." "you will persuade her to go with you, and to live at a home of your providing and on your bounty?" "certainly." "would that change be worthy of a cautious person? would it benefit her reputation? would it prove her love of independence?" "my purposes are good. i know not why she should suspect them. but i am only anxious to be the instrument. let her be indebted to one of her own sex, of unquestionable reputation. admit her into this house. invite her to your arms. cherish and console her as your sister." "before i am convinced that she deserves it? and even then, what regard shall i, young, unmarried, independent, affluent, pay to my own reputation in harbouring a woman in these circumstances?" "but you need not act yourself. make me your agent and almoner. only supply her with the means of subsistence through me." "would you have me act a clandestine part? hold meetings with one of your sex, and give him money for a purpose which i must hide from the world? is it worth while to be a dissembler and impostor? and will not such conduct incur more dangerous surmises and suspicions than would arise from acting openly and directly? you will forgive me for reminding you, likewise, that it is particularly incumbent upon those in my situation to be circumspect in their intercourse with men and with strangers. this is the second time that i have seen you. my knowledge of you is extremely dubious and imperfect, and such as would make the conduct you prescribe to me, in a high degree, rash and culpable. you must not, therefore, expect me to pursue it." these words were delivered with an air of firmness and dignity. i was not insensible to the truth of her representations. "i confess," said i, "what you have said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal; yet i would fain be of service to her. cannot you point out some practicable method?" she was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed to answer my question. "i had set my heart upon success in this negotiation," continued i, "and could not imagine any obstacle to its success; but i find my ignorance of the world's ways much greater than i had previously expected. you defraud yourself of all the happiness redounding from the act of making others happy. you sacrifice substance to show, and are more anxious to prevent unjust aspersions from lighting on yourself, than to rescue a fellow-creature from guilt and infamy. "you are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and luxuries of life. a small portion of your superfluity would obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than yourself. it is not avarice or aversion to labour that makes you withhold your hand. it is dread of the sneers and surmises of malevolence and ignorance. "i will not urge you further at present. your determination to be wise should not be hasty. think upon the subject calmly and sedately, and form your resolution in the course of three days. at the end of that period i will visit you again." so saying, and without waiting for comment or answer, i withdrew. chapter xl. i mounted the stage-coach at daybreak the next day, in company with a sallow frenchman from st. domingo, his fiddle-case, an ape, and two female blacks. the frenchman, after passing the suburbs, took out his violin and amused himself with humming to his own _tweedle-tweedle_. the monkey now and then munched an apple, which was given to him from a basket by the blacks, who gazed with stupid wonder, and an exclamatory _la! la!_ upon the passing scenery, or chattered to each other in a sort of open-mouthed, half-articulate, monotonous, singsong jargon. the man looked seldom either on this side or that; and spoke only to rebuke the frolics of the monkey, with a "tenez! dominique! prenez garde! diable noir!" as to me, my thought was busy in a thousand ways. i sometimes gazed at the faces of my _four_ companions, and endeavoured to discern the differences and samenesses between them. i took an exact account of the features, proportions, looks, and gestures of the monkey, the congolese, and the creole gaul. i compared them together, and examined them apart. i looked at them in a thousand different points of view, and pursued, untired and unsatiated, those trains of reflections which began at each change of tone, feature, and attitude. i marked the country as it successively arose before me, and found endless employment in examining the shape and substance of the fence, the barn, and the cottage, the aspect of earth and of heaven. how great are the pleasures of health and of mental activity! my chief occupation, however, related to the scenes into which i was about to enter. my imaginations were, of course, crude and inadequate; and i found an uncommon gratification in comparing realities, as they successively occurred, with the pictures which my wayward fancy had depicted. i will not describe my dreams. my proper task is to relate the truth. neither shall i dwell upon the images suggested by the condition of the country through which i passed. i will confine myself to mentioning the transactions connected with the purpose of my journey. i reached baltimore at night. i was not so fatigued but that i could ramble through the town. i intended, at present, merely the gratification of a stranger's curiosity. my visit to mrs. watson and her brother i designed should take place on the morrow. the evening of my arrival i deemed an unseasonable time. while roving about, however, it occurred to me, that it might not be impolitic to find the way to their habitation even now. my purposes of general curiosity would equally be served whichever way my steps were bent; and to trace the path to their dwelling would save me the trouble of inquiries and interrogations to-morrow. when i looked forward to an interview with the wife of watson, and to the subject which would be necessarily discussed at that interview, i felt a trembling and misgiving at my heart. "surely," thought i, "it will become me to exercise immeasurable circumspection and address; and yet how little are these adapted to the impetuosity and candour of my nature! "how am i to introduce myself? what am i to tell her? that i was a sort of witness to the murder of her husband? that i received from the hand of his assassin the letter which i afterwards transmitted to her? and, from the same hands, the bills contained in his girdle? "how will she start and look aghast! what suspicions will she harbour? what inquiries shall be made of me? how shall they be disarmed and eluded, or answered? deep consideration will be necessary before i trust myself to such an interview. the coming night shall be devoted to reflection upon this subject." from these thoughts i proceeded to inquiries for the street mentioned in the advertisement, where mrs. watson was said to reside. the street, and, at length, the habitation, was found. having reached a station opposite, i paused and surveyed the mansion. it was a wooden edifice of two stories, humble, but neat. you ascended to the door by several stone steps. of the two lower windows, the shutters of one were closed, but those of the other were open. though late in the evening, there was no appearance of light or fire within. beside the house was a painted fence, through which was a gate leading to the back of the building. guided by the impulse of the moment, i crossed the street to the gate, and, lifting the latch, entered the paved alley, on one side of which was a paled fence, and on the other the house, looking through two windows into the alley. the first window was dark like those in front; but at the second a light was discernible. i approached it, and, looking through, beheld a plain but neat apartment, in which parlour, kitchen, and nursery seemed to be united. a fire burned cheerfully in the chimney, over which was a tea-kettle. on the hearth sat a smiling and playful cherub of a boy, tossing something to a black girl who sat opposite, and whose innocent and regular features wanted only a different hue to make them beautiful. near it, in a rocking-chair, with a sleeping babe in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but neat and becoming attire. her posture permitted half her face to be seen, and saved me from any danger of being observed. this countenance was full of sweetness and benignity, but the sadness that veiled its lustre was profound. her eyes were now fixed upon the fire and were moist with the tears of remembrance, while she sung, in low and scarcely-audible strains, an artless lullaby. this spectacle exercised a strange power over my feelings. while occupied in meditating on the features of the mother, i was unaware of my conspicuous situation. the black girl, having occasion to change her situation, in order to reach the ball which was thrown at her, unluckily caught a glance of my figure through the glass. in a tone of half surprise and half terror, she cried out, "oh! see dare! a man!" i was tempted to draw suddenly back, but a second thought showed me the impropriety of departing thus abruptly and leaving behind me some alarm. i felt a sort of necessity for apologizing for my intrusion into these precincts, and hastened to a door that led into the same apartment. i knocked. a voice somewhat confused bade me enter. it was not till i opened the door and entered the room, that i fully saw in what embarrassments i had incautiously involved myself. i could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak, and gave a confused assent to the question, "have you business with me, sir?" she offered me a chair, and i sat down. she put the child, not yet awakened, into the arms of the black, who kissed it and rocked it in her arms with great satisfaction, and, resuming her seat, looked at me with inquisitiveness mingled with complacency. after a moment's pause, i said, "i was directed to this house as the abode of mr. ephraim williams. can he be seen, madam?" "he is not in town at present. if you will leave a message with me, i will punctually deliver it." the thought suddenly occurred, whether any more was needful than merely to leave the bills suitably enclosed, as they already were, in a packet. thus all painful explanations might be avoided, and i might have reason to congratulate myself on his seasonable absence. actuated by these thoughts, i drew forth the packet, and put it into her hand, saying, "i will leave this in your possession, and must earnestly request you to keep it safe until you can deliver it into his own hands." scarcely had i said this before new suggestions occurred. was it right to act in this clandestine and mysterious manner? should i leave these persons in uncertainty respecting the fate of a husband and a brother? what perplexities, misunderstandings, and suspenses might not grow out of this uncertainty? and ought they not to be precluded at any hazard to my own safety or good name? these sentiments made me involuntarily stretch forth my hand to retake the packet. this gesture, and other significances in my manners, joined to a trembling consciousness in herself, filled my companion with all the tokens of confusion and fear. she alternately looked at me and at the paper. her trepidation increased, and she grew pale. these emotions were counteracted by a strong effort. at length she said, falteringly, "i will take good care of them, and will give them to my brother." she rose and placed them in a drawer, after which she resumed her seat. on this occasion all my wariness forsook me. i cannot explain why my perplexity and the trouble of my thoughts were greater upon this than upon similar occasions. however it be, i was incapable of speaking, and fixed my eyes upon the floor. a sort of electrical sympathy pervaded my companion, and terror and anguish were strongly manifested in the glances which she sometimes stole at me. we seemed fully to understand each other without the aid of words. this imbecility could not last long. i gradually recovered my composure, and collected my scattered thoughts. i looked at her with seriousness, and steadfastly spoke:--"are you the wife of amos watson?" she started:--"i am indeed. why do you ask? do you know any thing of----?" there her voice failed. i replied with quickness, "yes. i am fully acquainted with his destiny." "good god!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of surprise, and bending eagerly forward, "my husband is then alive! this packet is from him. where is he? when have you seen him?" "'tis a long time since." "but where, where is he now? is he well? will he return to me?" "never." "merciful heaven!" (looking upwards and clasping her hands,) "i thank thee at least for his life! but why has he forsaken me? why will he not return?" "for a good reason," said i, with augmented solemnity, "he will never return to thee. long ago was he laid in the cold grave." she shrieked; and, at the next moment, sunk in a swoon upon the floor. i was alarmed. the two children shrieked, and ran about the room terrified and unknowing what they did. i was overwhelmed with somewhat like terror, yet i involuntarily raised the mother in my arms, and cast about for the means of recalling her from this fit. time to effect this had not elapsed, when several persons, apparently mrs. watson's neighbours, and raised by the outcries of the girls, hastily entered the room. they looked at me with mingled surprise and suspicion; but my attitude, being not that of an injurer but helper; my countenance, which showed the pleasure their entrance, at this critical moment, afforded me; and my words, in which i besought their assistance, and explained, in some degree, and briefly, the cause of those appearances, removed their ill thoughts. presently, the unhappy woman, being carried by the new-comers into a bedroom adjoining, recovered her sensibility. i only waited for this. i had done my part. more information would be useless to her, and not to be given by me, at least in the present audience, without embarrassment and peril. i suddenly determined to withdraw, and this, the attention of the company being otherwise engaged, i did without notice. i returned to my inn, and shut myself up in my chamber. such was the change which, undesigned, unforeseen, half an hour had wrought in my situation. my cautious projects had perished in their conception. that which i had deemed so arduous, to require such circumspect approaches, such well-concerted speeches, was done. i had started up before this woman as if from the pores of the ground. i had vanished with the same celerity, but had left her in possession of proofs sufficient that i was neither spectre nor demon. "i will visit her," said i, "again. i will see her brother, and know the full effect of my disclosure. i will tell them all that i myself know. ignorance would be no less injurious to them than to myself; but, first, i will see the maurices." chapter xli. next morning i arose betimes, and equipped myself without delay. i had eight or ten miles to walk, so far from the town being the residence of these people; and i forthwith repaired to their dwelling. the persons whom i desired to see were known to me only by name, and by their place of abode. it was a mother and her three daughters to whom i now carried the means not only of competence but riches; means which they, no doubt, had long ago despaired of regaining, and which, among all possible messengers, one of my age and guise would be the least suspected of being able to restore. i arrived, through intricate ways, at eleven o'clock, at the house of mrs. maurice. it was a neat dwelling, in a very fanciful and rustic style, in the bosom of a valley, which, when decorated by the verdure and blossoms of the coming season, must possess many charms. at present it was naked and dreary. as i approached it, through a long avenue, i observed two female figures, walking arm-in-arm and slowly to and fro, in the path in which i now was. "these," said i, "are daughters of the family. graceful, well-dressed, fashionable girls they seem at this distance. may they be deserving of the good tidings which i bring!" seeing them turn towards the house, i mended my pace, that i might overtake them and request their introduction of me to their mother. as i more nearly approached, they again turned; and, perceiving me, they stood as if in expectation of my message. i went up to them. a single glance, cast at each, made me suspect that they were not sisters; but, somewhat to my disappointment, there was nothing highly prepossessing in the countenance of either. they were what is every day met with, though less embellished by brilliant drapery and turban, in markets and streets. an air somewhat haughty, somewhat supercilious, lessened still more their attractions. these defects, however, were nothing to me. i inquired, of her that seemed to be the elder of the two, for mrs. maurice. "she is indisposed," was the cold reply. "that is unfortunate. is it not possible to see her?" "no;" with still more gravity. i was somewhat at a loss how to proceed. a pause ensued. at length the same lady resumed, "what's your business? you can leave your message with me." "with nobody but her. if she be not _very_ indisposed----" "she is very indisposed," interrupted she, peevishly. "if you cannot leave your message, you may take it back again, for she must not be disturbed." this was a singular reception. i was disconcerted and silent. i knew not what to say. "perhaps," i at last observed, "some other time----" "no," (with increasing heat,) "no other time. she is more likely to be worse than better. come, betsy," said she, taking hold of her companion's arm; and, hieing into the house, shut the door after her, and disappeared. i stood, at the bottom of the steps, confounded at such strange and unexpected treatment. i could not withdraw till my purpose was accomplished. after a moment's pause, i stepped to the door, and pulled the bell. a negro came, of a very unpropitious aspect, and, opening the door, looked at me in silence. to my question, was mrs. maurice to be seen? he made some answer, in a jargon which i could not understand; but his words were immediately followed by an unseen person within the house:--"mrs. maurice can't be seen by anybody. come in, cato, and shut the door." this injunction was obeyed by cato without ceremony. here was a dilemma! i came with ten thousand pounds in my hands, to bestow freely on these people, and such was the treatment i received. "i must adopt," said i, "a new mode." i lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, cato having disappeared, went into a room, the door of which chanced to be open, on my right hand. i found within the two females whom i had accosted in the portico. i now addressed myself to the younger:--"this intrusion, when i have explained the reason of it, will, i hope, be forgiven. i come, madam----" "yes," interrupted the other, with a countenance suffused by indignation, "i know very well whom you come from, and what it is that prompts this insolence; but your employer shall see that we have not sunk so low as he imagines. cato! bob! i say." "my employer, madam! i see you labour under some great mistake. i have no employer. i come from a great distance. i come to bring intelligence of the utmost importance to your family. i come to benefit and not to injure you." by this time, bob and cato, two sturdy blacks, entered the room. "turn this person," said the imperious lady, regardless of my explanations, "out of the house. don't you hear me?" she continued, observing that they looked one upon the other and hesitated. "surely, madam," said i, "you are precipitate. you are treating like an enemy one who will prove himself your mother's best friend." "will you leave the house?" she exclaimed, quite beside herself with anger. "villains! why don't you do as i bid you?" the blacks looked upon each other, as if waiting for an example. their habitual deference for every thing _white_, no doubt, held their hands from what they regarded as a profanation. at last bob said, in a whining, beseeching tone, "why, missee, massa buckra wanna go for doo, dan he winna go fo' wee." the lady now burst into tears of rage. she held out her hand, menacingly. "will you leave the house?" "not willingly," said i, in a mild tone. "i came too far to return with the business that brought me unperformed. i am persuaded, madam, you mistake my character and my views. i have a message to deliver your mother which deeply concerns her and your happiness, if you are her daughter. i merely wished to see her, and leave with her a piece of important news; news in which her fortune is deeply interested." these words had a wonderful effect upon the young lady. her anger was checked. "good god!" she exclaimed, "are you watson?" "no; i am only watson's representative, and come to do all that watson could do if he were present." she was now importunate to know my business. "my business lies with mrs. maurice. advertisements, which i have seen, direct me to her, and to this house; and to her only shall i deliver my message." "perhaps," said she, with a face of apology, "i have mistaken you. mrs. maurice is my mother. she is really indisposed, but i can stand in her place on this occasion." "you cannot represent her in this instance. if i cannot have access to her now, i must go; and shall return when you are willing to grant it." "nay," replied she, "she is not, perhaps, so very sick but that i will go, and see if she will admit you." so saying, she left me for three minutes; and, returning, said her mother wished to see me. i followed up-stairs, at her request; and, entering an ill-furnished chamber, found, seated in an arm-chair, a lady seemingly in years, pale, and visibly infirm. the lines of her countenance were far from laying claim to my reverence. it was too much like the daughter's. she looked at me, at my entrance, with great eagerness, and said, in a sharp tone, "pray, friend, what is it you want with me? make haste; tell your story, and begone." "my story is a short one, and easily told. amos watson was your agent in jamaica. he sold an estate belonging to you, and received the money." "he did," said she, attempting ineffectually to rise from her seat, and her eyes beaming with a significance that shocked me; "he did, the villain, and purloined the money, to the ruin of me and my daughters. but if there be justice on earth it will overtake him. i trust i shall have the pleasure one day--i hope to hear he's hanged. well, but go on, friend. he _did_ sell it, i tell you." "he sold it for ten thousand pounds," i resumed, "and invested this sum in bills of exchange. watson is dead. these bills came into my hands. i was lately informed, by the public papers, who were the real owners, and have come from philadelphia with no other view than to restore them to you. there they are," continued i, placing them in her lap, entire and untouched. she seized the papers, and looked at me and at her daughter, by turns, with an air of one suddenly bewildered. she seemed speechless, and, growing suddenly more ghastly pale, leaned her head back upon the chair. the daughter screamed, and hastened to support the languid parent, who difficultly articulated, "oh, i am sick; sick to death. put me on the bed." i was astonished and affrighted at this scene. some of the domestics, of both colours, entered, and gazed at me with surprise. involuntarily i withdrew, and returned to the room below, into which i had first entered, and which i now found deserted. i was for some time at a loss to guess at the cause of these appearances. at length it occurred to me, that joy was the source of the sickness that had seized mrs. maurice. the abrupt recovery of what had probably been deemed irretrievable would naturally produce this effect upon a mind of a certain texture. i was deliberating whether to stay or go, when the daughter entered the room, and, after expressing some surprise at seeing me, whom she supposed to have retired, told me that her mother wished to see me again before my departure. in this request there was no kindness. all was cold, supercilious, and sullen. i obeyed the summons without speaking. i found mrs. maurice seated in her arm-chair, much in her former guise. without desiring me to be seated, or relaxing aught in her asperity of looks and tones,--"pray, friend, how did you _come by_ these papers?" "i assure you, madam, they were honestly _come by_," answered i, sedately and with half a smile; "but, if the whole is there that was missing, the mode and time in which they came to me is matter of concern only to myself. is there any deficiency?" "i am not sure. i don't know much of these matters. there may be less. i dare say there is. i shall know that soon. i expect a friend of mine every minute who will look them over. i don't doubt you can give a good account of yourself." "i doubt not but i can--to those who have a right to demand it. in this case, curiosity must be very urgent indeed before i shall consent to gratify it." "you must know this is a suspicious case. watson, to-be-sure, embezzled the money; to-be-sure, you are his accomplice." "certainly," said i, "my conduct, on this occasion, proves that. what i have brought to you, of my own accord; what i have restored to you, fully and unconditionally, it is plain watson embezzled, and that i was aiding in the fraud. to restore what was never stolen always betrays the thief. to give what might be kept without suspicion is, without doubt, arrant knavery. to be serious, madam, in coming thus far, for this purpose, i have done enough; and must now bid you farewell." "nay, don't go yet. i have something more to say to you. my friend, i'm sure, will be here presently. there he is;" (noticing a peal upon the bell.) "polly, go down, and see if that's mr. somers. if it is, bring him up." the daughter went. i walked to the window absorbed in my own reflections. i was disappointed and dejected. the scene before me was the unpleasing reverse of all that my fancy, while coming hither, had foreboded. i expected to find virtuous indigence and sorrow lifted, by my means, to affluence and exultation. i expected to witness the tears of gratitude and the caresses of affection. what had i found? nothing but sordidness, stupidity, and illiberal suspicion. the daughter stayed much longer than the mother's patience could endure. she knocked against the floor with her heel. a servant came up. "where's polly, you slut? it was not you, hussy, that i wanted. it was her." "she is talking in the parlour with a gentleman." "mr. somers, i suppose; hey, fool? run with my compliments to him, wench. tell him, please walk up." "it is not mr. somers, ma'am." "no? who then, saucebox? what gentleman can have any thing to do with polly?" "i don't know, ma'am." "who said you did, impertinence? run, and tell her i want her this instant." the summons was not delivered, or polly did not think proper to obey it. full ten minutes of thoughtful silence on my part, and of muttered vexation and impatience on that of the old lady, elapsed before polly's entrance. as soon as she appeared, the mother began to complain bitterly of her inattention and neglect; but polly, taking no notice of her, addressed herself to me, and told me that a gentleman below wished to see me. i hastened down, and found a stranger, of a plain appearance, in the parlour. his aspect was liberal and ingenuous; and i quickly collected, from his discourse, that this was the brother-in-law of watson, and the companion of his last voyage. chapter xlii. my eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected interview, and i willingly confessed my desire to communicate all the knowledge of his brother's destiny which i possessed. he told me, that, returning late to baltimore, on the last evening, he found his sister in much agitation and distress, which, after a time, she explained to him. she likewise put the packets i had left into his hands. "i leave you to imagine," continued he, "my surprise and curiosity at this discovery. i was, of course, impatient to see the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. this morning, inquiring for one of your appearance at the taverns, i was, at length, informed of your arrival yesterday in the stage; of your going out alone in the evening; of your subsequent return; and of your early departure this morning. accidentally i lighted on your footsteps; and, by suitable inquiries on the road, have finally traced you hither. "you told my sister her husband was dead. you left with her papers that were probably in his possession at the time of his death. i understand from miss maurice that the bills belonging to her mother have just been delivered to her. i presume you have no objection to clear up this mystery." "to you i am anxious to unfold every thing. at this moment, or at any time, but the sooner the more agreeable to me, i will do it." "this," said he, looking around him, "is no place; there is an inn, not a hundred yards from this gate, where i have left my horse; will you go thither?" i readily consented, and, calling for a private apartment, i laid before this man every incident of my life connected with welbeck and watson; my full, circumstantial, and explicit story appeared to remove every doubt which he might have entertained of my integrity. in williams i found a plain, good man, of a temper confiding and affectionate. my narration being finished, he expressed, by unaffected tokens, his wonder and his grief on account of watson's destiny. to my inquiries, which were made with frankness and fervour, respecting his own and his sister's condition, he said that the situation of both was deplorable till the recovery of this property. they had been saved from utter ruin, from beggary and a jail, only by the generosity and lenity of his creditors, who did not suffer the suspicious circumstances attending watson's disappearance to outweigh former proofs of his probity. they had never relinquished the hopes of receiving some tidings of their kinsman. i related what had just passed in the house of mrs. maurice, and requested to know from him the history and character of this family. "they have treated you," he answered, "exactly as any one who knew them would have predicted. the mother is narrow, ignorant, bigoted, and avaricious. the eldest daughter, whom you saw, resembles the old lady in many things. age, indeed, may render the similitude complete. at present, pride and ill-humour are her chief characteristics. "the youngest daughter has nothing in mind or person in common with her family. where they are irascible, she is patient; where they are imperious, she is humble; where they are covetous, she is liberal; where they are ignorant and indolent, she is studious and skilful. it is rare, indeed, to find a young lady more amiable than miss fanny maurice, or who has had more crosses and afflictions to sustain. "the eldest daughter always extorted the supply of her wants, from her parents, by threats and importunities; but the younger could never be prevailed upon to employ the same means, and, hence, she suffered inconveniences which, to any other girl, born to an equal rank, would have been, to the last degree, humiliating and vexatious. to her they only afforded new opportunities for the display of her most shining virtues,--fortitude and charity. no instance of their sordidness or tyranny ever stole a murmur from her. for what they had given, existence and a virtuous education, she said they were entitled to gratitude. what they withheld was their own, in the use of which they were not accountable to her. she was not ashamed to owe her subsistence to her own industry, and was only held by the pride of her family--in this instance their pride was equal to their avarice--from seeking out some lucrative kind of employment. since the shock which their fortune sustained by watson's disappearance, she has been permitted to pursue this plan, and she now teaches music in baltimore for a living. no one, however, in the highest rank, can be more generally respected and caressed than she is." "but will not the recovery of this money make a favourable change in her condition?" "i can hardly tell; but i am inclined to think it will not. it will not change her mother's character. her pride may be awakened anew, and she may oblige miss fanny to relinquish her new profession, and that will be a change to be deplored." "what good has been done, then, by restoring this money?" "if pleasure be good, you must have conferred a great deal on the maurices; upon the mother and two of the daughters, at least,--the only pleasure, indeed, which their natures can receive. it is less than if you had raised them from absolute indigence, which has not been the case, since they had wherewithal to live upon besides their jamaica property. but how?" continued williams, suddenly recollecting himself; "have you claimed the reward promised to him who should restore these bills?" "what reward?" "no less than a thousand dollars. it was publicly promised under the hands of mrs. maurice and of hemmings, her husband's executor." "really," said i, "that circumstance escaped my attention, and i wonder that it did; but is it too late to repair the evil?" "then you have no scruple to accept the reward?" "certainly not. could you suspect me of so strange a punctilio as that?" "yes; but i know not why. the story you have just finished taught me to expect some unreasonable refinement upon that head. to be hired, to be bribed, to do our duty is supposed by some to be degrading." "this is no such bribe to me. i should have acted just as i have done, had no recompense been promised. in truth, this has been my conduct, for i never once thought of the reward; but, now that you remind me of it, i would gladly see it bestowed. to fulfil their engagements, in this respect, is no more than justice in the maurices. to one in my condition the money will be highly useful. if these people were poor, or generous and worthy, or if i myself were already rich, i might less repine at their withholding it; but, things being as they are with them and with me, it would, i think, be gross injustice in them to withhold, and in me to refuse." "that injustice," said williams, "will, on their part, i fear, be committed. 'tis pity you first applied to mrs. maurice. nothing can be expected from her avarice, unless it be wrested from her by a lawsuit." "that is a force which i shall never apply." "had you gone first to hemmings, you might, i think, have looked for payment. he is not a mean man. a thousand dollars, he must know, is not much to give for forty thousand. perhaps, indeed, it may not yet be too late. i am well known to him, and, if you please, will attend you to him in the evening, and state your claim." i thankfully accepted this offer, and went with him accordingly. i found that hemmings had been with mrs. maurice in the course of the day; had received from her intelligence of this transaction, and had entertained the expectation of a visit from me for this very purpose. while williams explained to him the nature of my claim, he scanned me with great intentness. his austere and inflexible brow afforded me little room to hope for success, and this hopelessness was confirmed by his silence and perplexity when williams had made an end. "to-be-sure," said he, after some pause, "the contract was explicit. to-be-sure, the conditions on mr. mervyn's side have been performed. certain it is, the bills are entire and complete, but mrs. maurice will not consent to do her part, and mrs. maurice, to whom the papers were presented, is the person by whom, according to the terms of the contract, the reward must be paid." "but mrs. maurice, you know, sir, may be legally compelled to pay," said williams. "perhaps she may; but i tell you plainly, that she never will do the thing without compulsion. legal process, however, in this case, will have other inconveniences besides delay. some curiosity will naturally be excited, as to the history of these papers. watson disappeared a twelvemonth ago. who can avoid asking, where have these papers been deposited all this while, and how came this person in possession of them?" "that kind of curiosity," said i, "is natural and laudable, and gladly would i gratify it. disclosure or concealment in that case, however, would nowise affect my present claim. whether a bond, legally executed, shall be paid, does not depend upon determining whether the payer is fondest of boiled mutton or roast beef. truth, in the first case, has no connection with truth in the second. so far from eluding this curiosity, so far from studying concealment, i am anxious to publish the truth." "you are right, to-be-sure," said hemmings. "curiosity is a natural, but only an incidental, consequence in this case. i have no reason for desiring that it should be an unpleasant consequence to you." "well, sir," said williams, "you think that arthur mervyn has no remedy in this case but the law?" "mrs. maurice, to-be-sure, will never pay but on compulsion. mervyn should have known his own interest better. while his left hand was stretched out to give, his right should have been held forth to receive. as it is, he must be contented with the aid of law. any attorney will prosecute on condition of receiving _half the sum_ when recovered." we now rose to take our leave, when hemmings, desiring us to pause a moment, said, "to-be-sure, in the utmost strictness of the terms of our promise, the reward was to be paid by the person who received the papers; but it must be owned that your claim, at any rate, is equitable. i have money of the deceased mr. maurice in my hands. these very bills are now in my possession. i will therefore pay you your due, and take the consequences of an act of justice on myself. i was prepared for you. sign that receipt, and there is a _check_ for the amount." chapter xliii. this unexpected and agreeable decision was accompanied by an invitation to supper, at which we were treated by our host with much affability and kindness. finding me the author of williams's good fortune as well as mrs. maurice's, and being assured by the former of his entire conviction of the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside all reserve and distance with regard to me. he inquired into my prospects and wishes, and professed his willingness to serve me. i dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. "i am poor," said i. "money for my very expenses hither i have borrowed from a friend, to whom i am, in other respects, much indebted, and whom i expect to compensate only by gratitude and future services. "in coming hither, i expected only an increase of my debts; to sink still deeper into poverty; but happily the issue has made me rich. this hour has given me competence, at least." "what! call you a thousand dollars competence?" "more than competence. i call it an abundance. my own ingenuity, while i enjoy health, will enable me to live. this i regard as a fund, first to pay my debts, and next to supply deficiencies occasioned by untoward accidents or ill health, during the ensuing three or four years at least." we parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour, and i accepted williams's invitation to pass the time i should spend at baltimore, under his sister's roof. there were several motives for prolonging this stay. what i had heard of miss fanny maurice excited strong wishes to be personally acquainted with her. this young lady was affectionately attached to mrs. watson, by whose means my wishes were easily accomplished. i never was in habits of reserve, even with those whom i had no reason to esteem. with those who claimed my admiration and affection, it was impossible to be incommunicative. before the end of my second interview, both these women were mistresses of every momentous incident of my life, and of the whole chain of my feelings and opinions, in relation to every subject, and particularly in relation to themselves. every topic disconnected with these is comparatively lifeless and inert. i found it easy to win their attention, and to render them communicative in their turn. as full disclosures as i had made without condition or request, my inquiries and example easily obtained from mrs. watson and miss maurice. the former related every event of her youth, and the circumstances leading to her marriage. she depicted the character of her husband, and the whole train of suspenses and inquietudes occasioned by his disappearance. the latter did not hide from me her opinions upon any important subject, and made me thoroughly acquainted with her actual situation. this intercourse was strangely fascinating. my heart was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. i now found myself exalted to my genial element, and began to taste the delights of existence. in the intercourse of ingenuous and sympathetic minds, i found a pleasure which i had not previously conceived. the time flew swiftly away, and a fortnight passed almost before i was aware that a day had gone by. i did not forget the friends whom i had left behind, but maintained a punctual correspondence with stevens, to whom i imparted all occurrences. the recovery of my friend's kinsman allowed him in a few days to return home. his first object was the consolation and relief of carlton, whom, with much difficulty, he persuaded to take advantage of the laws in favour of insolvent debtors. carlton's only debt was owing to his uncle, and, by rendering up every species of property, except his clothes and the implements of his trade, he obtained a full discharge. in conjunction with his sister, he once more assumed the pen, and, being no longer burdened with debts he was unable to discharge, he resumed, together with his pen, his cheerfulness. their mutual industry was sufficient for their decent and moderate subsistence. the chief reason for my hasty return was my anxiety respecting clemenza lodi. this reason was removed by the activity and benevolence of my friend. he paid this unfortunate stranger a visit at mrs. villars's. access was easily obtained, and he found her sunk into the deepest melancholy. the recent loss of her child, the death of welbeck, of which she was soon apprized, her total dependence upon those with whom she was placed, who, however, had always treated her without barbarity or indecorum, were the calamities that weighed down her spirits. my friend easily engaged her confidence and gratitude, and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his own roof. mrs. wentworth's scruples, as well as those of mrs. fielding, were removed by his arguments and entreaties, and they consented to take upon themselves, and divide between them, the care of her subsistence and happiness. they condescended to express much curiosity respecting me, and some interest in my welfare, and promised to receive me, on my return, on the footing of a friend. with some reluctance, i at length bade my new friends farewell, and returned to philadelphia. nothing remained, before i should enter on my projected scheme of study and employment, under the guidance of stevens, but to examine the situation of eliza hadwin with my own eyes, and, if possible, to extricate my father from his unfortunate situation. my father's state had given me the deepest concern. i figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal appetites, reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, and condemned to that society which must foster all his depraved propensities. i revolved various schemes for his relief. a few hundreds would take him from prison; but how should he be afterwards disposed of? how should he be cured of his indolent habits? how should he be screened from the contagion of vicious society? by what means, consistently with my own wants and the claims of others, should i secure to him an acceptable subsistence? exhortation and example were vain. nothing but restraint would keep him at a distance from the haunts of brawling and debauchery. the want of money would be no obstacle to prodigality and waste. credit would be resorted to as long as it would answer his demand. when that failed, he would once more be thrown into a prison; the same means to extricate him would have to be repeated, and money be thus put into the pockets of the most worthless of mankind, the agents of drunkenness and blasphemy, without any permanent advantage to my father, the principal object of my charity. though unable to fix on any plausible mode of proceeding, i determined, at least, to discover his present condition. perhaps something might suggest itself, upon the spot, suited to my purpose. without delay i proceeded to the village of newtown, and, alighting at the door of the prison, inquired for my father. "sawny mervyn you want, i suppose," said the keeper. "poor fellow! he came into limbo in a crazy condition, and has been a burden on my hands ever since. after lingering along for some time, he was at last kind enough to give us the slip. it is just a week since he drank his last pint--and _died_." i was greatly shocked at this intelligence. it was some time before my reason came to my aid, and showed me that this was an event, on the whole, and on a disinterested and dispassionate view, not unfortunate. the keeper knew not my relation to the deceased, and readily recounted the behaviour of the prisoner and the circumstances of his last hours. i shall not repeat the narrative. it is useless to keep alive the sad remembrance. he was now beyond the reach of my charity or pity; and, since reflection could answer no beneficial end to him, it was my duty to divert my thoughts into different channels, and live henceforth for my own happiness and that of those who were within the sphere of my influence. i was now alone in the world, so far as the total want of kindred creates solitude. not one of my blood, nor even of my name, was to be found in this quarter of the world. of my mother's kindred i knew nothing. so far as friendship or service might be claimed from them, to me they had no existence. i was destitute of all those benefits which flow from kindred, in relation to protection, advice, or property. my inheritance was nothing. not a single relic or trinket in my possession constituted a memorial of my family. the scenes of my childish and juvenile days were dreary and desolate. the fields which i was wont to traverse, the room in which i was born, retained no traces of the past. they were the property and residence of strangers, who knew nothing of the former tenants, and who, as i was now told, had hastened to new-model and transform every thing within and without the habitation. these images filled me with melancholy, which, however, disappeared in proportion as i approached the abode of my beloved girl. absence had endeared the image of my _bess_--i loved to call her so--to my soul. i could not think of her without a melting softness at my heart, and tears in which pain and pleasure were unaccountably mingled. as i approached curling's house, i strained my sight, in hopes of distinguishing her form through the evening dusk. i had told her of my purpose, by letter. she expected my approach at this hour, and was stationed, with a heart throbbing with impatience, at the roadside, near the gate. as soon as i alighted, she rushed into my arms. i found my sweet friend less blithesome and contented than i wished. her situation, in spite of the parental and sisterly regards which she received from the curlings, was mournful and dreary to her imagination. rural business was irksome, and insufficient to fill up her time. her life was tiresome, and uniform, and heavy. i ventured to blame her discontent, and pointed out the advantages of her situation. "whence," said i, "can these dissatisfactions and repinings arise?" "i cannot tell," said she; "i don't know how it is with me. i am always sorrowful and thoughtful. perhaps i think too much of my poor father and of susan; and yet that can't be it, neither, for i think of them but seldom; not half as much as i ought, perhaps. i think of nobody almost but you. instead of minding my business, or chatting and laughing with peggy curling, i love to get by myself,--to read, over and over, your letters, or to think how you are employed just then, and how happy i should be if i were in fanny maurice's place. "but it is all over now; this visit rewards me for every thing. i wonder how i could ever be sullen or mopeful. i will behave better, indeed i will, and be always, as now, a most happy girl." the greater part of three days was spent in the society of my friend, in listening to her relation of all that had happened during my absence, and in communicating, in my turn, every incident which had befallen myself. after this i once more returned to the city. chapter xliv. i now set about carrying my plan of life into effect. i began with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career of medical study. i bespoke the counsels and instructions of my friend; attended him on his professional visits, and acted, in all practicable cases, as his substitute. i found this application of time more pleasurable than i had imagined. my mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the reception of new ideas. my curiosity grew more eager in proportion as it was supplied with food, and every day added strength to the assurance that i was no insignificant and worthless being; that i was destined to be _something_ in this scene of existence, and might some time lay claim to the gratitude and homage of my fellow men. i was far from being, however, monopolized by these pursuits. i was formed on purpose for the gratification of social intercourse. to love and to be loved; to exchange hearts and mingle sentiments with all the virtuous and amiable whom my good fortune had placed within the circuit of my knowledge, i always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chief duty. carlton and his sister, mrs. wentworth, and achsa fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond my own family. with all these my correspondence was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter. this lady had dignity and independence, a generous and enlightened spirit, beyond what her education had taught me to expect. she was circumspect and cautious in her deportment, and was not prompt to make advances, or accept them. she withheld her esteem and confidence until she had full proof of their being deserved. i am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable to her rules. my manners, indeed, as she once told me, she had never met with in another. ordinary rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour, that it seemed impossible for any one who knew me to adhere to them. no option was left but to admit my claims to friendship and confidence instantly, or to reject them altogether. i was not conscious of this singularity. the internal and undiscovered character of another weighed nothing with me in the question whether they should be treated with frankness or reserve. i felt no scruple on any occasion to disclose every feeling and every event. any one who could listen found me willing to talk. every talker found me willing to listen. every one had my sympathy and kindness, _without_ claiming it; but i _claimed_ the kindness and sympathy of every one. achsa fielding's countenance bespoke, i thought, a mind worthy to be known and to be loved. the first moment i engaged her attention, i told her so. i related the little story of my family, spread out before her all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, my fears and wishes. all this was done with sincerity and fervour, with gestures, actions, and looks, in which i felt as if my whole soul was visible. her superior age, sedateness, and prudence, gave my deportment a filial freedom and affection, and i was fond of calling her "_mamma_." i particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country-girl; painted her form and countenance; recounted our dialogues, and related all my schemes for making her wise, and good, and happy. on these occasions my friend would listen to me with the mutest attention. i showed her the letters i received, and offered her for her perusal those which i wrote in answer, before they were sealed and sent. on these occasions she would look by turns on my face and away from me. a varying hue would play upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was common, of meaning. "such-and-such," i once said, "are my notions; now, what do _you_ think?" "_think_!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she answered; "that you are the most--_strange_ of human creatures." "but tell me," i resumed, following and searching her averted eyes; "am i right? would you do thus? can you help me to improve my girl? i wish you knew the bewitching little creature. how would that heart overflow with affection and with gratitude towards you! she should be your daughter. no--you are too nearly of an age for that. a sister; her _elder_ sister, you should be. _that_, when there is no other relation, includes them all. fond sisters you would be, and i the fond brother of you both." my eyes glistened as i spoke. in truth, i am in that respect a mere woman. my friend was more powerfully moved. after a momentary struggle she burst into tears. "good heaven!" said i, "what ails you? are you not well?" her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from which she quickly recovered:--"it was folly to be thus affected. something ailed me, i believe, but it is past. but, come, you want some lines of finishing the description of the _boa_ in la cepide." "true. and i have twenty minutes to spare. poor franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. we'll read till then." thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my time; not without some hues, occasionally, of a darker tint. my heart was now and then detected in sighing. this occurred when my thoughts glanced at the poor eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval between us. "we are too--_too_ far apart," thought i. the best solace on these occasions was the company of mrs. fielding; her music, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing to her. one evening, when preparing to pay her a visit, i received the following letter from my bess:- _to a. mervyn._ curling's, may 6, 1794. where does this letter you promised me stay all this while? indeed, arthur, you torment me more than i deserve, and more than i could ever find it in my heart to do you. you treat me cruelly. i must say so, though i offend you. i must write, though you do not deserve that i should, and though i fear i am in a humour not very fit for writing. i had better go to my chamber and weep; weep at your--_unkindness_, i was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness; and yet what can be more unkind than forgetfulness? i am sure i have never forgotten you. sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings you nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly. but where can this letter stay?--oh! that--hush! foolish girl! if a word of that kind escape thy lips, arthur will be angry with thee; and then, indeed, thou mightest weep in earnest. _then_ thou wouldst have some cause for thy tears. more than once already has he almost broken thy heart with his reproaches. sore and weak as it now is, any new reproaches would assuredly break it quite. i _will_ be content. i will be as good a housewife and dairywoman, stir about as briskly, and sing as merrily, as peggy curling. why not? i am as young, as innocent, and enjoy as good health. alas! she has reason to be merry. she has father, mother, brothers; but i have none. and he that was all these, and more than all these, to me, has--_forgotten_ me. but, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders. perhaps oliver left the market earlier than he used to do; or you mistook the house; or perhaps some poor creature was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy in chafing his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to wipe the clammy drops from his brow. such things often happen (don't they, arthur?) to people of your trade, and some such thing has happened now; and that was the reason you did not write. and if so, shall i repine at your silence? oh no! at such a time the poor bess might easily be, and ought to be, forgotten. she would not deserve your love if she could repine at a silence brought about this way. and oh! may it be so! may there be nothing worse than this! if the sick man--see, arthur, how my hand trembles. can you read this scrawl? what is always bad, my fears make worse than ever. i must not think that. and yet, if it be so, if my friend himself be sick, what will become of me? of me, that ought to cherish you and comfort you; that ought to be your nurse. endure for you your sickness, when she cannot remove it. oh! that----i _will_ speak out--oh that this strange scruple had never possessed you! why should i _not_ be with you? who can love you and serve you as well as i? in sickness and health, i will console and assist you. why will you deprive yourself of such a comforter and such an aid as i would be to you? dear arthur, think better of it. let me leave this dreary spot, where, indeed, as long as i am thus alone, i can enjoy no comfort. let me come to you. i will put up with any thing for the sake of seeing you, though it be but once a day. any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane or darkest alley will be good enough for me. i will think it a palace, so that i can _but_ see you now and then. do not refuse--do not argue with me, so fond you always are of arguing! my heart is set upon your compliance. and yet, dearly as i prize your company, i would not ask it, if i thought there was any thing improper. you say there is, and you talk about it in a way that i do not understand. for my sake, you tell me, you refuse; but let me entreat you to comply for my sake. your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. you write me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them; but my soul droops when i call to mind your voice and your looks, and think how long a time must pass before i see you and hear you again. i have no spirit to think upon the words and paper before me. my eye and my thought wander far away. i bethink me how many questions i might ask you; how many doubts you might clear up if you were but within hearing. if you were but close to me; but i cannot ask them here. i am too poor a creature at the pen, and, somehow or another, it always happens, i can only write about myself or about you. by the time i have said all this, i have tired my fingers, and when i set about telling you how this poem and that story have affected me, i am at a loss for words; i am bewildered and bemazed, as it were. it is not so when we talk to one another. with your arm about me, and your sweet face close to mine, i can prattle forever. then my heart overflows at my lips. after hours thus spent, it seems as if there were a thousand things still to be said. then i can tell you what the book has told me. i can repeat scores of verses by heart, though i heard them only once read; but it is because _you_ have read them to me. then there is nobody here to answer my questions. they never look into books. they hate books. they think it waste of time to read. even peggy, who you say has naturally a strong mind, wonders what i can find to amuse myself in a book. in her playful mood, she is always teasing me to lay it aside. i do not mind her, for i like to read; but, if i did not like it before, i could not help doing so ever since you told me that nobody could gain your love who was not fond of books. and yet, though i like it on that account more than i did, i don't read somehow so earnestly and understand so well as i used to do when my mind was all at ease, always frolicsome, and ever upon _tiptoe_, as i may say. how strangely (have you not observed it?) i am altered of late!--i, that was ever light of heart, the very soul of gayety, brimfull of glee, am now demure as our old _tabby_--and not half as wise. tabby had wit enough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor i have--but no matter what. it will never come to pass, i see that. so many reasons for every thing! such looking forward! arthur, are not men sometimes too _wise_ to be happy? i am now _so_ grave. not one smile can peggy sometimes get from me, though she tries for it the whole day. but i know how it comes. strange, indeed, if, losing father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world, penniless and _friendless_ too, now that _you_ forget me, i should continue to smile. no. i never shall smile again. at least, while i stay here, i never shall, i believe. if a certain somebody suffer me to live with him,--_near_ him, i mean,--perhaps the sight of him as he enters the door, perhaps the sound of his voice, asking, "where is my bess?" might produce a smile. such a one as the very thought produces now,--yet not, i hope, so transient, and so quickly followed by a tear. women are born, they say, to trouble, and tears are given them for their relief. 'tis all very true. let it be as i wish, will you? if oliver bring not back good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter still refuses my request,--i don't know what may happen. consent, if you love your poor girl. e.h. chapter xlv. the reading of this letter, though it made me mournful, did not hinder me from paying the visit i intended. my friend noticed my discomposure. "what, arthur! thou art quite the 'penseroso' to-night. come, let me cheer thee with a song. thou shalt have thy favourite ditty." she stepped to the instrument, and, with more than airy lightness, touched and sung:- "now knit hands and beat the ground in a light, fantastic round, till the telltale sun descry our conceal'd solemnity." her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not sufficient for the end. my cheerfulness would not return even at her bidding. she again noticed my sedateness, and inquired into the cause. "this girl of mine," said i, "has infected me with her own sadness. there is a letter i have just received." she took it and began to read. meanwhile, i placed myself before her, and fixed my eyes steadfastly upon her features. there is no book in which i read with more pleasure than the face of woman. _that_ is generally more full of meaning, and of better meaning too, than the hard and inflexible lineaments of man; and _this_ woman's face has no parallel. she read it with visible emotion. having gone through it, she did not lift her eye from the paper, but continued silent, as if buried in thought. after some time, (for i would not interrupt the pause,) she addressed me thus:-"this girl seems to be very anxious to be with you." "as much as i am that she should be so." my friend's countenance betrayed some perplexity. as soon as i perceived it, i said, "why are you thus grave?" some little confusion appeared, as if she would not have her gravity discovered. "there again," said i, "new tokens in your face, my good mamma, of something which you will not mention. yet, sooth to say, this is not your first perplexity. i have noticed it before, and wondered. it happens only when my _bess_ is introduced. something in relation to her it must be, but what i cannot imagine. why does _her_ name, particularly, make you thoughtful, disturbed, dejected? there now--but i must know the reason. you don't agree with me in my notions of this girl, i fear, and you will not disclose your thoughts." by this time, she had gained her usual composure, and, without noticing my comments on her looks, said, "since you are both of one mind, why does she not leave the country?" "that cannot be, i believe. mrs. stevens says it would be disreputable. i am no proficient in etiquette, and must, therefore, in affairs of this kind, be guided by those who are. but would to heaven i were truly her father or brother! then all difficulties would be done away." "can you seriously wish that?" "why, no. i believe it would be more rational to wish that the world would suffer me to act the fatherly or brotherly part, without the relationship." "and is that the only part you wish to act towards this girl?" "certainly, the only part." "you surprise me. have you not confessed your love for her?" "i _do_ love her. there is nothing upon earth more dear to me than my _bess_." "but love is of different kinds. she was loved by her father----" "less than by me. he was a good man, but not of lively feelings. besides, he had another daughter, and they shared his love between them; but she has no sister to share _my_ love. calamity, too, has endeared her to me; i am all her consolation, dependence, and hope, and nothing, surely, can induce me to abandon her." "her reliance upon you for happiness," replied my friend, with a sigh, "is plain enough." "it is; but why that sigh? and yet i understand it. it remonstrates with me on my incapacity for her support. i know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down. i have youth, health, and spirits, and ought not to despair of living for my own benefit and hers; but you sigh again, and it is impossible to keep my courage when _you_ sigh. do tell me what you mean by it." "you partly guessed the cause. she trusts to you for happiness, but i somewhat suspect she trusts in vain." "in vain! i beseech you, tell me why you think so." "you say you love her: why then not make her your wife?" "my wife! surely her extreme youth, and my destitute condition, will account for that." "she is fifteen; the age of delicate fervour, of inartificial love, and suitable enough for marriage. as to your condition, you may live more easily together than apart. she has no false taste or perverse desires to gratify. she has been trained in simple modes and habits. besides, that objection can be removed another way. but are these all your objections?" "her youth i object to, merely in connection with her mind. she is too little improved to be my wife. she wants that solidity of mind, that maturity of intelligence which ten years more may possibly give her, but which she cannot have at this age." "you are a very prudential youth: then you are willing to wait ten years for a wife?" "does that follow? because my bess will not be qualified for wedlock in less time, does it follow that i must wait for her?" "i spoke on the supposition that you loved her." "and that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her happiness as her father or brother. some years hence, perhaps in half a year, (for this passion, called wedded or _marriage-wishing_ love, is of sudden growth,) my mind may change and nothing may content me but to have bess for my wife. yet i do not expect it." "then you are determined against marriage with this girl?" "of course; until that love comes which i feel not now; but which, no doubt, will come, when bess has had the benefit of five or eight years more, unless previously excited by another." "all this is strange, arthur. i have heretofore supposed that you actually loved (i mean with the _marriage-seeking_ passion) your _bess_." "i believe i once did; but it happened at a time when marriage was improper; in the life of her father and sister, and when i had never known in what female excellence consisted. since that time my happier lot has cast me among women so far above eliza hadwin,--so far above, and so widely different from any thing which time is likely to make her,--that, i own, nothing appears more unlikely than that i shall ever love her." "are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good friend? you have praised your _bess_ as rich in natural endowments; as having an artless purity and rectitude of mind, which somewhat supersedes the use of formal education; as being full of sweetness and tenderness, and in her person a very angel of loveliness." "all that is true. i never saw features and shape so delicately beautiful; i never knew so young a mind so quick-sighted and so firm; but, nevertheless, she is not the creature whom i would call my _wife_. my bosom-slave; counsellor; friend; the mother; the pattern; the tutoress of my children, must be a different creature." "but what are the attributes of this _desirable_ which bess wants?" "every thing she wants. age, capacity, acquirements, person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are different from this girl's." "and pray of what kind may they be?" "i cannot portray them in words--but yes, i can:--the creature whom i shall worship:--it sounds oddly, but, i verily believe, the sentiment which i shall feel for my wife will be more akin to worship than any thing else. i shall never love but such a creature as i now image to myself, and _such_ a creature will deserve, or almost deserve, worship. but this creature, i was going to say, must be the exact counterpart, my good mamma--of _yourself_." this was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manner that fully expressed my earnestness; perhaps my expressions were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for she started and blushed, but the cause of her discomposure, whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she said,-"poor bess! this will be sad news to thee!" "heaven forbid!" said i; "of what moment can my opinions be to her?" "strange questioner that thou art. thou knowest that her gentle heart is touched with love. see how it shows itself in the tender and inimitable strain of this epistle. does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?" "it does so, and i love, beyond expression, the sweet girl; but my love is, in some inconceivable way, different from the passion which that _other_ creature will produce. she is no stranger to my thoughts. i will impart every thought over and over to her. i question not but i shall make her happy without forfeiting my own." "would marriage with her be a forfeiture of your happiness?" "not absolutely or forever, i believe. i love her company. her absence for a long time is irksome. i cannot express the delight with which i see and hear her. to mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playful in her pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle, always musically voluble, always sweetly tender, or artlessly intelligent--and this you will say is the dearest privilege of marriage; and so it is; and dearly should i prize it; and yet, i fear my heart would droop as often as that _other_ image should occur to my fancy. for then, you know, it would occur as something never to be possessed by me. "now, this image might, indeed, seldom occur. the intervals, at least, would be serene. it would be my interest to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and my endeavours to this end would, no doubt, have some effect. besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be lessened by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my beloved girl. "i should likewise have to remember, that to continue unmarried would not necessarily secure me the possession of the _other_ good----" "but these reflections, my friend," (broke she in upon me,) "are of as much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile you to a marriage already contracted." "perhaps they are. assuredly, i have not a hope that the _fancied_ excellence will ever be mine. such happiness is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all, within my reach." "your diffidence," replied my friend, in a timorous accent, "has not many examples; but your character, without doubt, is all your own, possessing all and disclaiming all,--is, in few words, your picture." "i scarcely understand you. do you think i ever shall be happy to that degree which i have imagined? think you i shall ever meet with an exact copy of _yourself_?" "unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many better. your bess, in personals, is, beyond measure, _my_ superior, and in mind, allowing for difference in years, quite as much so." "but that," returned i, with quickness and fervour, "is not the object. the very counterpart of _you_ i want; neither worse nor better, nor different in any thing. just such form, such features, such hues. just that melting voice, and, above all, the same habits of thinking and conversing. in thought, word, and deed; gesture, look, and form, that rare and precious creature whom i shall love must be your resemblance. your----" "have done with these comparisons," interrupted she, in some hurry, "and let us return to the country-girl, thy bess. "you once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours as my sister. do you know what the duties of a sister are?" "they imply no more kindness or affection than you already feel towards my bess. are you not her sister?" "i ought to have been so. i ought to have been proud of the relation you ascribe to me, but i have not performed any of its duties. i blush to think upon the coldness and perverseness of my heart. with such means as i possess, of giving happiness to others, i have been thoughtless and inactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not yet too late. are you still willing to invest me with all the rights of an elder sister over this girl? and will she consent, think you?" "certainly she will; she has." "then the first act of sistership will be to take her from the country; from persons on whose kindness she has no natural claim, whose manners and characters are unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can be expected, and bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to provide for her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness. "i will not be a nominal sister. i will not be a sister by halves. _all_ the rights of that relation i will have, or none. as for you, you have claims upon her on which i must be permitted to judge, as becomes the elder sister, who, by the loss of all other relations, must occupy the place, possess the rights, and fulfil the duties, of father, mother, and brother. "she has now arrived at an age when longer to remain in a cold and churlish soil will stunt her growth and wither her blossoms. we must hasten to transplant her to a genial element and a garden well enclosed. having so long neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforth to take her wholly to myself. "and now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take back the gift, since she is fully mine, i will charge you with the office of conducting her hither. i grant it you as a favour. will you go?" "go! i will fly!" i exclaimed, in an ecstasy of joy, "on pinions swifter than the wind. not the lingering of an instant will i bear. look! one, two, three--thirty minutes after nine. i will reach curling's gate by the morn's dawn. i will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon she shall throw herself into the arms of her sister. but first, shall i not, in some way, manifest my gratitude?" my senses were bewildered, and i knew not what i did. i intended to kneel, as to my mother or my deity; but, instead of that, i clasped her in my arms, and kissed her lips fervently. i stayed not to discover the effects of this insanity, but left the room and the house, and, calling for a moment at stevens's, left word with the servant, my friend being gone abroad, that i should not return till the morrow. never was a lighter heart, a gayety more overflowing and more buoyant, than mine. all cold from a boisterous night, at a chilly season, all weariness from a rugged and miry road, were charmed away. i might have ridden; but i could not brook delay, even the delay of inquiring for and equipping a horse. i might thus have saved myself fatigue, and have lost no time; but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation and forecast. i saw nothing but the image of my girl, whom my tidings would render happy. the way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen. i did not reach curling's till an hour after sunrise. the distance was full thirty-five miles. as i hastened up the green lane leading to the house, i spied my bess passing through a covered way, between the dwelling and kitchen. i caught her eye. she stopped and held up her hands, and then ran into my arms. "what means my girl? why this catching of the breath? why this sobbing? look at me, my love. it is arthur,--he who has treated you with forgetfulness, neglect, and cruelty." "oh, do not," she replied, hiding her face with her hand. "one single reproach, added to my own, will kill me. that foolish, wicked letter--i could tear my fingers for writing it." "but," said i, "i will kiss them;" and put them to my lips. "they have told me the wishes of my girl. they have enabled me to gratify her wishes. i have come to carry thee this very moment to town." "lord bless me, arthur," said she, lost in a sweet confusion, and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more deeply, "indeed, i did not mean----i meant only----i will stay here----i would rather stay----" "it grieves me to hear that," said i, with earnestness; "i thought i was studying our mutual happiness." "it grieves you? don't say so. i would not grieve you for the world; but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. such a girl as i am not yet fit to--live in your city." again she hid her glowing face in my bosom. "sweet consciousness! heavenly innocence!" thought i; "may achsa's conjectures prove false!--you have mistaken my design, for i do not intend to carry you to town with such a view as you have hinted; but merely to place you with a beloved friend, with achsa fielding, of whom already you know so much, where we shall enjoy each other's company without restraint or intermission." i then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested by my friend, and to explain all the consequences that would flow from it. i need not say that she assented to the scheme. she was all rapture and gratitude. preparations for departure were easily and speedily made. i hired a chaise of a neighbouring farmer, and, according to my promise, by noon the same day, delivered the timid and bashful girl into the arms of her new sister. she was received with the utmost tenderness, not only by mrs. fielding, but by all my friends. her affectionate heart was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into the bosom of a mother. she was reinspired with confidence. her want of experience was supplied by the gentlest admonitions and instructions. in every plan for her improvement suggested by her new _mamma_, (for she never called her by any other name,) she engaged with docility and eagerness; and her behaviour and her progress exceeded the most sanguine hopes that i had formed as to the softness of her temper and the acuteness of her genius. those graces which a polished education, and intercourse with the better classes of society, are adapted to give, my girl possessed, in some degree, by a native and intuitive refinement and sagacity of mind. all that was to be obtained from actual observation and instruction was obtained without difficulty; and in a short time nothing but the affectionate simplicity and unperverted feelings of the country-girl bespoke the original condition. "what art so busy about, arthur? always at thy pen of late. come, i must know the fruit of all this toil and all this meditation. i am determined to scrape acquaintance with haller and linnã¦us. i will begin this very day. all one's friends, you know, should be ours. love has made many a patient, and let me see if it cannot, in my case, make a physician. but, first, what is all this writing about?" "mrs. wentworth has put me upon a strange task,--not disagreeable, however, but such as i should, perhaps, have declined, had not the absence of my bess, and her mamma, made the time hang somewhat heavy. i have, oftener than once, and far more circumstantially than now, told her my adventures, but she is not satisfied. she wants a written narrative, for some purpose which she tells me she will disclose to me hereafter. "luckily, my friend stevens has saved me more than half the trouble. he has done me the favour to compile much of my history with his own hand. i cannot imagine what could prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking; but he says that adventures and a destiny so singular as mine ought not to be abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and _every-day_ existence. besides, when he wrote it, he suspected that it might be necessary to the safety of my reputation and my life, from the consequences of my connection with welbeck. time has annihilated that danger. all enmities and all suspicions are buried with that ill-fated wretch. wortley has been won by my behaviour, and confides in my integrity now as much as he formerly suspected it. i am glad, however, that the task was performed. it has saved me a world of writing. i had only to take up the broken thread, and bring it down to the period of my present happiness; and this was done, just as you tripped along the entry this morning. "to bed, my friend; it is late, and this delicate frame is not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent in the hay-field and the dairy might have been expected to be." "i will, but let me take these sheets along with me. i will read them, that i am determined, before i sleep, and watch if you have told the whole truth." "do so, if you please; but remember one thing. mrs. wentworth requested me to write not as if it were designed for her perusal, but for those who have no previous knowledge of her or of me. 'twas an odd request. i cannot imagine what she means by it; but she never acts without good reason, and i have done so. and now, withdraw, my dear, and farewell." chapter xlvi. move on, my quill! wait not for my guidance. reanimated with thy master's spirit, all airy light! a heyday rapture! a mounting impulse sways him: lifts him from the earth. i must, cost what it will, rein in this upward-pulling, forward-going--what shall i call it? but there are times, and now is one of them, when words are poor. it will not do--down this hill, up that steep; through this thicket, over that hedge--i have _laboured_ to fatigue myself: to reconcile me to repose; to lolling on a sofa; to poring over a book, to any thing that might win for my heart a respite from these throbs; to deceive me into a few _tolerable_ moments of forgetfulness. let me see; they tell me this is monday night. only three days yet to come! if thus restless to-day; if my heart thus bounds till its mansion scarcely can hold it, what must be my state to-morrow! what next day! what as the hour hastens on; as the sun descends; as my hand touches hers in sign of wedded unity, of love without interval; of concord without end! i must quell these tumults. they will disable me else. they will wear out all my strength. they will drain away life itself. but who could have thought! so soon! not three months since i first set eyes upon her. not three weeks since our plighted love, and only three days to terminate suspense and give me _all_. i must compel myself to quiet; to sleep. i must find some refuge from anticipations so excruciating. all extremes are agonies. a joy like this is too big for this narrow tenement. i must thrust it forth; i must bar and bolt it out for a time, or these frail walls will burst asunder. the pen is a pacifier. it checks the mind's career; it circumscribes her wanderings. it traces out and compels us to adhere to one path. it ever was my friend. often it has blunted my vexations; hushed my stormy passions; turned my peevishness to soothing; my fierce revenge to heart-dissolving pity. perhaps it will befriend me now. it may temper my impetuous wishes; lull my intoxication; and render my happiness supportable; and, indeed, it has produced partly this effect already. my blood, within the few minutes thus employed, flows with less destructive rapidity. my thoughts range themselves in less disorder. and, now that the conquest is effected, what shall i say? i must continue at the pen, or shall immediately relapse. what shall i say? let me look back upon the steps that led me hither. let me recount the preliminaries. i cannot do better. and first as to achsa fielding,--to describe this woman. to recount, in brief, so much of her history as has come to my knowledge will best account for that zeal, almost to idolatry, with which she has, ever since i thoroughly knew her, been regarded by me. never saw i one to whom the term _lovely_ more truly belonged. and yet in stature she is too low; in complexion dark and almost sallow; and her eyes, though black and of piercing lustre, have a cast which i cannot well explain. it lessens without destroying their lustre and their force to charm; but all personal defects are outweighed by her heart and her intellect. there is the secret of her power to entrance the soul of the listener and beholder. it is not only when she sings that her utterance is musical. it is not only when the occasion is urgent and the topic momentous that her eloquence is rich and flowing. they are always so. i had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her frequent visitant, long before i was acquainted with her past life. i had casually picked up some intelligence, from others, or from her own remarks. i knew very soon that she was english by birth, and had been only a year and a half in america; that she had scarcely passed her twenty-fifth year, and was still embellished with all the graces of youth; that she had been a wife; but was uninformed whether the knot had been untied by death or divorce; that she possessed considerable, and even splendid, fortune; but the exact amount, and all besides these particulars, were unknown to me till some time after our acquaintance was begun. one evening she had been talking very earnestly on the influence annexed, in great britain, to birth, and had given me some examples of this influence. meanwhile my eyes were fixed steadfastly on hers. the peculiarity in their expression never before affected me so strongly. a vague resemblance to something seen elsewhere, on the same day, occurred, and occasioned me to exclaim, suddenly, in a pause of her discourse,-"as i live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours have told me a secret. i almost think they spoke to me; and i am not less amazed at the strangeness than at the distinctness of their story." "and, pr'ythee, what have they said?" "perhaps i was mistaken. i might have been deceived by a fancied voice, or have confounded one word with another near akin to it; but let me die if i did not think they said that you were--_a jew_." at this sound, her features were instantly veiled with the deepest sorrow and confusion. she put her hand to her eyes, the tears started, and she sobbed. my surprise at this effect of my words was equal to my contrition. i besought her to pardon me for having thus unknowingly alarmed and grieved her. after she had regained some composure, she said, "you have not offended, arthur. your surmise was just and natural, and could not always have escaped you. connected with that word are many sources of anguish, which time has not, and never will, dry up; and the less i think of past events the less will my peace be disturbed. i was desirous that you should know nothing of me but what you see; nothing but the present and the future, merely that no allusions might occur in our conversation which will call up sorrows and regrets that will avail nothing. "i now perceive the folly of endeavouring to keep you in ignorance, and shall therefore, once for all, inform you of what has befallen me, that your inquiries and suggestions may be made and fully satisfied at once, and your curiosity have no motive for calling back my thoughts to what i ardently desire to bury in oblivion. "my father was indeed a _jew_, and one of the most opulent of his nation in london,--a portuguese by birth, but came to london when a boy. he had few of the moral or external qualities of jews; for i suppose there is some justice in the obloquy that follows them so closely. he was frugal without meanness, and cautious in his dealings, without extortion. i need not fear to say this, for it was the general voice. "me, an only child, and, of course, the darling of my parents, they trained up in the most liberal manner. my education was purely english. i learned the same things and of the same masters with my neighbours. except frequenting their church and repeating their creed, and partaking of the same food, i saw no difference between them and me. hence i grew more indifferent, perhaps, than was proper, to the distinctions of religion. they were never enforced upon me. no pains were taken to fill me with scruples and antipathies. they never stood, as i may say, upon the threshold. they were often thought upon, but were vague and easily eluded or forgotten. "hence it was that my heart too readily admitted impressions that more zeal and more parental caution would have saved me from. they could scarcely be avoided, as my society was wholly english, and my youth, my education, and my father's wealth made me an object of much attention. and the same causes that lulled to sleep my own watchfulness had the same effect upon that of others. to regret or to praise this remissness is now too late. certain it is, that my destiny, and not a happy destiny, was fixed by it. "the fruit of this remissness was a passion for one who fully returned it. almost as young as i, who was only sixteen; he knew as little as myself what obstacles the difference of our births was likely to raise between us. his father, sir ralph fielding, a man nobly born, high in office, splendidly allied, could not be expected to consent to the marriage of his eldest son, in such green youth, to the daughter of an alien, a portuguese, a jew; but these impediments were not seen by my ignorance, and were overlooked by the youth's passion. "but, strange to tell, what common prudence would have so confidently predicted did not happen. sir ralph had a numerous family, likely to be still more so; had but slender patrimony; the income of his offices nearly made up his all. the young man was headstrong, impetuous, and would probably disregard the inclinations of his family. yet the father would not consent but on one condition,--that of my admission to the english church. "no very strenuous opposition to these terms could be expected from me. at so thoughtless an age, with an education so unfavourable to religious impressions; swayed, likewise, by the strongest of human passions; made somewhat impatient, by the company i kept, of the disrepute and scorn to which the jewish nation are everywhere condemned, i could not be expected to be very averse to the scheme. "my fears as to what my father's decision would be were soon at an end. he loved his child too well to thwart her wishes in so essential a point. finding in me no scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurd to be scrupulous for me. my own heart having abjured my religion, it was absurd to make any difficulty about a formal renunciation. these were his avowed reasons for concurrence, but time showed that he had probably other reasons, founded, indeed, in his regard for my happiness, but such as, if they had been known, would probably have strengthened into invincible the reluctance of my lover's family. "no marriage was ever attended with happier presages. the numerous relations of my husband admitted me with the utmost cordiality among them. my father's tenderness was unabated by this change, and those humiliations to which i had before been exposed were now no more; and every tie was strengthened, at the end of a year, by the feelings of a _mother_. i had need, indeed, to know a season of happiness, that i might be fitted to endure the sad reverses that succeeded. one after the other my disasters came, each one more heavy than the last, and in such swift succession that they hardly left me time to breathe. "i had scarcely left my chamber, i had scarcely recovered my usual health, and was able to press with true fervour the new and precious gift to my bosom, when melancholy tidings came. i was in the country, at the seat of my father-in-law, when the messenger arrived. "a shocking tale it was! and told abruptly, with every unpitying aggravation. i hinted to you once my father's death. the _kind_ of death--oh! my friend! it was horrible. he was then a placid, venerable old man; though many symptoms of disquiet had long before been discovered by my mother's watchful tenderness. yet none could suspect him capable of such a deed; for none, so carefully had he conducted his affairs, suspected the havoc that mischance had made of his property. "i, that had so much reason to love my father,--i will leave you to imagine how i was affected by a catastrophe so dreadful, so unlooked-for. much less could i suspect the cause of his despair; yet he had foreseen his ruin before my marriage; had resolved to defer it, for his daughter's and his wife's sake, as long as possible, but had still determined not to survive the day that should reduce him to indigence. the desperate act was thus preconcerted--thus deliberate. "the true state of his affairs was laid open by his death. the failure of great mercantile houses at frankfort and liege was the cause of his disasters. "thus were my prospects shut in. that wealth which, no doubt, furnished the chief inducement with my husband's family to concur in his choice, was now suddenly exchanged for poverty. "bred up, as i had been, in pomp and luxury; conscious that my wealth was my chief security from the contempt of the proud and bigoted, and my chief title to the station to which i had been raised, and which i the more delighted in because it enabled me to confer so great obligations on my husband,--what reverse could be harder than this, and how much bitterness was added by it to the grief occasioned by the violent death of my father! "yet loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride, did not prove my worst calamity. perhaps it was scarcely to be ranked with evils, since it furnished a touchstone by which my husband's affections were to be tried; especially as the issue of the trial was auspicious; for my misfortune seemed only to heighten the interest which my character had made for me in the hearts of all that knew me. the paternal regards of sir ralph had always been tender, but that tenderness seemed now to be redoubled. "new events made this consolation still more necessary. my unhappy mother!--she was nearer to the dreadful scene when it happened; had no surviving object to beguile her sorrow; was rendered, by long habit, more dependent upon fortune than her child. "a melancholy, always mute, was the first effect upon my mother. nothing could charm her eye, or her ear. sweet sounds that she once loved, and especially when her darling child was the warbler, were heard no longer. how, with streaming eyes, have i sat and watched the dear lady, and endeavoured to catch her eye, to rouse her attention!--but i must not think of these things. "but even this distress was little in comparison with what was to come. a frenzy thus mute, motionless, and vacant, was succeeded by fits, talkative, outrageous, requiring incessant superintendence, restraint, and even violence. "why led you me thus back to my sad remembrances? excuse me for the present. i will tell you the rest some other time; to-morrow." to-morrow, accordingly, my friend resumed her story. "let me now make an end," said she, "of my mournful narrative, and never, i charge you, do any thing to revive it again. "deep as was my despondency, occasioned by these calamities, i was not destitute of some joy. my husband and my child were lovely and affectionate. in their caresses, in their welfare, i found peace; and might still have found it, had there not been----. but why should i open afresh wounds which time has imperfectly closed? but the story must some time be told to you, and the sooner it is told and dismissed to forgetfulness the better. "my ill fate led me into company with a woman too well known in the idle and dissipated circles. her character was not unknown to me. there was nothing in her features or air to obviate disadvantageous prepossessions. i sought not her intercourse; i rather shunned it, as unpleasing and discreditable, but she would not be repulsed. self-invited, she made herself my frequent guest; took unsolicited part in my concerns; did me many kind offices; and, at length, in spite of my counter-inclination, won upon my sympathy and gratitude. "no one in the world, did i fondly think, had i less reason to fear than mrs. waring. her character excited not the slightest apprehension for my own safety. she was upwards of forty, nowise remarkable for grace or beauty; tawdry in her dress; accustomed to render more conspicuous the traces of age by her attempts to hide them; the mother of a numerous family, with a mind but slenderly cultivated; always careful to save appearances; studiously preserving distance with my husband, and he, like myself, enduring rather than wishing her society. what could i fear from the arts of such a one? "but alas! the woman had consummate address. patience, too, that nothing could tire. watchfulness that none could detect. insinuation the wiliest and most subtle. thus wound she herself into my affections, by an unexampled perseverance in seeming kindness; by tender confidence; by artful glosses of past misconduct; by self-rebukes and feigned contritions. "never were stratagems so intricate, dissimulation so profound! but still, that such a one should seduce my husband; young, generous, ambitious, impatient of contumely and reproach, and surely not indifferent; before this fatal intercourse, not indifferent to his wife and child!--yet so it was! "i saw his discontents; his struggles; i heard him curse this woman, and the more deeply for my attempts, unconscious as i was of her machinations, to reconcile them to each other, to do away what seemed a causeless indignation, or antipathy against her. how little i suspected the nature of the conflict in his heart, between a new passion and the claims of pride; of conscience and of humanity; the claims of a child and a wife; a wife, already in affliction, and placing all that yet remained of happiness, in the firmness of his virtue; in the continuance of his love; a wife, at the very hour of his meditated flight, full of terrors at the near approach of an event whose agonies demand a double share of a husband's supporting, encouraging love---"good heaven! for what evils are some of thy creatures reserved! resignation to thy decree, in the last and most cruel distress, was, indeed, a hard task. "he was gone. some unavoidable engagement calling him to hamburg was pleaded. yet to leave me at such an hour! i dared not upbraid, nor object. the tale was so specious! the fortunes of a friend depended on his punctual journey. the falsehood of his story too soon made itself known. he was gone, in company with his detested paramour! "yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was not so with others. a creditor, who had his bond for three thousand pounds, pursued and arrested him at harwich. he was thrown into prison, but his companion--let me, at least, say that in her praise--would not desert him. she took lodging near the place of his confinement, and saw him daily. that, had she not done it, and had my personal condition allowed, should have been my province. "indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with me. i did not weep that the second fruit of this unhappy union saw not the light. i wept only that this hour of agony was not, to its unfortunate mother, the last. "i felt not anger; i had nothing but compassion for fielding. gladly would i have recalled him to my arms and to virtue; i wrote, adjuring him, by all our past joys, to return; vowing only gratitude for his new affection, and claiming only the recompense of seeing him restored to his family; to liberty; to reputation. "but, alas! fielding had a good but a proud heart. he looked upon his error with remorse, with self-detestation, and with the fatal belief that it could not be retrieved; shame made him withstand all my reasonings and persuasions, and, in the hurry of his feelings, he made solemn vows that he would, in the moment of restored liberty, abjure his country and his family forever. he bore indignantly the yoke of his new attachment, but he strove in vain to shake it off. her behaviour, always yielding, doting, supplicative, preserved him in her fetters. though upbraided, spurned, and banished from his presence, she would not leave him, but, by new efforts and new artifices, soothed, appeased, and won again and kept his tenderness. "what my entreaties were unable to effect, his father could not hope to accomplish. he offered to take him from prison; the creditor offered to cancel the bond, if he would return to me; but this condition he refused. all his kindred, and one who had been his bosom-friend from childhood, joined in beseeching his compliance with these conditions; but his pride, his dread of my merited reproaches, the merits and dissuasions of his new companion, whose sacrifices for his sake had not been small, were obstacles which nothing could subdue. "far, indeed, was i from imposing these conditions. i waited only till, by certain arrangements, i could gather enough to pay his debts, to enable him to execute his vow: empty would have been my claims to his affection, if i could have suffered, with the means of his deliverance in my hands, my husband to remain a moment in prison. "the remains of my father's vast fortune was a jointure of a thousand pounds a year, settled on my mother, and, after her death, on me. my mother's helpless condition put this revenue into my disposal. by this means was i enabled, without the knowledge of my father-in-law or my husband, to purchase the debt, and dismiss him from prison. he set out instantly, in company with his paramour, to france. "when somewhat recovered from the shock of this calamity, i took up my abode with my mother. what she had was enough, as you perhaps will think, for plentiful subsistence; but to us, with habits of a different kind, it was little better than poverty. that reflection, my father's memory, my mother's deplorable state, which every year grew worse, and the late misfortune, were the chief companions of my thoughts. "the dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by his mother's afflictions, was some consolation in my solitude. to his instruction and to my mother's wants all my hours were devoted. i was sometimes not without the hope of better days. full as my mind was of fielding's merits, convinced by former proofs of his ardent and generous spirit, i trusted that time and reflection would destroy that spell by which he was now bound. "for some time, the progress of these reflections was not known. in leaving england, fielding dropped all correspondence and connection with his native country. he parted with the woman at rouen, leaving no trace behind him by which she might follow him, as she wished to do. she never returned to england, but died a twelvemonth afterwards in switzerland. "as to me, i had only to muse day and night upon the possible destiny of this beloved fugitive. his incensed father cared not for him. he had cast him out of his paternal affections, ceased to make inquiries respecting him, and even wished never to hear of him again. my boy succeeded to my husband's place in his grandfather's affections, and in the hopes and views of the family; and his mother wanted nothing which their compassionate and respectful love could bestow. "three long and tedious years passed away, and no tidings were received. whether he were living or dead, nobody could tell. at length, an english traveller, going out of the customary road from italy, met with fielding, in a town in the venaissin. his manners, habits, and language, had become french. he seemed unwilling to be recognised by an old acquaintance, but, not being able to avoid this, and becoming gradually familiar, he informed the traveller of many particulars in his present situation. it appeared that he had made himself useful to a neighbouring _seigneur_, in whose _chã¢teau_ he had long lived on the footing of a brother. france he had resolved to make his future country, and, among other changes for that end, he had laid aside his english name, and taken that of his patron, which was _perrin_. he had endeavoured to compensate himself for all other privations, by devoting himself to rural amusements and to study. "he carefully shunned all inquiries respecting me; but, when my name was mentioned by his friend, who knew well all that had happened, and my general welfare, together with that of his son, asserted, he showed deep sensibility, and even consented that i should be made acquainted with his situation. "i cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on me. my hopes of bringing him back to me were suddenly revived. i wrote him a letter, in which i poured forth my whole heart; but his answer contained avowals of all his former resolutions, to which time had only made his adherence more easy. a second and third letter were written, and an offer made to follow him to his retreat and share his exile; but all my efforts availed nothing. he solemnly and repeatedly renounced all the claims of a husband over me, and absolved me from every obligation as a wife. "his part in this correspondence was performed without harshness or contempt. a strange mixture there was of pathos and indifference; of tenderness and resolution. hence i continually derived hope, which time, however, brought no nearer to certainty. "at the opening of the revolution, the name of perrin appeared among the deputies to the constituent assembly for the district in which he resided. he had thus succeeded in gaining all the rights of a french citizen; and the hopes of his return became almost extinct; but that, and every other hope respecting him, has since been totally extinguished by his marriage with marguerite d'almont, a young lady of great merit and fortune, and a native of avignon. "a long period of suspense was now at an end, and left me in a state almost as full of anguish as that which our first separation produced. my sorrows were increased by my mother's death, and, this incident freeing me from those restraints upon my motions which before existed, i determined to come to america. "my son was now eight years old, and, his grandfather claiming the province of his instruction, i was persuaded to part with him, that he might be sent to a distant school. thus was another tie removed, and, in spite of the well-meant importunities of my friends, i persisted in my scheme of crossing the ocean." i could not help, at this part of her narration, expressing my surprise that any motives were strong enough to recommend this scheme. "it was certainly a freak of despair. a few months would, perhaps, have allayed the fresh grief, and reconciled me to my situation; but i would not pause or deliberate. my scheme was opposed by my friends with great earnestness. during my voyage, affrighted by the dangers which surrounded me, and to which i was wholly unused, i heartily repented of my resolution; but now, methinks, i have reason to rejoice at my perseverance. i have come into a scene and society so new, i have had so many claims made upon my ingenuity and fortitude, that my mind has been diverted in some degree from former sorrows. there are even times when i wholly forget them, and catch myself indulging in cheerful reveries. "i have often reflected with surprise on the nature of my own mind. it is eight years since my father's violent death. how few of my hours since that period have been blessed with serenity! how many nights and days, in hateful and lingering succession, have been bathed in tears and tormented with regrets! that i am still alive, with so many causes of death, and with such a slow-consuming malady, is surely to be wondered at. "i believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in grief, are solitude and idleness. the same eternally-occurring round of objects feeds his disease, and the effects of mere vacancy and uniformity are sometimes mistaken for those of grief. yes, i am glad i came to america. my relations are importunate for my return, and till lately i had some thoughts of it; but i think now i shall stay where i am for the rest of my days. "since i arrived, i am become more of a student than i used to be. i always loved literature, but never, till of late, had i a mind enough at ease to read with advantage. i now find pleasure in the occupation which i never expected to find. "you see in what manner i live. the letters which i brought secured me a flattering reception from the best people in your country; but scenes of gay resort had nothing to attract me, and i quickly withdrew to that seclusion in which you now find me. here, always at leisure, and mistress of every laudable means of gratification, i am not without the belief of serene days yet to come." i now ventured to inquire what were her latest tidings of her husband. "at the opening of the revolution, i told you, he became a champion of the people. by his zeal and his efforts he acquired such importance as to be deputed to the national assembly. in this post he was the adherent of violent measures, till the subversion of monarchy; and then, when too late for his safety, he checked his career." "and what has since become of him?" she sighed deeply. "you were yesterday reading a list of the proscribed under robespierre. i checked you. i had good reason. but this subject grows too painful; let us change it." some time after, i ventured to renew this topic; and discovered that fielding, under his new name of perrin d'almont, was among the outlawed deputies of last year,[1] and had been slain in resisting the officers sent to arrest him. my friend had been informed that his _wife_, marguerite d'almont, whom she had reason to believe a woman of great merit, had eluded persecution, and taken refuge in some part of america. she had made various attempts, but in vain, to find out her retreat. "ah!" said i, "you must commission me to find her. i will hunt her through the continent from penobscot to savannah. i will not leave a nook unsearched." [footnote 1: 1793.] chapter xlvii. none will be surprised that, to a woman thus unfortunate and thus deserving, my heart willingly rendered up all its sympathies; that, as i partook of all her grief, i hailed, with equal delight, those omens of felicity which now, at length, seemed to play in her fancy. i saw her often,--as often as my engagements would permit, and oftener than i allowed myself to visit any other. in this i was partly selfish. so much entertainment, so much of the best instruction, did her conversation afford me, that i never had enough of it. her experience had been so much larger than mine, and so wholly different, and she possessed such unbounded facility of recounting all she had seen and felt, and absolute sincerity and unreserve in this respect were so fully established between us, that i can imagine nothing equally instructive and delightful with her conversation. books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness of information at one time and their impertinent loquacity at another. besides, all they choose to give they give at once; they allow no questions, offer no further explanations, and bend not to the caprices of our curiosity. they talk to us behind a screen. their tone is lifeless and monotonous. they charm not our attention by mute significances of gesture and looks. they spread no light upon their meaning by cadences and emphasis and pause. how different was mrs. fielding's discourse! so versatile; so bending to the changes of the occasion; so obsequious to my curiosity, and so abundant in that very knowledge in which i was most deficient, and on which i set the most value, the knowledge of the human heart; of society as it existed in another world, more abundant in the varieties of customs and characters, than i had ever had the power to witness. partly selfish i have said my motives were, but not so, as long as i saw that my friend derived pleasure, in her turn, from my company. not that i could add directly to her knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion of heart, that ease of utterance and flow of ideas which always were occasioned by my approach, were sources of true pleasure of which she had been long deprived, and for which her privation had given her a higher relish than ever. she lived in great affluence and independence, but made use of her privileges of fortune chiefly to secure to herself the command of her own time. she had been long ago tired and disgusted with the dull and fulsome uniformity and parade of the play-house and ballroom. formal visits were endured as mortifications and penances, by which the delights of privacy and friendly intercourse were by contrast increased. music she loved, but never sought it in places of public resort, or from the skill of mercenary performers; and books were not the least of her pleasures. as to me, i was wax in her hand. without design and without effort, i was always of that form she wished me to assume. my own happiness became a secondary passion, and her gratification the great end of my being. when with her, i thought not of myself. i had scarcely a separate or independent existence, since my senses were occupied by her, and my mind was full of those ideas which her discourse communicated. to meditate on her looks and words, and to pursue the means suggested by my own thoughts, or by her, conducive, in any way, to her good, was all my business. "what a fate," said i, at the conclusion of one of our interviews, "has been yours! but, thank heaven, the storm has disappeared before the age of sensibility has gone past, and without drying up every source of happiness. you are still young; all your powers unimpaired; rich in the compassion and esteem of the world; wholly independent of the claims and caprices of others; amply supplied with that means of usefulness, called money; wise in that experience which only adversity can give. past evils and sufferings, if incurred and endured without guilt, if called to view without remorse, make up the materials of present joy. they cheer our most dreary hours with the widespread accents of 'well done,' and they heighten our pleasures into somewhat of celestial brilliancy, by furnishing a deep, a ruefully-deep, contrast. "from this moment, i will cease to weep for you. i will call you the happiest of women. i will share with you your happiness by witnessing it; but that shall not content me. i must some way contribute to it. tell me how i shall serve you. what can i do to make you happier? poor am i in every thing but zeal, but still i may do something. what--pray tell me, what can i do?" she looked at me with sweet and solemn significance. what it was exactly i could not divine, yet i was strangely affected by it. it was but a glance, instantly withdrawn. she made me no answer. "you must not be silent; you _must_ tell me what i can do for you. hitherto i have done nothing. all the service is on your side. your conversation has been my study, a delightful study, but the profit has only been mine. tell me how i can be grateful: my voice and manner, i believe, seldom belie my feelings." at this time, i had almost done what a second thought made me suspect to be unauthorized. yet i cannot tell why. my heart had nothing in it but reverence and admiration. was she not the substitute of my lost mamma? would i not have clasped that beloved shade? yet the two beings were not just the same, or i should not, as now, have checked myself, and only pressed her hand to my lips. "tell me," repeated i, "what can i do to serve you? i read to you a little now, and you are pleased with my reading. i copy for you when you want the time. i guide the reins for you when you choose to ride. humble offices, indeed, though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like me can do for you; but i can be still more assiduous. i can read several hours in the day, instead of one. i can write ten times as much as now. "are you not my lost mamma come back again? and yet, not _exactly_ her, i think. something different; something better, i believe, if that be possible. at any rate, methinks i would be wholly yours. i shall be impatient and uneasy till every act, every thought, every minute, someway does you good. "how!" said i, (her eye, still averted, seemed to hold back the tear with difficulty, and she made a motion as if to rise,) "have i grieved you? have i been importunate? forgive me if i have offended you." her eyes now overflowed without restraint. she articulated, with difficulty, "tears are too prompt with me of late; but they did not upbraid you. pain has often caused them to flow, but now it--is--_pleasure_." "what a heart must yours be!" i resumed. "when susceptible of such pleasures, what pangs must formerly have rent it!--but you are not displeased, you say, with my importunate zeal. you will accept me as your own in every thing. direct me; prescribe to me. there must be _something_ in which i can be of still more use to you; some way in which i can be wholly yours----" "_wholly mine!_" she repeated, in a smothered voice, and rising. "leave me, arthur. it is too late for you to be here. it was wrong to stay so late." "i have been wrong; but how too late? i entered but this moment. it is twilight still; is it not?" "no: it is almost twelve. you have been here a long four hours; short ones i would rather say,--but indeed you must go." "what made me so thoughtless of the time? but i will go, yet not till you forgive me." i approached her with a confidence and for a purpose at which, upon reflection, i am not a little surprised; but the being called mervyn is not the same in her company and in that of another. what is the difference, and whence comes it? her words and looks engross me. my mind wants room for any other object. but why inquire whence the difference? the superiority of her merits and attractions to all those whom i knew would surely account for my fervour. indifference, if i felt it, would be the only just occasion of wonder. the hour was, indeed, too late, and i hastened home. stevens was waiting my return with some anxiety. i apologized for my delay, and recounted to him what had just passed. he listened with more than usual interest. when i had finished,-"mervyn," said he, "you seem not be aware of your present situation. from what you now tell me, and from what you have formerly told me, one thing seems very plain to me." "pr'ythee, what is it?" "eliza hadwin:--do you wish--could you bear--to see her the wife of another?" "five years hence i will answer you. then my answer may be, 'no; i wish her only to be mine.' till then, i wish her only to be my pupil, my ward, my sister." "but these are remote considerations; they are bars to marriage, but not to love. would it not molest and disquiet you to observe in her a passion for another?" "it would, but only on her own account; not on mine. at a suitable age it is very likely i may love her, because it is likely, if she holds on in her present career, she will then be worthy; but at present, though i would die to insure her happiness, i have no wish to insure it by marriage with her." "is there no other whom you love?" "no. there is one worthier than all others; one whom i wish the woman who shall be my wife to resemble in all things." "and who is this model?" "you know i can only mean achsa fielding." "if you love her likeness, why not love herself?" i felt my heart leap.--"what a thought is that! love her i _do_ as i love my god; as i love virtue. to love her in another sense would brand me for a lunatic." "to love her as a woman, then, appears to you an act of folly." "in me it would be worse than folly. 'twould be frenzy." "and why?" "why? really, my friend, you astonish me. nay, you startle me--for a question like that implies a doubt in you whether i have not actually harboured the thought." "no," said he, smiling, "presumptuous though you be, you have not, to-be-sure, reached so high a pitch. but still, though i think you innocent of so heinous an offence, there is no harm in asking why you might not love her, and even seek her for a wife." achsa fielding _my wife_! good heaven!--the very sound threw my soul into unconquerable tumults. "take care, my friend," continued i, in beseeching accents, "you may do me more injury than you conceive, by even starting such a thought." "true," said he, "as long as such obstacles exist to your success; so many incurable objections: for instance, she is six years older than you." "that is an advantage. her age is what it ought to be." "but she has been a wife and mother already." "that is likewise an advantage. she has wisdom, because she has experience. her sensibilities are stronger, because they have been exercised and chastened. her first marriage was unfortunate. the purer is the felicity she will taste in a second! if her second choice be propitious, the greater her tenderness and gratitude." "but she is a foreigner; independent of control, and rich." "all which are blessings to herself, and to him for whom her hand is reserved; especially if, like me, he is indigent." "but then she is unsightly as a _night-hag_, tawny as a moor, the eye of a gipsy, low in stature, contemptibly diminutive, scarcely bulk enough to cast a shadow as she walks, less luxuriance than a charred log, fewer elasticities than a sheet pebble." "hush! hush! blasphemer!"--(and i put my hand before his mouth)--"have i not told you that in mind, person, and condition, she is the type after which my enamoured fancy has modelled my wife?" "oh ho! then the objection does not lie with you. it lies with her, it seems. she can find nothing in you to esteem! and, pray, for what faults do you think she would reject you?" "i cannot tell. that she can ever balance for a moment, on such a question, is incredible. _me! me!_ that achsa fielding should think of me!" "incredible, indeed! you, who are loathsome in your person, an idiot in your understanding, a villain in your morals! deformed! withered! vain, stupid, and malignant. that such a one should choose _you_ for an idol!" "pray, my friend," said i, anxiously, "jest not. what mean you by a hint of this kind?" "i will not jest, then, but will soberly inquire, what faults are they which make this lady's choice of you so incredible? you are younger than she, though no one, who merely observed your manners and heard you talk, would take you to be under thirty. you are poor: are these impediments?" "i should think not. i have heard her reason with admirable eloquence against the vain distinctions of property and nation and rank. they were once of moment in her eyes; but the sufferings, humiliations, and reflections of years have cured her of the folly. her nation has suffered too much by the inhuman antipathies of religious and political faction; she, herself, has felt so often the contumelies of the rich, the high-born, and the bigoted, that----" "pr'ythee, then, what dost imagine her objections to be?" "why--i don't know. the thought was so aspiring; to call her _my wife_ was a height of bliss the very far-off view of which made my head dizzy." "a height, however, to attain which you suppose only her consent, her love, to be necessary?" "without doubt, her love is indispensable." "sit down, arthur, and let us no longer treat this matter lightly. i clearly see the importance of this moment to this lady's happiness and yours. it is plain that you love this woman. how could you help it? a brilliant skin is not hers; nor elegant proportions; nor majestic stature: yet no creature had ever more power to bewitch. her manners have grace and dignity that flow from exquisite feelings, delicate taste, and the quickest and keenest penetration. she has the wisdom of men and of books. her sympathies are enforced by reason, and her charities regulated by knowledge. she has a woman's age, fortune more than you wish, and a spotless fame. how could you fail to love her? "_you_, who are her chosen friend, who partake her pleasures and share her employments, on whom she almost exclusively bestows her society and confidence, and to whom she thus affords the strongest of all indirect proofs of impassioned esteem,--how could you, with all that firmness of love, joined with all that discernment of her excellence, how could you escape the enchantment? "you have not thought of marriage. you have not suspected your love. from the purity of your mind, from the idolatry with which this woman has inspired you, you have imagined no delight beyond that of enjoying her society as you now do, and have never fostered a hope beyond this privilege. "how quickly would this tranquillity vanish, and the true state of your heart be evinced, if a rival should enter the scene and be entertained with preference! then would the seal be removed, the spell be broken, and you would awaken to terror and to anguish. "of this, however, there is no danger. your passion is not felt by you alone. from her treatment of you, your diffidence disables you from seeing, but nothing can be clearer to me than that she loves you." i started on my feet. a flush of scorching heat flowed to every part of my frame. my temples began to throb like my heart. i was half delirious, and my delirium was strangely compounded of fear and hope, of delight and of terror. "what have you done, my friend? you have overturned my peace of mind. till now the image of this woman has been followed by complacency and sober rapture; but your words have dashed the scene with dismay and confusion. you have raised up wishes, and dreams, and doubts, which possess me in spite of my reason, in spite of a thousand proofs. "good god! you say she loves,--loves _me_!--me, a boy in age; bred in clownish ignorance; scarcely ushered into the world; more than childishly unlearned and raw; a barn-door simpleton; a plough-tail, kitchen-hearth, turnip-hoeing novice! she, thus splendidly endowed; thus allied to nobles; thus gifted with arts, and adorned with graces; that she should choose me, me for the partner of her fortune; her affections; and her life! it cannot be. yet, if it were; if your guesses should--prove--oaf! madman! to indulge so fatal a chimera! so rash a dream! "my friend! my friend! i feel that you have done me an irreparable injury. i can never more look her in the face. i can never more frequent her society. these new thoughts will beset and torment me. my disquiet will chain up my tongue. that overflowing gratitude; that innocent joy, unconscious of offence, and knowing no restraint, which have hitherto been my titles to her favour, will fly from my features and manners. i shall be anxious, vacant, and unhappy in her presence. i shall dread to look at her, or to open my lips, lest my mad and unhallowed ambition should betray itself." "well," replied stevens, "this scene is quite new. i could almost find it in my heart to pity you. i did not expect this; and yet, from my knowledge of your character, i ought, perhaps, to have foreseen it. this is a necessary part of the drama. a joyous certainty, on these occasions, must always be preceded by suspenses and doubts, and the close will be joyous in proportion as the preludes are excruciating. go to bed, my good friend, and think of this. time and a few more interviews with mrs. fielding will, i doubt not, set all to rights." chapter xlviii. i went to my chamber, but what different sensations did i carry into it from those with which i had left it a few hours before! i stretched myself on the mattress and put out the light; but the swarm of new images that rushed on my mind set me again instantly in motion. all was rapid, vague, and undefined, wearying and distracting my attention. i was roused as by a divine voice, that said, "sleep no more! mervyn shall sleep no more." what chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of terror. what shall i compare it to? methinks, that one falling from a tree overhanging a torrent, plunged into the whirling eddy, and gasping and struggling while he sinks to rise no more, would feel just as i did then. nay, some such image actually possessed me. such was one of my reveries, in which suddenly i stretched my hand, and caught the arm of a chair. this act called me back to reason, or rather gave my soul opportunity to roam into a new track equally wild. was it the abruptness of this vision that thus confounded me? was it a latent error in my moral constitution, which this new conjuncture drew forth into influence? these were all the tokens of a mind lost to itself; bewildered; unhinged; plunged into a drear insanity. nothing less could have prompted so fantastically; for, midnight as it was, my chamber's solitude was not to be supported. after a few turns across the floor, i left the room, and the house. i walked without design and in a hurried pace. i posted straight to the house of mrs. fielding. i lifted the latch, but the door did not open. it was, no doubt, locked. "how comes this?" said i, and looked around me. the hour and occasion were unthought of. habituated to this path, i had taken it spontaneously. "how comes this?" repeated i. "locked upon _me_! but i will summon them, i warrant me,"--and rung the bell, not timidly or slightly, but with violence. some one hastened from above. i saw the glimmer of a candle through the keyhole. "strange," thought i; "a candle at noonday!"--the door was opened, and my poor bess, robed in a careless and hasty manner, appeared. she started at sight of me, but merely because she did not, in a moment, recognise me.--"ah! arthur, is it you? come in. my mamma has wanted you these two hours. i was just going to despatch philip to tell you to come." "lead me to her," said i. she led the way into the parlour.--"wait a moment here; i will tell her you are come;"--and she tripped away. presently a step was heard. the door opened again, and then entered a man. he was tall, elegant, sedate to a degree of sadness; something in his dress and aspect that bespoke the foreigner, the frenchman. "what," said he, mildly, "is your business with my wife? she cannot see you instantly, and has sent me to receive your commands." "your _wife_! i want mrs. fielding." "true; and mrs. fielding is my wife. thank heaven, i have come in time to discover her, and claim her as such." i started back. i shuddered. my joints slackened, and i stretched my hand to catch something by which i might be saved from sinking on the floor. meanwhile, fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury. he called me villain! bade me avaunt! and drew a shining steel from his bosom, with which he stabbed me to the heart. i sunk upon the floor, and all, for a time, was darkness and oblivion! at length, i returned as it were to life. i opened my eyes. the mists disappeared, and i found myself stretched upon the bed in my own chamber. i remembered the fatal blow i had received. i put my hand upon my breast; the spot where the dagger entered. there were no traces of a wound. all was perfect and entire. some miracle had made me whole. i raised myself up. i re-examined my body. all around me was hushed, till a voice from the pavement below proclaimed that it was "past three o'clock." "what!" said i; "has all this miserable pageantry, this midnight wandering, and this ominous interview, been no more than--_a dream_?" it may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene, and to show the thorough perturbation of my mind during this night, intelligence gained some days after from eliza. she said, that about two o'clock, on this night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the bell. she was startled by so unseasonable a summons. she slept in a chamber adjoining mrs. fielding's, and hesitated whether she should alarm her friend; but, the summons not being repeated, she had determined to forbear. added to this, was the report of mrs. stevens, who, on the same night, about half an hour after i and her husband had retired, imagined that she heard the street door opened and shut; but, this being followed by no other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. i have little doubt that, in my feverish and troubled sleep, i actually went forth, posted to the house of mrs. fielding, rung for admission, and shortly after returned to my own apartment. this confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the return of light. it gave way to more uniform but not less rueful and despondent perceptions. the image of achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of nothing but humiliation and sorrow. to outroot the conviction of my own unworthiness, to persuade myself that i was regarded with the tenderness that stevens had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughts would not excite her anger and grief, i felt to be impossible. in this state of mind, i could not see her. to declare my feelings would produce indignation and anguish; to hide them from her scrutiny was not in my power; yet, what would she think of my estranging myself from her society? what expedient could i honestly adopt to justify my absence, and what employments could i substitute for those precious hours hitherto devoted to her? "_this_ afternoon," thought i, "she has been invited to spend at stedman's country-house on schuylkill. she consented to go, and i was to accompany her. i am fit only for solitude. my behaviour, in her presence, will be enigmatical, capricious, and morose. i must not go: yet what will she think of my failure? not to go will be injurious and suspicious." i was undetermined. the appointed hour arrived. i stood at my chamber-window, torn by a variety of purposes, and swayed alternately by repugnant arguments. i several times went to the door of my apartment, and put my foot upon the first step of the staircase, but as often paused, reconsidered, and returned to my room. in these fluctuations the hour passed. no messenger arrived from mrs. fielding, inquiring into the cause of my delay. was she offended at my negligence? was she sick and disabled from going, or had she changed her mind? i now remembered her parting words at our last interview. were they not susceptible of two constructions? she said my visit was too long, and bade me begone. did she suspect my presumption, and is she determined thus to punish me? this terror added anew to all my former anxieties. it was impossible to rest in this suspense. i would go to her; i would lay before her all the anguish of my heart; i would not spare myself. she shall not reproach me more severely than i will reproach myself. i will hear my sentence from her own lips, and promise unlimited submission to the doom of separation and exile which she will pronounce. i went forth to her house. the drawing-room and summer-house were empty. i summoned philip the footman: his mistress was gone to mr. stedman's. "how?--to stedman's?--in whose company?" "miss stedman and her brother called for her in the carriage, and persuaded her to go with them." now my heart sunk, indeed! miss stedman's _brother_! a youth, forward, gallant, and gay! flushed with prosperity, and just returned from europe, with all the confidence of age, and all the ornaments of education! she has gone with him, though pre-engaged to me! poor arthur, how art thou despised! this information only heightened my impatience. i went away, but returned in the evening. i waited till eleven, but she came not back. i cannot justly paint the interval that passed till next morning. it was void of sleep. on leaving her house, i wandered into the fields. every moment increased my impatience. "she will probably spend the morrow at stedman's," said i, "and possibly the next day. why should i wait for her return? why not seek her there, and rid myself at once of this agonizing suspense? why not go thither now? this night, wherever i spend it, will be unacquainted with repose. i will go; it is already near twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. i will hover near the house till morning, and then, as early as possible, demand an interview." i was well acquainted with stedman's villa, having formerly been there with mrs. fielding. i quickly entered its precincts. i went close to the house; looked mournfully at every window. at one of them a light was to be seen, and i took various stations to discover, if possible, the persons within. methought once i caught a glimpse of a female, whom my fancy easily imagined to be achsa. i sat down upon the lawn, some hundred feet from the house, and opposite the window whence the light proceeded. i watched it, till at length some one came to the window, lifted it, and, leaning on her arms, continued to look out. the preceding day had been a very sultry one: the night, as usual after such a day and the fall of a violent shower, was delightfully serene and pleasant. where i stood was enlightened by the moon. whether she saw me or not, i could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing but a human figure. without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punctilio, i immediately drew near the house. i quickly perceived that her attention was fixed. neither of us spoke, till i had placed myself directly under her; i then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to address her. she spoke first, and in a startled and anxious voice:-"who is that?" "arthur mervyn; he that was two days ago your friend." "mervyn! what is it that brings you here at this hour? what is the matter? what has happened? is anybody sick?" "all is safe; all are in good health." "what then do you come hither for at such an hour?" "i meant not to disturb you; i meant not to be seen." "good heavens! how you frighten me! what can be the reason of so strange----" "be not alarmed. i meant to hover near the house till morning, that i might see you as early as possible." "for what purpose?" "i will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five o'clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar-grove under the bank; till when, farewell." having said this, i prevented all expostulation, by turning the angle of the house, and hastening towards the shore of the river. i roved about the grove that i have mentioned. in one part of it is a rustic seat and table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, from the view of those in the house. this i designed to be the closing scene of my destiny. presently i left this spot, and wandered upward through embarrassed and obscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as my wayward meditations governed me. shall i describe my thoughts? impossible! it was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing less than madness could lead into such devious tracks, drag me down to so hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; lay waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in a moment to a scene of confusion and horror. what did i fear? what did i hope? what did i design? i cannot tell; my glooms were to retire with the night. the point to which every tumultuous feeling was linked was the coming interview with achsa. that was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. here was the sealing and ratification of my doom. i rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward till i reached the edge of a considerable precipice; i laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface i pressed with my bared and throbbing breast. i leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon the water and wept--plentifully; but why? may _this_ be my heart's last beat, if i can tell why? i had wandered so far from stedman's, that, when roused by the light, i had some miles to walk before i could reach the place of meeting. achsa was already there. i slid down the rock above, and appeared before her. well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance. i placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat opposite to her, the table between, and, crossing my arms upon the table, leaned my head upon them, while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon hers. i seemed to have lost the power and the inclination to speak. she regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity; after examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. "for god's sake!--what does all this mean? why am i called to this place? what tidings, what fearful tidings, do you bring?" i did not change my posture or speak. "what," she resumed, "could inspire all this woe? keep me not in this suspense, arthur; these looks and this silence shock and afflict me too much." "afflict you?" said i, at last; "i come to tell you what, now that i am here, i cannot tell----" there i stopped. "say what, i entreat you. you seem to be very unhappy--such a change--from yesterday!" "yes! from yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and now all is--but then i knew not my infamy, my guilt----" "what words are these, and from you, arthur? guilt is to you impossible. if purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. what have you done?" "i have dared--how little you expect the extent of my daring! that such as i should look upwards with this ambition." i stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly in her face:--"i come only to beseech your pardon. to tell you my crime, and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen of forgiveness. your looks--they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. i will trust them, i believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turning away) "this offence is beyond the reach even of _your_ mercy." "how beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! let me know the worst; i cannot bear to be thus perplexed." "why," said i, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "that mervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been----" "what has he been? divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, i am sure. what else has he been?" "this mervyn has imagined, has dared--will you forgive him?" "forgive you what? why don't you speak? keep not my soul in this suspense." "he has dared--but do not think that i am he. continue to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes, as for one that is absent.----why, what--you weep, then, at last. that is a propitious sign. when pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should the suppliant approach. now, in confidence of pardon, i will tell you; this mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has dared--to _love_ you; nay, to think of you as of _his wife_!" her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered her face with them. "i see my fate," said i, in a tone of despair. "too well did i predict the effect of this confession; but i will go--_and unforgiven_." she now partly uncovered her face. the hand was withdrawn from her cheek, and stretched towards me. she looked at me. "arthur! i _do_ forgive thee."--with what accents was this uttered! with what looks! the cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsoned over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye. could i mistake? my doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while i took the offered hand. "surely," faltered i, "i am not--i cannot be--so blessed." there was no need of words. the hand that i held was sufficiently eloquent. she was still silent. "surely," said i, "my senses deceive me. a bliss like this cannot be reserved for me. tell me once more--set my doubting heart at rest." she now gave herself to my arms:--"i have not words--let your own heart tell you, you have made your achsa----" at this moment, a voice from without (it was miss stedman's) called, "mrs. fielding! where are you?" my friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "you must not be seen by this giddy girl. come hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and i will return with you."--she left me in a kind of trance. i was immovable. my reverie was too delicious;--but let me not attempt the picture. if i can convey no image of my state previous to this interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach of my powers to describe. agreeably to the commands of my mistress, i hastened away, evading paths which might expose me to observation. i speedily made my friends partake of my joy, and passed the day in a state of solemn but confused rapture. i did not accurately portray the various parts of my felicity. the whole rushed upon my soul at once. my conceptions were too rapid and too comprehensive to be distinct. i went to stedman's in the evening. i found in the accents and looks of my achsa new assurances that all which had lately passed was more than a dream. she made excuses for leaving the stedmans sooner than ordinary, and was accompanied to the city by her friend. we dropped mrs. fielding at her own house, and thither, after accompanying miss stedman to her own home, i returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience. now could i repeat every word of every conversation that has since taken place between us; but why should i do that on paper? indeed, it could not be done. all is of equal value, and all could not be comprised but in many volumes. there needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my memory; and, while thus reviewing the past, i should be iniquitously neglecting the present. what is given to the pen would be taken from her; and that, indeed, would be--but no need of saying what it would be, since it is impossible. i merely write to allay these tumults which our necessary separation produces; to aid me in calling up a little patience till the time arrives when our persons, like our minds, shall be united forever. that time--may nothing happen to prevent--but nothing can happen. but why this ominous misgiving just now? my love has infected me with these unworthy terrors, for she has them too. this morning i was relating my dream to her. she started, and grew pale. a sad silence ensued the cheerfulness that had reigned before:--"why thus dejected, my friend?" "i hate your dream. it is a horrid thought. would to god it had never occurred to you!" "why, surely, you place no confidence in dreams?" "i know not where to place confidence; not in my present promises of joy,"--and she wept. i endeavoured to soothe or console her. why, i asked, did she weep? "my heart is sore. former disappointments were so heavy; the hopes which were blasted were so like my present ones, that the dread of a like result will intrude upon my thoughts. and now your dream! indeed, i know not what to do. i believe i ought still to retract--ought, at least, to postpone an act so irrevocable." now was i obliged again to go over my catalogue of arguments to induce her to confirm her propitious resolution to be mine within the week. i, at last, succeeded, even in restoring her serenity, and beguiling her fears by dwelling on our future happiness. our household, while we stayed in america,--in a year or two we hie to europe,--should be _thus_ composed. fidelity, and skill, and pure morals, should be sought out, and enticed, by generous recompenses, into our domestic service. duties which should be light and regular.--such and such should be our amusements and employments abroad and at home: and would not this be true happiness? "oh yes--if it may be so." "it shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of the scene; something is still to be added to complete our felicity." "what more can be added?" "what more? can achsa ask what more? she who has not been _only_ a wife----" but why am i indulging this pen-prattle? the hour she fixed for my return to her is come, and now take thyself away, quill. lie there, snug in thy leathern case, till i call for thee, and that will not be very soon. i believe i will abjure thy company till all is settled with my love. yes; i _will_ abjure thee; so let _this_ be thy last office, till mervyn has been made the happiest of men. the end. 