She said that madam claimed to have been the wife of a policeman who was killed at Fort Hill, and that she was also since married to a Captain ——. The latter was untrue. Madam told me she once thought she was married, but it was a deception on her—a mock marriage. She possessed great quantities of magnificent clothing,—rich dresses of silk, satin, velvet, etc.,—and a beautiful wedding trousseau, which, but a short time before her death, she caused to be brought out and displayed before her.
“O, take them away; I never shall wear them,” she said. And she never did.
There is another female physician now residing in this city, who I know has accumulated a considerable property as midwife; but if report, and assertions of victims, are true, she has gained it by threats and extortions. She is now out of practice, or nearly. Her modus operandi was to take the unfortunate female, treat her very tenderly, get hold of her secret, learn the gentleman’s name, business, and wealth, and then—especially if he was a family man before—make him “come down,” through fear of exposure. Men have “come down” with thousands, little by little, till they were ruined pecuniarily under this fearful blackmailing. I doubt if money could hire her to perform a criminal operation. She can make more money by keeping the unfortunate girl, and blackmailing the seducer, or any other individual who can be scared into the trap, provided the guilty one has no money. “Blessed be nothing,” said the Arab.
These people carry on their trade very quietly. Their very next door neighbors may know nothing of the unlawful acts committed right under their noses. It is for the interest of all concerned to keep everything quiet. Their customers, and even their victims, come and go after nightfall.
There is still another class, mostly males, practising in this city, who, under fair pretences and great promises, get the patients’ money, and give them no equivalent therefor. Beyond the robbery,—for that is what it is; no more nor less,—and the protracting of a disease (or giving nature more time, as the case may be),—they do the applicant no injury. They receive a fee, calculating it to a nicety, according to the depth of your pocket, give some simple mixture, and bow you out.
Many an honest patient, seeing their high-flown advertisements in the dailies, weeklies, even religious (!) papers, from month to month, is induced to visit these impostors. Their offices may be in a less public street, in a private residence, and have every outward appearance of respectability.
There is a class of male practitioners, not unusually having a Latin diploma, who never appear in the prints. They are the “Nurse Gibbon” class, who employ one or more females to drum patients for them. The following is a truthful statement respecting a visit to one in 1850:—
“On my arrival on the steamer Penobscot at Boston, the lady met me, and, according to arrangement, took me to see ‘her physician.’ His office was on Chambers Street, left side, a few doors from Cambridge Street, Boston. The doctor was an elderly, pompous individual, who wore gold spectacles, an immense fob chain, and chewed Burgundy pitch. Let this suffice for his description. Poor man! for if his own theology is true, he has gone where Burgundy pitch will be very likely to melt. Excuse this passing tribute to his memory, my dear reader.
“Notwithstanding my friend’s lavish praise of her doctor, the first sight of him failed to inspire me with confidence. I was introduced, and the doctor swelled up with his own importance, and said, impressively,—
“Those physicians—amiable men, no doubt—who have treated your case-ah have been all wrong in their diagnosis-ah.” This was his prelude, as he counted my pulse by a large gold watch, which he held conspicuously before me.