There were bits of humour now and then amidst the procession of human tragedies.
“While feeling the pulse of the patient and holding my watch to count its beat, another man sitting by begged me to feel his, and after I had counted it he gravely asked me ‘in just how many years after this he would die.’”
Some of the humour was grim humour indeed; for one day he was hastily summoned only to find that the supposed patient was a corpse. Humourous from one point of view but quite perturbing for a physician was the innocent disregard for the directions left with medicines; indeed the doctor could never tell whether the failure of a prescription was due to the ineffectiveness of the drugs or to the failure of the patient to take the medicine as prescribed, for he found that the patient was liable to take the whole potion at once or just as liable to have another member of the family take the remedy vicariously.
Quite frequently, when the callers from a distance came to see him, they made the parting request for medicine to take home with them, and thought it altogether needless for the doctor to know what disease they expected to use it for. Pathetic was the case of the cholera patient consumed with fever who begged the doctor to give “medicine to cure the desire for drinking water.” Even more simple-minded was the old man who came to inquire if he could be healed if he “wyed” to Jesus,—that is to make the reverential bow of worship customarily accorded to the image of Buddha. Then there was the deaf man who came back to report that he had read “the Christian book of magic” and that it had failed to cure him.
Not the least perplexing of these absurd situations was the difficulty of securing necessary permission to administer the medicines even after the doctor had been especially summoned:
“The poor woman who lay on a mattress bolstered up was in great distress evidently—and I soon found that no time was to be lost. I shall never forget how piteously she turned her anxious eyes towards me as she faintly said, ‘Can you heal me?’ I recommend certain treatment. Nothing could be done, however, till the matter had been submitted to the Praklang. So a messenger was despatched, His Excellency again aroused from his nap;—and what a message brought back: The application of hot cloths would be permitted, but the more effective treatment proposed was something new—he did not know—he could not consent to it. Thinking then of another mode of treating the case and not dreaming but that this I might venture to give—but no; this prescription must be reported to headquarters before it could be administered. Again a messenger was despatched. The answer came back: we must wait to see what a hot fomentation would do; if this did any good then the prescription might be tried.”
II
“THE MAN WITH THE GENTLE HEART”
“This day thirteen years ago, while a just-arrived student at Dartmouth College, it pleased my sovereign Maker to manifest His everlasting love to me by inclining my heart to choose Him as my portion, and His service as my reward.”
Such is his salutatory in the service of God, as recorded by Samuel R. House, in his journal under date of Feb. 22, 1848. He had been in Siam less than a year; long enough however for the novelty of his situation to abate a little so that he had time to reflect. Reflecting, he sees how that youthful dedication was—so far as he was consciously concerned—the beginning of the lines of life that led him to Siam.