I had now serious thoughts of having the arm amputated. This operation was fully resolved upon, when, luckily, the advice of my trusty game-keeper, John Ogden, rendered it unnecessary. One morning, “master,” said he to me, “I’m sure you’re going to the grave. You’ll die to a certainty. Let me go for our old Bone-setter. He cured me, long ago, and perhaps he can cure you. It was on the 25th of March, then—alias Lady Day, which every Catholic in the universe knows is solemn festival in the honor of the Blessed Virgin—that I had an interview with Mr. Joseph Crowther, the well known Bone-setter, whose family has exercised the art from father to son time out of mind.” On viewing my poor remnant of an arm—“Your wrist,” said he, “is sorely injured, a callus having formed betwixt the hand and the arm. The elbow is out of joint and the shoulder somewhat driven forward. This last affair will prevent your raising your arm to your head.” Melancholy look out! “But can you cure me, doctor?” said I. “Yes,” replied he firmly; “only let me have my own way.” “Then take the arm, and with it elbow, wrist and shoulder. I here deliver them up to you; do what you please with them. Pain is no consideration in this case, I dare say I shall have enough of it.” “You will,” said he, emphatically. This resolute bone-setter, whom I always compared to Chiron the Centaur for his science and his strength, began his operations like a man of business. In fourteen days, by means of potent embrocations, stretching, pulling, twisting, and jerking, he forced the shoulder and wrist to obey him and to perform their healthy movements. The elbow was a complicated affair. It required greater exertions and greater attention—in fact, it was a job for Hercules himself. Having done the needful to it (secundum artem) for one-and-twenty days, he seemed satisfied with the progress which he had made; and he said quite coolly, “I’ll finish you off this afternoon.” At four o’clock post meridian, his bandages, his plasters and his wadding having been placed on the table in regular order, he doffed his coat, tucked his shirt-sleeves above his elbows, and said that a glass of ale would do him good. “Then I’ll have a glass of soda water with you,” said I, “and we’ll drink each other’s health and success to the undertaking.”
The remaining act was one of unmitigated severity, but it was absolutely necessary. My sister Eliza, foreseeing what was to take place, felt her spirits sinking and retired to her room. Her maid, Lucy Barnes, bold as a little lioness, said she would see it out; whilst Mr. Harrison, a fine young gentleman, who was on a visit to me (and alas! is since dead in California), was ready in case of need. The bone setter performed his part with resolution scarcely to be contemplated, but which was really required under existing circumstances.
Laying hold of the crippled arm just above the elbow with one hand, and below with the other, he smashed to atoms by main force the callus which had formed in the dislocated joint, the elbow itself cracking, as if the interior parts of it had consisted of tobacco pipe shanks. Having predetermined in my mind not to open my mouth, or to make any stir during the operation, I remained passive and silent, whilst this fierce elbow contest was raging. All being now effected as far as force and skill were concerned, the remainder became a mere work of time. So putting a five pound note by way of extra fee into this sturdy operator’s hand, the binding up of the now rectified elbow-joint was effected by him with a nicety and a knowledge truly astonishing.
Health soon resumed her ancient right; sleep went hand-in-hand with a quiet mind; life was once more worth enjoying; and here I am just now sound as an acorn.
Dr. Wharton Hood disparages the lucid statement and style of Mr. Waterton, but does not gainsay his testimony or facts.
The testimony of Mr. George Moore, the eminent philanthropist to the skill of a “bone setter,” is duly recorded by Dr. Smiles, in the life of the Cumberland Worthy and London Merchant.[2] Mr. Moore was very fond of hunting, both as a recreation and as a means of health. “I hunt,” he says, “not only for pleasure, but for my health. The exercise does me great good. I really do not see any harm in a gallop with the hounds; if I did I would not go out again.” He hesitates and deliberates on the subject again and again. “I make my health my excuse. The fresh crisp air does me good. I am always at home when on horseback.”
“In March, 1867,” says Dr. Smiles (pp. 292), “he met with an accident which put a stop to his hunting.” The meet was at Torpendow. From thence they went to the top of Binsey, a heathery fell, to the south of Whitehall. There they found a fox, and viewed him away. Always anxious to keep up with the hounds, Mr. Moore rode fast down the hill. But his bay mare got her foot in a rabbit hole, and the rider got a regular cropper. He found that his shoulder was stiff. Nevertheless, he mounted again and galloped away. The hounds were in full cry. He kept up pretty well, though his shoulder was severely hurt.
Next day he entertained a dozen friends, amongst whom was the master of the hunt and Frank Buckland. Nothing was talked about but fox-hunting. “I think,” says Mr. Moore, “I must make yesterday my last day’s hunting.” Shortly after he consulted a celebrated surgeon, at Carlisle, about his shoulder. The joint was found “all right,” though the muscles were pronounced strained and hurt. Nothing could be done for the pain but to grin and hide it.
He went to the Castle Compensation Meeting, at Carlisle, in which he took an active part. Then he went to sit on the bench at Wigton, for he was a Justice of the Peace for Cumberland. After that he had twenty friends and relatives to tea and supper. “I hope,” he says, “that I shall never forget my poor relations and friends.”
Notwithstanding the intense pain in his shoulder, Mr. Moore continued to hunt. The year after his shoulder had been dislocated, he invited the Cumberland Hunt to meet at Whitehall. About sixty horsemen were present. They breakfasted in the old hall and then proceeded to mount. Mr. Moore was in low spirits because of the pain in his shoulder, and at first he did not intend to join his friends. But Geering, his coachman, urged him to go, and Sir Wilfred Lawson joined him in his persuasions. At length Mr. Moore’s favorite horse, Zouave was brought out, and with his arm in a sling and a cigar in his mouth he consented to mount. Mrs. Moore and Lady Lawson ascended the tower and saw the brilliant red coats ride away through the park.