Mrs. Calmady was in a very poor way. The doctors had bled her and allowed her only slops, and the poor lady was reduced to death’s door. As a last resource Dr. Budd was called in. “Chuck the slops away, and chuck the doctors after them, with their pills and lancets,” roared Budd. “Give her three or four glasses of champagne a day, a bowl of beef-tea every three hours, beefsteaks, mutton-chops, and oysters.”
In fact, Dr. J. W. Budd broke through the wretched system that prevailed of bleeding and giving lowering diet for every kind of malady, which was the Sangrado system of the day.
A girl was shown to him in a sort of box, almost like a coffin. He had been called in to examine her, and he said that he would undertake to cure her if she were taken to his house and his treatment were not interfered with.
“But, oh! Doctor,” said the mother, “dearest Evangeline can eat nothing but macaroons.”
“In—deed!”
“And, oh! Doctor, she cannot bear the light; and the shutters have to be kept fast, and even the blinds down. The least ray of light causes her excruciating pain.”
“Ha! Humph!”
“And, Doctor Budd, she cannot stand; she lies always in that box; and, what is more, she can’t speak, only moans and mutters.”
“I understand. Send her to me.”