Some curious Anecdotes of Dr. Chalmers are given in the new volume of his life, now on the point of publication. Immediately upon his translation to Glasgow a most enthusiastic attachment sprung up between Chalmers, who was then some thirty-five years of age, and Thomas Smith, the son of his publisher, a young man still in his minority. It was more like a first love than friendship. The friends met regularly by appointment, or in case of absence, daily letters were interchanged. The young man died in the course of a few months. A ring containing his hair was given to Chalmers; and it is noted as a singular fact, showing the intense and lasting nature of his attachment, that the ring, after having been long laid aside, was resumed and worn by him a few months before his death, a period of more than thirty years....
His keen practical talents did not altogether shield him from attempts at imposition. “On one occasion,” he writes, “a porter half-drunk came up to me, and stated that two men were wanting to see me. He carried me to a tavern, where it turned out that there was a wager between these two men whether this said porter was correct in his knowledge of me. I was so revolted at his impertinency, that I made the ears of all who were in the house ring with a reproof well said and strong; and so left them a little astounded, I have no doubt.”.... On another occasion, while busily engaged one forenoon in his study, he was interrupted by the entrance of a visitor. The doctor began to look grave at the interruption; but was propitiated by his visitor telling him that he called under great distress of mind. “Sit down, sir; be good enough to be seated,” said the doctor, looking up eagerly, and turning full of interest from his writing table. The visitor explained to him that he was troubled with doubts about the Divine origin of the Christian religion; and being kindly questioned as to what these were, he gave among others what is said in the Bible about Melchisedec being without father and without mother, &c. Patiently and anxiously Dr. Chalmers sought to clear away each successive difficulty as it was stated. Expressing himself as if greatly relieved in mind, and imagining that he had gained his end—“Doctor,” said the visitor, “I am in great want of a little money at present, and perhaps you could help me in that way” At once the object of his visit was seen. A perfect tornado of indignation burst upon the deceiver, driving him in very quick retreat from the study to the street door, these words escaping among others—“Not a penny, sir! not a penny! It's too bad! it's too bad! and to haul in your hypocrisy upon the shoulders of Melchisedek!....” A discussion arose among the superintendents of his Sabbath-schools whether punishment should ever be resorted to. One of them related an instance of a boy whom he had found so restless, idle, and mischievous, that he was on the point of expelling him, when the thought occurred to him to give the boy an office. The candles used in the school-room were accordingly put under care of the boy; and from that hour he became a diligent scholar. Another superintendent then related his experience. He had been requested to take charge of a school that had become so unruly and unmanageable that it had beaten off every teacher that had gone to it. “I went,” said the teacher, “and told the boys, whom I found all assembled, that I had heard a very bad account of them, that I had come out for the purpose of doing them good, that I must have peace and attention, that I would submit to no disturbance, and that, in the first place, we must begin with prayer. They all stood up, and I commenced, and certainly did not forget the injunction—Watch and pray. I had not proceeded two sentences, when one little fellow gave his neighbor a tremendous dig in the side; I instantly stepped forward and gave him a sound cuff on the side of his head. I never spoke a word, but stepped back, concluded the prayer, taught for a month, and never had a more orderly school.” Dr. Chalmers enjoyed the discussion exceedingly; and decided that the question as to punishment and non-punishment stood just where it was before, “inasmuch as it had been found that the judicious appointment of candle-snuffer-general and a good cuff on the lug had been about equally efficacious.”.... Among the most ardent admirers of the doctor's eloquence, was Mr. Young, professor of Greek. Upon one occasion, he was so electrified that he leaped up from his seat upon the bench near the pulpit, and stood, breathless and motionless, gazing at the preacher till the burst was over, the tears all the while came rolling down his cheeks. Upon another occasion, forgetful of time and place—fancying himself perhaps in the theatre—he rose and made a loud clapping of his hands in an ecstasy of admiration and delight.... He was no exception to the saying that a prophet is not without honor save among his own countrymen. When he preached in London his own brother James never went to hear him. One day, at the coffee-house which he frequented, the brother was asked by some one who was ignorant of the relationship, if he had heard this wonderful countryman and namesake of his, “Yes,” said James, somewhat drily, “I have heard him.” “And what did you think of him?” “Very little indeed,” was the reply. “Dear me,” exclaimed the inquirer, “When did you hear him?” “About half an hour after he was born,” was the cool answer of the brother.... When he preached at his native place, so strong was the feeling of his father against attending any but his own parish church, or so feeble was his desire to hear his son, that, although the churches of the two parishes of Eastern and Western Anstruther stood but a few hundred yards apart, the old man would not cross the separating burn in order to hear him.
The Pleasures Of Illness. (From the People's Journal.)
Every body knows the pleasures of health; but there are very few, if any, who can appreciate those of illness. Doubtless many people will feel inclined to laugh at the suggestion, but we beg that we may not be prejudged. There is positive pleasure to be derived even from every variety—and there is a choice—of sickness, if we would only put faith in the idea, and then strive to realize it. You may smile, but we are very serious, recollecting especially that the subject is rather a painful one, for which reason it behoves us to begin by treating it philosophically.
The best thing that people can do when they are suffering pain, either acute or otherwise, is—if they can not readily overcome it—to endeavor to forget it; simply because the mere effort, earnestly made and persevered in, will materially assist whatever more direct and efficient [pg 698] means may be adopted to get rid of it. Brooding over any bodily suffering only gives it encouragement, inasmuch as the mind is then actively assisting the ailment of the body; but let us make the most of a temporary cessation from the infliction, and there is a probability of its being dispelled altogether. Now the pleasure of getting rid of pain is undeniable, and, having achieved that, the best thing we can do to render the cessation permanent is to enjoy a sound sleep, which, though a very simple and ordinary gratification at other times, then becomes an extreme luxury, such, indeed, as we never should have known except through the instrumentality of the suffering that preceded it. The same may be said of many of the remedies that are used for the alleviation of pain: a hot bath, local applications of an exceedingly cold nature, or a delicious draught for cooling fever and quenching thirst—a draught like that of hock and soda-water—a draught “worthy of Xerxes, the great king,” and not to be equaled by sherbet “sublimed with snow;” but then you must (oh, what a pleasure for a king!) “get very drunk,” says Byron, in order thoroughly to enjoy it. You see our author so highly appreciated the pleasures of illness that he actually advises us to make ourselves ill; and that, too, in a most vulgar and degrading manner, in order that we may unreservedly revel in them. But, perhaps, the poet only meant to satirize the excessive proneness of all human beings—and kings have been noted for this quite as much as any—to bring pain upon themselves by some wanton or provoked indiscretion.
No pleasure can compensate for acute and long-endured suffering; but in all eases of illness unattended by pain, the pleasure to be derived is considerably greater than might be imagined. In fact, no one ever thinks of being able to enjoy an illness, for which reason we shall endeavor to show our readers not only the practicability of the idea, but how they are to set about realizing it. Let us take the most common kind of malady there is unattended by actual pain, a cold; a cold all over you, as violent as you please—such, in fact, as is “not to be sneezed at,” one that will confine you to your bed, compel you to take medicine, and restrict you to broth and barley-water. There you are, then, ill; happy fellow! very ill! you have not the least conception how much you are to be envied. The mere fact of being in such a condition, renders you an object of anxiety and interest. Every body in the house is ready to wait upon you, and all you have to do is to lie still and enjoy your bed, while other people are bustling about the house, or out of doors all day, undergoing the fatigue and irksomeness of their ordinary avocations. You are ill—you are to do nothing—not even to get up to breakfast, but to have it brought to you in bed; a luxury which it is probable you may have often been tempted to enjoy in the winter, though your philosophy enabled you to overcome it. Now you are not only compelled to indulge in it, but are made an object of sympathy on that account; it is so very lamentable to see you propped up with pillows, and cosily encased in flannel around the throat and shoulders. You are not to be hurried over your breakfast, there is no office to go to; nothing to be thought of but the enjoyment of your tea and toast, which you may sip and munch as leisurely as you please, while reading a magazine or newspaper. At length breakfast is over, and you have become tired of reading; down go the pillows to their usual position, and after some gentle hand has smoothed and placed them comfortably, you sink back upon them, overwhelmed by a most delightful sense of mental and bodily indolence. What a blessing it is to have escaped the ordeal of shaving, even for one morning! only think of that; and remember also how the warmth of the bed will encourage the growth of your beard, compelling you of course to send for the barber when you have got well enough to leave your room again. Hark! there's a knock at the door—somebody you don't want to see, probably; “Master's very poorly, and obliged to keep his bed.” Ha! ha! Keep his bed, eh?—no such thing; it's the bed that keeps him—snug and warm, and in a blessed state of exemption from all annoyances, and you must not be subjected to any such infliction; no, you are very ill. You abandon yourself to the idea, nestle your head luxuriously in the pillow, pull the bed clothes over your chin, and fall into a delightful dose. You awake feverish, perhaps, and thirsty. Well, there is some barley-water at your bedside, delicately flavored with a little lemon juice and sugar; a sort of primitive punch, pleasant to the palate, and not at all likely to prove provocative of headache. You raise a tumblerful to your lips, and drink with intense gusto. What a pleasure it is! well worth coming into the world to enjoy, if one was to die the next minute; but you are not going to die yet, don't suppose it—you are only being favored with an opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of illness. But you are so feverish, you say; so much the better. Now, just endeavor to recall to mind the wildest fiction, either in prose or poetry that you have ever read, something very pleasing and highly imaginative—a fairy tale will be as good as any. Go to sleep thinking of it, and you will dream—dream, said we? we were wrong, for the fiction will become a glorious reality; and so it does! but, alas! you awake, once more return to the vulgar commonplaces of mundane existence. A sharp rap at the bedroom door makes you farther conscious that you have only been reveling in what is termed a delusion; but never mind, here comes some one to console you—another corporeality like yourself, intent on feeding you with chicken-broth, and batter-pudding; much more substantial fare than the fairies would have given you, and extremely enjoyable now that you are ill, though at any other time you would have turned up your nose at it. Oh, it's [pg 699] a fine thing is illness for teaching people not to let the palate become irritated by luxurious living! “Very nice,” eh, “but you would have liked a basin of mulligatawny better, and some wine-sauce with the pudding?” Shocking depravity! the pleasures of illness are simple, and you must learn to enjoy them as well as those of health; it's all habit. Many medicines would be found extremely palatable if we were not prejudiced against them. Now, black draughts, you “can't bear them;” and yet they are much nicer than castor-oil. Why, what's the matter? you've upset all the broth over that beautifully white counterpane! Delicate stomach, yours, very. Come, try the pudding; and don't let your imagination combine any medicinal sauce with it. You have eaten it all; that's right. Now, allow us to suggest that a little very ripe fruit will not hurt you—an orange, or some strawberries if in season. But you must not lie there and allow your mind to get either into a wearisome state of vacuity or unpleasant reflection. Send for a book from the library—some novel that you have never read; and if it is too much trouble to read it yourself, get some one to read it to you. It is a capital plan always to endeavor to forget an illness by means of some quiet and absorbing enjoyment. You are fond of music, for instance; and if you hear any good band strike up in the street we recommend you by all means to detain them. You will get up, perhaps, in the evening, and prepare yourself for a refreshing night's rest by having your bed made; should a friend drop in who can give you a game of chess or cribbage be sure to avail yourself of the opportunity, if you feel inclined for such recreation. Do not sit up late, or get into any exciting conversation; but go calmly and quietly to bed, take your basin of gruel, swallow your pills, lay your head on the pillow, and go to sleep. To-morrow it is most probable that you will be well, or only sufficiently indisposed to render it prudent that you should stop at home, when you will indulge in a stronger and more relishing diet; pass the day in a dreamy state of inactivity, or enjoy yourself vivaciously in any reasonable manner you may think proper.
Perhaps, gentle reader, you may have endured prolonged and severe attacks of bodily suffering—perhaps you will tell us that we have not been depicting illness at all, but merely indisposition. You would have had us pick out from the pages of the “Lancet” a thrilling account of torture under the knife, and then made us rack our ingenuity to discover, if possible, some pleasure contingent upon that. You might as well expect us to write an article on the pleasure of being hanged. We will, however, say this much as regards every degree of illness: that there is scarcely any that does not admit of some mitigating gratification. The mere circumstance of being watched and most carefully tended by those we love, the kindness with which they bear our peevishness, and the desire they display to do every thing they can either to alleviate our pain or to conduce to our convalescence, are pleasures such as illness alone can afford, and must ever merit the highest appreciation, not only because we either are or ought to be duly impressed with them at the time, but for the farther and more substantial reason that they become delightful reminiscences and bonds of affection forever after. It is an excellent thing, morally and socially, is illness, and only requires that we endeavor to make the best instead of the worst of it; and therein lies the whole serious purport of this paper, which we have thought fit to write in as light a style as possible, knowing that the subject, though interesting to all, is very far from being generally palatable.