Forty Years in the Wilderness of Pills and Powders / Cogitations and Confessions of an Aged Physician

by William A. Alcott

Once more, being partly recruited, he resumed his labors as a teacher. This was doubtless a wrong measure, and yet I was not aware of the error at the time, or I should not have encouraged the movement, or assisted him as I did in procuring a situation. But I then thought he had been punished so effectually for his transgressions, that he would at length be wise. Besides he was exceedingly anxious to be at work, and to avoid dependence, a desire in which his friends participated, and in regard to which they were so unwise as to express their over anxiety in his hearing.

Three months in the school-house found him worse than ever before. He had attempted to board himself, to subsist on a very few ounces of "Graham wafers" at each meal, and to be an hour in masticating it. As an occasional compensation for this, however, a sort of treating resolution, he allowed himself to pick up the crusts and other fragments left about the school-house by his pupils, and when he had collected quite a pile of these, to indulge his appetite with them, ad libitum. Nor was this all. He erred in other particulars, perhaps in many.

He came to my house a fourth time, but my situation was such that I could not well receive him. He staid only a day or two, but his residence with us was long enough to enable me to mark the progress of his case, and to deplore what I feared must be the final issue. From me he went to a friend in an adjoining State; not, however, till he had alluded to certain errors of his recent life that he had not yet devulged, even to his best friend. "Doctor," said he, "there are some things that I have not yet told you about."

To me, also, it belongs, at this point of Gray's lamentable history, to make confession of great and glaring error. To have received the young man to my house, and to have devoted myself to the work of endeavoring again to raise him, would, most undoubtedly, have been a sacrifice to which few people in my circumstances would have thought themselves called. Yet, difficult as it was, the sacrifice might have been made. Had he been my only brother, I should, doubtless, have received him. The Saviour of mankind, in my circumstances, would probably have taken him in. Was I not his follower? And was I not bound to do what I believed he would do, in similar circumstances?

His more distant friend, but more consistent Christian brother, opened wide his doors for his reception, and did the best he could for him. It was his intention, at first, to employ him, as I now think he ought to have been employed long before; viz., on a small farm. In this point of view this friend's house was particularly favorable. Yet there were offsets to this advantage. One thing in particular, cast a shade upon our efforts in his behalf. It was about April 1st, and the house and farm had an eastern aspect, and the easterly winds, which at that season so much prevailed, were very strong and surcharged with vapor at a low temperature. For a few days after his arrival he was worse than ever.

This was discouragement heaped upon discouragement, and he began soon to sink under it. For a short time he was the subject of medical treatment. What was the character of the medicine he took, I never knew. At length there were signs of convalescence; but no sooner did his bodily health and strength begin to improve, than his mental troubles began to press upon him, till he was driven to the very borders of insanity. Indeed, so strong was the tendency to mental derangement that his relatives actually carried him, per force, to an insane hospital.

But his residence at the hospital was very short. Provision having in the mean time been made for his reception in a private family, among his acquaintance, and the superintendent of the hospital having advised to such a course, he was remanded to the country, to familiar faces, and to a farm.

On reaching the place assigned him, he became extremely ill,—worse, by far, than ever before,—so that, for several weeks, his life was despaired of. But by means of careful medical treatment, and a judicious and very simple diet, which at the hospital had been exchanged for a stimulating one, nature once more rallied, and in three or four weeks he appeared to be in a fair way for recovery. His strength increased, his mind became clear; his digestive function, though still erratic, appeared about to resume its natural condition, and to perform once more its wonted office; and the other troublesome symptoms were all gradually disappearing, except one;—he had still a very frequent pulse.

But even this rapid arterial action was at length abating. From a frequency of the pulse equal to 100, 110, and sometimes 120 in a minute, it fell in two weeks to from 70 to 75; and this, too, under the influence of very mild and gentle treatment. There was no reduction of activity or power, by bleeding, or by blistering, or in any other way; on the contrary, as I have intimated, there was a general increase of strength and vigor, both of body, and mind. He did not even take digitalis or morphine. The prospect, therefore, was, on the whole, truly encouraging.

And yet he had a set of friends—relatives, I should say, rather—who were not satisfied. It was strongly written on their minds that he was about to die; and they sternly insisted on removing him to his native home, that if he should die, he might die in the bosom of his own kindred. I was consulted; but I entered my most solemn protest against the measure, as both uncalled for and hazardous. It was to no purpose, however. In their over-kindness they determined to remove him; and the removal was effected. I ought also to say that though Mr. Gray highly appreciated their kindness, he was himself opposed to the measure, as one attended with much hazard.