It is a good thing, perhaps, to write for the amusement of the
public, but it is a far higher and nobler thing to write for
their instruction, their profit, their actual and tangible
benefit. The latter is the sole object of this article. If it
prove the means of restoring to health one solitary sufferer
among my race, of lighting up once more the fire of hope and joy
in his faded eyes, of bringing back to his dead heart again the
quick, generous impulses of other days, I shall be amply rewarded
for my labor; my soul will be permeated with the sacred delight a
Christian feels when he has done a good, unselfish deed.
Having led a pure and blameless life, I am justified in believing
that no man who knows me will reject the suggestions I am about
to make, out of fear that I am trying to deceive him. Let the
public do itself the honor to read my experience in doctoring a
cold, as herein set forth, and then follow in my footsteps.
When the White House was burned in Virginia, I lost my home, my
happiness, my constitution, and my trunk. The loss of the two
first-named articles was a matter of no great consequence, since
a home without a mother or a sister, or a distant young female
relative in it, to remind you, by putting your soiled linen out
of sight and taking your boots down off the mantle-piece, that
there are those who think about you and care for you, is easily
obtained. And I cared nothing for the loss of my happiness,
because, not being a poet, it could not be possible that
melancholy would abide with me long.
But to lose a good constitution and a better trunk were serious
On the day of the fire my constitution succumbed to a severe cold
caused by undue exertion in getting ready to do something. I
suffered to no purpose, too, because the plan I was figuring at
for the extinguishing of the fire was so elaborate that I never
got it completed until the middle of the following week.
The first time I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and
bathe my feet in hot water and go to bed. I did so. Shortly
afterward, another friend advised me to get up and take a cold
shower-bath. I did that also. Within the hour, another friend
assured me that it was policy to "feed a cold and starve a
fever." I had both. So I thought it best to fill myself up for
the cold, and then keep dark and let the fever starve awhile.
In a case of this kind, I seldom do things by halves; I ate
pretty heartily; I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had
just opened his restaurant that morning; he waited near me in
respectful silence until I had finished feeding my cold, when he
inquired if the people about Virginia were much afflicted with
colds? I told him I thought they were. He then went out and took
in his sign. I started down toward the office, and on the way
encountered another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of
salt water, taken warm, would come as near curing a cold as any
thing in the world. I hardly thought I had room for it, but I
tried it any how. The result was surprising. I believe I threw up
my immortal soul.
Now, as I am giving my experience only for the benefit of those
who are troubled with the distemper I am writing about, I feel
that they will see the propriety of my cautioning them against
following such portions of it as proved inefficient with me, and
acting upon this conviction, I warn them against warm salt water. It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is too severe. If
I had another cold in the head, and there were no course left me
but to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm salt water, I
would take my chances on the earthquake.
After the storm which had been raging in my stomach had subsided,
and no more good Samaritans happening along, I went on borrowing
handkerchiefs again and blowing them to atoms, as had been my
custom in the early stages of my cold, until I came across a lady
who had just arrived from over the plains, and who said she had
lived in a part of the country where doctors were scarce, and had
from necessity acquired considerable skill in the treatment of
simple "family complaints." I knew she must have had much
experience, for she appeared to be a hundred and fifty years old.
She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, aqua fortis,
turpentine, and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a
wine-glass full of it every fifteen minutes. I never took but one
dose; that was enough; it robbed me of all moral principle, and
awoke every unworthy impulse of my nature. Under its malign
influence my brain conceived miracles of meanness, but my hands
were too feeble to execute them; at that time, had it not been
that my strength had surrendered to a succession of assaults from
infallible remedies for my cold, I am satisfied that I would have
tried to rob the graveyard.
Like most other people I often feel mean, and act accordingly;
but until I took that medicine I had never reveled in such
supernatural depravity and felt proud of it. At the end of two
days I was ready to go to doctoring again. I took a few more
unfailing remedies, and finally drove my cold from my head to my
I got to coughing incessantly, and my voice fell below zero; I
conversed in a thundering base, two octaves below my natural
tone; I could only compass my regular nightly repose by coughing
myself down to a state of utter exhaustion, and then the moment I
began to talk in my sleep, my discordant voice woke me up again.
My case grew more and more serious every day. Plain gin was
recommended; I took it. Then gin and molasses; I took that also.
Then gin and onions; I added the onions, and took all three. I
detected no particular result, however, except that I had
acquired a breath like a buzzard's.
I found I had to travel for my health. I went to Lake Bigler with
my reportorial comrade, Wilson. It is gratifying to me to reflect
that we traveled in considerable style; we went in the Pioneer
coach, and my friend took all his baggage with him, consisting of
two excellent silk handkerchiefs and a daguerreotype of his
grandmother. We sailed and hunted and fished and danced all day,
and I doctored my cough all night. By managing in this way, I
made out to improve every hour in the twenty-four. But my disease
continued to grow worse.
A sheet-bath was recommended. I had never refused a remedy yet,
and it seemed poor policy to commence then; therefore I
determined to take a sheet-bath, notwithstanding I had no idea
what sort of arrangement it was.
It was administered at midnight, and the weather was very frosty.
My breast and back were bared, and a sheet (there appeared to be
a thousand yards of it) soaked in ice-water was wound around me
until I resembled a swab for a Columbiad.
It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches one's warm
flesh, it makes him start with sudden violence and gasp for
breath just as men do in the death agony. It froze the marrow in
my bones and stopped the beating of my heart. I thought my time
Young Wilson said the circumstance reminded him of an anecdote
about a negro who was being baptized, and who slipped from the
parson's grasp, and came near being drowned. He floundered
around, though, and finally rose up out of the water considerably
strangled and furiously angry, and started ashore at once,
spouting water like a whale, and remarking, with great asperity,
that "One o' dese days some gen'lman's nigger gwyne to git killed
wid jes' such dam foolishness as dis!"
Never take a sheet-bath never. Next to meeting a lady
acquaintance, who, for reasons best known to herself, don't see
you when she looks at you, and don't know you when she does see
you, it is the most uncomfortable thing in the world.
But, as I was saying, when the sheet-bath failed to cure my
cough, a lady friend recommended the application of a mustard
plaster to my breast. I believe that would have cured me
effectually, if it had not been for young Wilson. When I went to
bed, I put my mustard plaster which was a very gorgeous one,
eighteen inches square where I could reach it when I was ready
for it. But young Wilson got hungry in the night, and ate it up.
I never saw any body have such an appetite; I am confident that
lunatic would have eaten me if I had been healthy.
After sojourning a week at Lake Bigler, I went to Steamboat
Springs, and beside the steam baths, I took a lot of the vilest
medicines that were ever concocted. They would have cured me, but
I had to go back to Virginia, where, notwithstanding the variety
of new remedies I absorbed every day, I managed to aggravate my
disease by carelessness and undue exposure.
I finally concluded to visit San Francisco, and the first day I
got there, a lady at the Lick House told me to drink a quart of
whisky every twenty-four hours, and a friend at the Occidental
recommended precisely the same course. Each advised me to take a
quart; that made half a gallon. I did it, and still live.
Now, with the kindest motives in the world, I offer for the
consideration of consumptive patients the variegated course of
treatment I have lately gone through. Let them try it; if it
don't cure them, it can't more than kill them.