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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK
AND
THE CASE OF GEORGE DEDLOW
BY
S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D.,
LL.D. HARVARD AND EDINBURGH
CONTENTS
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK
THE CASE OF GEORGE DEDLOW
INTRODUCTION
Both of the tales in this little volume
appeared originally in the ``Atlantic Monthly''
as anonymous contributions. I owe to the
present owners of that journal permission to
use them. ``The Autobiography of a Quack ''
has been recast with large additions.
``The Case of George Dedlow'' was not
written with any intention that it should
appear in print. I lent the manuscript to the
Rev. Dr. Furness and forgot it. This gentleman
sent it to the Rev. Edward Everett Hale.
He, presuming, I fancy, that every one
desired to appear in the ``Atlantic,'' offered it
to that journal. To my surprise, soon afterwards
I received a proof and a check. The
story was inserted as a leading article without
my name. It was at once accepted by many
as the description of a real case. Money was
collected in several places to assist the
unfortunate man, and benevolent persons went
to the ``Stump Hospital,'' in Philadelphia, to
see the sufferer and to offer him aid. The
spiritual incident at the end of the story was
received with joy by the spiritualists as a
valuable proof of the truth of their beliefs.
S. WEIR MITCHELL
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK
At this present moment of time
I am what the doctors call an
interesting case, and am to be
found in bed No. 10, Ward
11, Massachusetts General
Hospital. I am told that I have what is called
Addison's disease, and that it is this pleasing
malady which causes me to be covered with
large blotches of a dark mulatto tint. However,
it is a rather grim subject to joke about,
because, if I believed the doctor who comes
around every day, and thumps me, and listens
to my chest with as much pleasure as if I
were music all through--I say, if I really
believed him, I should suppose I was going to
die. The fact is, I don't believe him at all.
Some of these days I shall take a turn and
get about again; but meanwhile it is rather
dull for a stirring, active person like me to
have to lie still and watch myself getting big
brown and yellow spots all over me, like a
map that has taken to growing.
The man on my right has consumption
--smells of cod-liver oil, and coughs all
night. The man on my left is a down-easter
with a liver which has struck work; looks
like a human pumpkin; and how he contrives
to whittle jackstraws all day, and eat as he
does, I can't understand. I have tried reading
and tried whittling, but they don't either of
them satisfy me, so that yesterday I concluded
to ask the doctor if he couldn't suggest some
other amusement.
I waited until he had gone through the
ward, and then seized my chance, and asked
him to stop a moment.
``Well, my man,'' said he, ``what do you
want!''
I thought him rather disrespectful, but I
replied, ``Something to do, doctor.''
He thought a little, and then said: ``I'll
tell you what to do. I think if you were to
write out a plain account of your life it
would be pretty well worth reading. If half
of what you told me last week be true, you
must be about as clever a scamp as there is
to be met with. I suppose you would just
as lief put it on paper as talk it.''
``Pretty nearly,'' said I. ``I think I will
try it, doctor.''
After he left I lay awhile thinking over
the matter. I knew well that I was what the
world calls a scamp, and I knew also that I
had got little good out of the fact. If a man
is what people call virtuous, and fails in life,
he gets credit at least for the virtue; but
when a man is a--is--well, one of liberal
views, and breaks down, somehow or other
people don't credit him with even the
intelligence he has put into the business. This
I call hard. If I did not recall with satisfaction
the energy and skill with which I did
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