“The simple energy of Truth needs no ambiguous interpreters.”—Euripides.

In answer to the frequent questions as to what special good Bone-setters have done in their special calling I have thought it best to let the relieved patients of others speak before my own. First, because they are well-known. Their cases are indisputable, and they show that Bone-setters understand their art. I have culled these cases from various sources, all of which I have acknowledged as far as possible. I have already quoted Mr. Charles Waterton’s opinion of Bone-setters from his “Wanderings of a Naturalist.” I will now direct attention to the cure he vouches for by the Yorkshire Bone-setters:—

Before I close these memoranda, I have to describe another mishap of a very dark complexion. Let me crave the reader’s leave to pen down a few remarks on Bone-setting, practised by men called Bone-setters, who on account of the extraordinary advance in the art of surgery, are not now I fear, held in sufficient estimation amongst the higher orders of society.

Towards the close of the year 1850, I had reared a ladder, full seven yards long, against a standard pear tree, and I mounted nearly to the top of this ladder with a pruning knife in hand, in order that I might correct an overgrown luxuriance in the tree. Suddenly the ladder swerved in a lateral direction, I adhered to it manfully, myself and the ladder coming simultaneously to the ground with astounding velocity. In our fall I had just time to move my head in a direction that it did not come in contact with the ground; still as it afterwards turned out, there was a partial concussion of the brain; and added to this, my whole side, from foot to shoulder, felt as though it had been pounded in a mill. In the course of the afternoon I took blood from my arm to the amount of thirty ounces, and followed the affair up the next day with a strong aperient. I believe that, with these necessary precautions, all would have gone right again (saving the arm) had not a second misadventure followed shortly on the heels of the first; and it was of so alarming a nature as to induce me to take thirty ounces more of blood by the lancet. In order to accommodate the position of my disabled arm. I had put on a Scotch plaid in lieu of my coat, and in it I came to my dinner. One day the plaid having gone wrong on the shoulder, I arose from the chair to rectify it, and the servant supposing that I was about to retire, unluckily withdrew the chair, unaware of this act on his part, I came backwards to the ground with an awful shock, and this, no doubt, caused concussion of the brain to a considerable amount.

Symptoms of slowly approaching dissolution now became visible. Having settled all affairs with my solicitor betwixt myself and the world, and with my Father Confessor, betwixt myself and my Maker, nothing remained but receive the final catastrophe with Christian resignation. But though I lay insensible, with hiccups and sub sultus ten dimon, for fifteen long hours, I at last opened my eyes, and gradually arose from my expected ruin.

I must now say a word or two of the externals damaged by the fall of the ladder. Notwithstanding the best surgical skill, my arm showed the appearance of stiff and withered deformity at the end of three months from the accident. And now my general state of health was not as it ought to be; for incessant pain prevented sleep, whilst food itself did little good. But my slumbers were strangely affected. I was eternally fighting wild beasts, with a club in one hand, the other being bound up at my breast. Nine bull-dogs attacked me one night, on the high road, some of them having the head of a crocodile.

I had now serious thoughts of having the arm amputated. This operation was fully resolved upon, when, luckily, the advice of my trusty game-keeper, John Ogden, rendered it unnecessary. One morning, “master,” said he to me, “I’m sure you’re going to the grave. You’ll die to a certainty. Let me go for our old Bone-setter. He cured me, long ago, and perhaps he can cure you. It was on the 25th of March, then—alias Lady Day, which every Catholic in the universe knows is solemn festival in the honor of the Blessed Virgin—that I had an interview with Mr. Joseph Crowther, the well known Bone-setter, whose family has exercised the art from father to son time out of mind.” On viewing my poor remnant of an arm—“Your wrist,” said he, “is sorely injured, a callus having formed betwixt the hand and the arm. The elbow is out of joint and the shoulder somewhat driven forward. This last affair will prevent your raising your arm to your head.” Melancholy look out! “But can you cure me, doctor?” said I. “Yes,” replied he firmly; “only let me have my own way.” “Then take the arm, and with it elbow, wrist and shoulder. I here deliver them up to you; do what you please with them. Pain is no consideration in this case, I dare say I shall have enough of it.” “You will,” said he, emphatically. This resolute bone-setter, whom I always compared to Chiron the Centaur for his science and his strength, began his operations like a man of business. In fourteen days, by means of potent embrocations, stretching, pulling, twisting, and jerking, he forced the shoulder and wrist to obey him and to perform their healthy movements. The elbow was a complicated affair. It required greater exertions and greater attention—in fact, it was a job for Hercules himself. Having done the needful to it (secundum artem) for one-and-twenty days, he seemed satisfied with the progress which he had made; and he said quite coolly, “I’ll finish you off this afternoon.” At four o’clock post meridian, his bandages, his plasters and his wadding having been placed on the table in regular order, he doffed his coat, tucked his shirt-sleeves above his elbows, and said that a glass of ale would do him good. “Then I’ll have a glass of soda water with you,” said I, “and we’ll drink each other’s health and success to the undertaking.”

The remaining act was one of unmitigated severity, but it was absolutely necessary. My sister Eliza, foreseeing what was to take place, felt her spirits sinking and retired to her room. Her maid, Lucy Barnes, bold as a little lioness, said she would see it out; whilst Mr. Harrison, a fine young gentleman, who was on a visit to me (and alas! is since dead in California), was ready in case of need. The bone setter performed his part with resolution scarcely to be contemplated, but which was really required under existing circumstances.

Laying hold of the crippled arm just above the elbow with one hand, and below with the other, he smashed to atoms by main force the callus which had formed in the dislocated joint, the elbow itself cracking, as if the interior parts of it had consisted of tobacco pipe shanks. Having predetermined in my mind not to open my mouth, or to make any stir during the operation, I remained passive and silent, whilst this fierce elbow contest was raging. All being now effected as far as force and skill were concerned, the remainder became a mere work of time. So putting a five pound note by way of extra fee into this sturdy operator’s hand, the binding up of the now rectified elbow-joint was effected by him with a nicety and a knowledge truly astonishing.

Health soon resumed her ancient right; sleep went hand-in-hand with a quiet mind; life was once more worth enjoying; and here I am just now sound as an acorn.

Dr. Wharton Hood disparages the lucid statement and style of Mr. Waterton, but does not gainsay his testimony or facts.

The testimony of Mr. George Moore, the eminent philanthropist to the skill of a “bone setter,” is duly recorded by Dr. Smiles, in the life of the Cumberland Worthy and London Merchant.2 Mr. Moore was very fond of hunting, both as a recreation and as a means of health. “I hunt,” he says, “not only for pleasure, but for my health. The exercise does me great good. I really do not see any harm in a gallop with the hounds; if I did I would not go out again.” He hesitates and deliberates on the subject again and again. “I make my health my excuse. The fresh crisp air does me good. I am always at home when on horseback.”

“In March, 1867,” says Dr. Smiles (pp. 292), “he met with an accident which put a stop to his hunting.” The meet was at Torpendow. From thence they went to the top of Binsey, a heathery fell, to the south of Whitehall. There they found a fox, and viewed him away. Always anxious to keep up with the hounds, Mr. Moore rode fast down the hill. But his bay mare got her foot in a rabbit hole, and the rider got a regular cropper. He found that his shoulder was stiff. Nevertheless, he mounted again and galloped away. The hounds were in full cry. He kept up pretty well, though his shoulder was severely hurt.

Next day he entertained a dozen friends, amongst whom was the master of the hunt and Frank Buckland. Nothing was talked about but fox-hunting. “I think,” says Mr. Moore, “I must make yesterday my last day’s hunting.” Shortly after he consulted a celebrated surgeon, at Carlisle, about his shoulder. The joint was found “all right,” though the muscles were pronounced strained and hurt. Nothing could be done for the pain but to grin and hide it.

He went to the Castle Compensation Meeting, at Carlisle, in which he took an active part. Then he went to sit on the bench at Wigton, for he was a Justice of the Peace for Cumberland. After that he had twenty friends and relatives to tea and supper. “I hope,” he says, “that I shall never forget my poor relations and friends.”

Notwithstanding the intense pain in his shoulder, Mr. Moore continued to hunt. The year after his shoulder had been dislocated, he invited the Cumberland Hunt to meet at Whitehall. About sixty horsemen were present. They breakfasted in the old hall and then proceeded to mount. Mr. Moore was in low spirits because of the pain in his shoulder, and at first he did not intend to join his friends. But Geering, his coachman, urged him to go, and Sir Wilfred Lawson joined him in his persuasions. At length Mr. Moore’s favorite horse, Zouave was brought out, and with his arm in a sling and a cigar in his mouth he consented to mount. Mrs. Moore and Lady Lawson ascended the tower and saw the brilliant red coats ride away through the park.

The array of horsemen passed on to Watch-hill and found a fox. He was viewed away, and went across Whitehall-park, close under the wall of the west-front garden, followed by the hounds and riders. It was a sight not often to be seen. The day was splendid, although it was in November. The sun was shining and the red coats, jumping hedges and fences amidst green fields, brightened up the picture. The fox went up the hill, out of sight of the gazers from the tower, and was lost in Parkhouse covers. Again the hunt proceeded to Watch Hill and found another fox. Away it went almost in the same direction, passing through Whitehall Park with the hounds and hunters at its heels. There was a slight check at Park-wood. Then it took straight away for Binsey, went up the side of the hill, and passed on to Snittlegarth, and was lost at Bewaldeth.

It grew dark. No more could be done that night. No fox had been killed, though the hunters had got a splendid run. Mr. Moore returned home with his arm in his sling, though nothing the worse for his day’s exercise. “It was,” he says, “a very enjoyable day. I do like a day’s hunting. I always feel more light and buoyant after it.” It was his last hunt.

The various surgeons to whom Mr. Moore applied did not give him any relief from the pain he suffered in consequence of this accident. He bore it throughout the year, 1868, during the time he was Prime-Warden of the Fishmongers’ Company.

Dr. Smiles says (pp. 318, 319)—“He had consulted the most eminent surgeons. They could find no cure for the pain in his shoulder. Some called it rheumatism, others neuralgia, some recommended a six months’ sea voyage, others strapped up his shoulder with plasters and told him to keep his arm in a sling. At length the pain became unbearable. Sometimes the shoulder grew very black. The dislocation forward, which it seems to have been, interrupted the circulation of the blood. Still he continued to work on as before.”

On the 7th December, 1868, he writes with difficulty in his diary—“I was struck down with neuralgia at the Middlesex Hospital, when on a committee for selecting a clergyman. I had my shoulder cut open to insert morphia. I am very bad!”

He was taken home in a cab by the late Mr. De Morgan (surgeon). When he entered the house he clung by a pillar as if he were drunk. He could scarcely get up to his bedroom, and there he dozed and rambled; but the pain was somewhat relieved. He called in one of the most eminent surgeons in London, but, as Mr. Moore writes—“he did not understand my shoulder.” Another surgeon was called in—and still another, but the result was the same. It was with great difficulty he could attend the consecration of his church in Somers’ Town, with his arm in a sling. “The shoulder,” he says, “is not so black as formerly, but the pain is more acute.” Then the first physician in London was called in.—“It is a most painful affection of the shoulder-joint.” The patient already knew that. But the physicians as well as the surgeons could do nothing for him.

He went about, though looking very ill, to the Field Lane Refuge—to the Industrial Dwellings—to Christ’s Hospital—to the Court of the Fishmongers. He even travelled down to York to stay a few days with the Archbishop. On his return he attended a meeting of Christ’s Hospital, “about a reform in the mode of education in the school.” A few days later he says, “The neuralgia came on fearfully all day, and at night I was in torture. Mrs. Moore rushed off in the brougham to fetch Dr.——, that he might see my arm at the blackest. Still nothing could be done. Then Mr.—— came and plastered and bandaged up my arm.” The patient could not write; it was with difficulty that he could sign a cheque. His wife then became his amanuensis. At a banquet at the Fishmongers’, he was seized with one of his furious paroxysms of neuralgia. A surgeon was sent for, who came and gave him chloroform.

At length he could bear his pain no longer. He had been advised to go to a well-known bone-setter. No! He would not do that. He had put himself in the hands of the first surgeons of the day. Why should he go to an irregular practitioner? At length, however, he was persuaded by his friends. As the surgeons had done their best, why should he not try the bone-setter? He called upon Mr. Hutton, at his house. He looked at the shoulder. Well, he would try and put it in. This was new comfort. Mr. Hutton recommended his patient to buy some neat’s-foot oil and rub it in as hot as he could bear it. “Where can we buy the stuff?” asked Mrs. Moore. “You can take a soda-water bottle and get it at a tripe shop in Tottenham Court Road.” “We have not got a soda-water bottle with us.” “You can get one at the corner at the public-house!—you might get it at a druggist’s,” he continued, “but he will charge you three times as dear.” The neat’s-foot oil was at last got; the shoulder was duly rubbed with it; and the bone-setter arrived at Kensington Palace Gardens to do his best or his worst. He made Mr. Moore sign a paper before he proceeded with his operation, in which he agreed to be satisfied whether failure or success was the result. Hutton took the arm in his hand, gave it two or three turns, and then gave it a tremendous twist round in the socket. The shoulder-joint was got in! George Moore threw his arm out with strength straight, before him, and said, “I could fight,” whereas, a moment before he could not raise it two inches. It had been out for nearly two years.

Mr. Moore was taken to task by his professional friends for going to a quack about his shoulder. “Well,” said he, “quack or no quack, he cured me, and that was all I wanted. Whereas, I was blind, now I see.” After presenting a bust of Lord Brougham and a silver claret jug to the Fishmongers’, in memory of his prime wardenship, he set out for Whitehall on the following day and invited Mr. Hutton (the bone-setter) to join him in Cumberland, as a token of his thanks to him for having relieved his sufferings. The shoulder continued to improve. When his benefactor Hutton, the bone-setter, arrived at Whitehall, he gave him a hearty welcome, and sent him away rejoicing. Mr. Moore was no more troubled with his shoulder.

Hutton died soon afterwards, and Mr. Moore remarks in his diary that he was as much struck by his unworldliness as by his skill, for he refused to take any fee additional to the £5 that was at first asked. It was with great pressure that Mr. Moore prevailed upon him to take £5 more.

During his repeated accessions of pain he entered, or made Mrs. Moore enter, many memoranda in his diary, of which we subjoin a few:—

“We must wait until the day dawns, and the shadows flee away, to know how wise and suitable every dealing of God is with us.”

“I am ashamed to think that I sometimes doubt whether God hears my prayers—they are so poor, so weak, so spiritless. I thank God my faith is as simple as a child’s.”

“I have sorrows to go through, but they will only prove joy afterwards. Whom our Master loveth He chasteneth. No Cross no Crown. As I suffer so I shall enjoy. Prayer is the mightiest influence men can use. Like the dew in summer, it makes no noise. It is unseen, but produces immense results.”

“Exercise is the secret of a healthy body, and active working for God is the secret of a healthy soul. He that watereth other shall be watered himself.”

9. Dislocation of radius backwards. 10. Dislocation of ulna backwards. 11. Dislocation of jaw. 12. Dislocation of hip outwards. 13. Dislocation of hip inwards.