TRAVELLING DOCTORS.

“His fancy lay to travelling.”—L’Estrange.

One might say, with some propriety, that these characters—travelling doctors—should have been classed under the heading of our first chapter, as “humbugs;” but if we should put all under that head that belong there, O, where would the chapter end? As “all is not gold that glitters,” so neither, on the other hand, is there anything so bad that no virtue can be found in it. No heart is so utterly depraved as to prevent any good thought or deed from emanating therefrom, though sometimes the good is quite imperceptible to us short-sighted mortals.

As the majority of physicians “turned” out of our medical colleges, or of those in practice in our cities, are unfit to have intrusted to their care the health and lives of our families, friends, or ourselves, so the majority of travelling doctors are to be reckoned equally untrustworthy; no more so.

If the blessed Saviour should return to earth, and travel from town to city, as he did eighteen hundred years ago, healing the sick, I really think there would be a less number believing in him now than then. Less gratitude for his marvellous cures there could not be; for then some of the miserable wretches, whom he healed free of charge, did not so much as return him thanks. This may be said of some of our patients at this day.

Let a medical man of ever so great reputation travel, and he is lost. A band of angels, on a healing mission, would stand no chance with a people who only expect humbugs to visit them. The Shakspearian inquiry would at once and repeatedly be put,—

“How chance it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways!”

Let us view a few travelling doctors through the public eye:—

“So shall I dare to give him shape and hue,
And bring his mazy-running tricks to view;
From humbug’s minions catch the scattered rays,
That in one focus they may brightly blaze.
“I’d give our (nameless) knight, before he starts,
A tireless mind, where never Conscience smarts;
An oily tongue, which word should never speak
To call a blush to Satan’s brazen cheek;
With, yet, a power of lungs the weak to move,
Which lung-quiescent ... might approve;
A changing face, which e’en might Homer feign,
A ton of brass for every ounce of brain.
“Then launch him forth, right cunningly to rage
Through the thin shams of this enlightened age;
To tell the people they are lords of earth,
And pick their pockets while he lauds their worth;
Drug men with folly, which no clime engrosses,
And sense deal out in homeopathic doses;
And making goodness to his projects bend,
With all right aims an ultra spirit blend.
·······
“He leagues with those who number in their trade
A falsehood told for every sixpence made;
To Mammon mortgage all they have of heart,
To keep their wealth, with priceless honor part.
The fear of God the smallest of their fears,
Rolling in wealth, but bankrupt in ideas;
To save their purse, their souls contented lose,
And count all right, if worldly gain accrues;
Who, when they die, no memory leave behind,
But in the curses of their cheated kind!
“With these Sir Humbug riches seeks to gain,
And feels his way through lab’rinths of chicane;
Embezzles, swindles, lies, until at last
The eye of Justice on his crime is cast,
When, drugged with wealth, he quits our plundered shore,
And Texas boasts one fiery hero more.”

THE TUMOR DOCTOR CONTEMPLATES SUICIDE.The worst specimen of a travelling doctor I ever knew first appeared at R., one of the principal towns of Vermont, a few years ago. His name was Mariam; or that was what he called himself. He was a Canadian by birth, about twenty-five years of age, short, dark-complexioned, and claimed to be the seventh son of somebody. He was very illiterate, not being able to write a prescription, or his name, for that matter, when he came to R.

MARIAM, THE TUMOR DOCTOR.

I visited his rooms at the hotel, after he had been in town some weeks, and noticed, among other things, that his table was strewn with sheets of paper, upon which he had been practising writing his signature. He opened here boldly. He sent out thousands of circulars in the various trains of cars running from R., distributing them in person, on the Poor Richard’s principle, that “if you want your work done, do it; if not, send.” He inserted cards in the two village papers, containing the most illiterate and preposterous statements, and hundreds flocked to see him. Imagine his knowledge, for he assured me, to whom he opened his heart in confidence, that he never read a page of a medical work in his life.

He first claimed to cure by the laying on of hands; but as he possessed no magnetic powers, he gradually abandoned that deception. As he could not write a prescription, and knew nothing of compounding medicines, he would go with a patient to a druggist’s, and looking over the names of drugs on the bottles exposed on the shelves, order two or three articles at random, and, as one druggist assured me, of the most opposite properties; such as tincture of iron and iodide of potash, etc. (Note. The acid in the M. Tinct. iron sets the iodine free.)

His clothes were very seedy, “and the crown of his hat went flip flap,” and his toes were healthy, “being able to get out to the air,” when he came to R. Soon he was “in luck,” and a nice suit of clothes, a new silk hat, and boots, speedily graced his not inelegant person. I saw him both before and after the transformation.

The following is a true copy of one of his certificates, taken from his circular:—

On this item being ridiculed in the papers of R., Mariam changed it to a “rose cancer,” and continued the certificate.

Mariam had been practising in Malone, N. Y., also at Whitehall, where, I was informed by a newspaper man, he was arrested for obtaining money under false pretences. He, however, escaped and fled, to practise his deceptions elsewhere. It was reported that he shuffled off his mortal coil by finally taking two ounces of laudanum, after the civil authorities had placed him comfortably in the county jail, where he had the pleasure of passing many days in viewing the world through an iron-barred window, and reflecting on his eventful career.

The Singing Doctor.

In remarkable contrast with the above described ignoramus, we present the following description, from two contributors, of an extraordinary personage, known for a time as “The Singing Doctor.”

The “Hoosac Valley News” tells this story:—

“One day late in the autumn of 1860, while the rain poured in torrents, and the wind howled fearfully along the hills of old Plymouth, I was obliged to drive to Watertown. The ‘Branch’ was swollen to the river’s size, and foamed madly down over the sombre rocks, while above my head, on the other side of the road, the trees rocked and swayed, as though about to fall into the seething, roaring waters below.

“Above, or mingled with the clashing of the elements, I heard some voice, as if singing. It struck me with wonder. I stopped to listen. It became more distinct, as if approaching. What was it? Who could it be, singing amid the fearful tempest?

“In the midst of my surmising, the object of my wonder came in sight, around a turn in the road just ahead of me.

“It was the Singing Doctor, whom I instantly recognized by his little old white horse, as well as by his own voice, to which I had before listened. The little animal was drenched like a ‘drowned rat.’ The doctor, in his open buggy, with no umbrella,—for the sweeping wind precluded the possibility of holding one,—and the driving rain pelting mercilessly upon his face and head, was singing.

“‘You must be a happy man,’ I exclaimed, ‘to be singing amid this awful storm.’

“‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘It is always better to be singing than sighing;’ and we passed on through the dangerous defile, and separated....

“Last summer, as I journeyed through the Green Mountain State on a pleasure excursion, I met, on a romantic mountain pass, a magnificent turnout,—a splendid top carriage, drawn by four beautiful, jet black Morgan mares,—which did not attract my attention so much, however, as the music within the carriage. It was the Singing Doctor again, with his two little daughters, singing.

“The handsome and good-natured driver offered me the best half of the road; but still I lingered till the last notes of the song died away, when I drove past the ‘Sanatorian,’ wondering to myself what singing had to do with his increasing prosperity.”

The remainder of the sketch is from the pen of a lady in Vermont:—

“I think it was during the spring of 1867 that our little ‘city on the lake’ was visited by the above remarkable character. We are often visited by migratory physicians, who are usually of the ‘come-and-go’ order; but this one burst upon us like a comet, with dazzling splendor, briefly announced, but at once proclaimed his determination of returning with the regularity of the full moon—repeating his visits every month. Few believed his last arrangement could be carried out, as his predecessors had generally fleeced the invalid public to their utmost at one visit, and if they ever again appeared, it would be under another name and phase. It soon became evident that one visit could not repay the outlay, for no ready posting-board was large enough to hold the agent’s posters, which were printed in strips some twenty-five feet in length, and his advertisements occupied one, two, or more columns of the public journals, while he flooded the houses with his pictorial circulars.

THE SINGING DOCTOR.“He was merely announced as ‘The Sanatorian,’ but was indorsed (true or false?) by some of New England’s most respectable people. He came in grand style, as the papers briefly announced, thus:—

“‘The Sanatorian. This distinguished physician proposes visiting us on the 18th inst.... The doctor comes in great style.... He has the finest carriage, and the gayest four black Morgan horses we have ever had the pleasure of riding after.’

THE SANATORIAN’S TURNOUT.

“The driver, a handsome fellow, with full brown whiskers, curling hair, and a ‘heavenly blue eye,’ had taken the editor and writer of this last paragraph out to an airing. The team was photographed by the artists, and many of the best citizens had the pleasure of a ride in the easy carriage, and behind the swift ponies.

“The doctor usually remained incog. to the public. If they wished to see him, they must go to his ‘parlors’ at the best hotels. They did go. And now the most remarkable part of the affair remains to be recorded. An editor who interviewed him reports thus: ‘The doctor rocks in a rocking-chair,—in fact, never sits in anything else,—or arises and walks the floor, and instantly, at a glance, tells every patient each pain and ache better than the patient could describe them himself. ‘Are you a clairvoyant?’ the editor asked.

“‘Faugh! No, sir. Clairvoyancy is a humbug; merely power of mind over mind. A clairvoyant can go no farther than your own knowledge leads him, unless he guesses the rest,’ was his emphatic reply.

“The same patients, disguised, visited him twice, but he would tell the same story to them as before. His diagnosis was truly wonderful.

“‘What is your mode of treatment, or what school do you represent?’

“‘There hangs my “school,”’ he would reply, pointing to a New York college diploma. ‘That, however, cures nobody. What cures one patient kills another. My opathy is to cure my patient by any means, regardless of “schools.”’

“To some he gave ‘nothing but water,’ the patients affirmed; to others, pills, powders, syrups, or prescriptions. Well, he came the next month, to our surprise, and to the joy of most of his patients. He did the greatest amount of advertising on the first visit, doing less and less puffing each time. The rich, as well as the poor, visited him. He charged all one dollar. Then, if they declined treatment, he was satisfied; but if they doubted, or were sceptical, he refused all prescription. He advertised quite as much by telling one man he was past all help, and would die in eight weeks, which he did, as by curing the mayor of the city of a cough that jeoparded his life. If a poor woman had no money, he treated her just as cheerfully. Men he would not. His cures are said to have been remarkable. He made some eleven visits, and his patrons increased at each visit; but the novelty wore off before he disappeared. He was said to be an excellent musician, an author and composer, a man who was well read (a physician here who often conversed with him so informed the writer), could translate Latin and French, and converse with the mutes. When the day closed, he would see no more patients, but devoted his time to friends, to writing, or to music. Often the hotel parlor would be thronged at evening with the musical portion of the community. In personal appearance he was nothing remarkable,—medium size, wore full beard, had a sharp black eye, a quick, nervous movement, and his voice was not unpleasing to the ear.

“Why he—such a man—should travel, no one knew. He had an object, doubtless, to accomplish, realized it, and retired upon his true name, and from whence he came.”

“Youran, the Spanker.”

The writer has many times seen a fellow who travelled the country, nicknamed “the Spanker.” He was a tall, lean, lank-looking Yankee, with red hair and whiskers, a light gray eye, and claimed to cure all diseases by “spatting” the patient, or the diseased part thereof, with cold water on his bare palm, the use of a battery, and a pill. He had served as door-keeper to a famous doctor, who created a furore, a few years since, by the exercise of his magnetic powers, making cripples to throw down their crutches, and walk off; the deaf to hear, the blind to see; or, at least, many of them thought they did, for the time being, which answered the doctor’s immediate purpose. But one fine morning the magnetic doctor found his door-keeper was among the “missing.” He had learned the trade, and set up on his own account.

This fellow was as ignorant of physic as Jack Reynolds was of Scripture. Reynolds, who killed Townsend in 1870, when under sentence of death, listened attentively for the first time to the story of the Saviour’s crucifixion in atonement for our sins, when he rather startled the visitors, as well as the eminent divine, with the inquiry, “Did that affair happen lately?”

He was not, it is evident, conversant with Scripture. “The Spanker” was not read in medicine. His treatment was the most ridiculous and repulsive of the absurdities of the nineteenth century. The patient was stripped of his clothes, and often so severely spanked as to compel him, or her, to cry out with pain.

A NEW SCHOOL OF PRACTICE.

The beautiful young wife of the Rev. Mr. F., of Vermont, was brought to the writer for medical advice. The patient was carefully examined, and the minister taken aside, and assured that the lady was past all help; she was in the last stages of consumption; that she would, in all probability, die with the falling of the autumn leaves, or within two months.

The following day the minister carried the patient to the spanker doctor, who declared her case quite curable. The minister employed him to treat the patient.

A few weeks later I saw the minister, seated on the doorstep of his house, bowed in grief. He was on the lookout for me, as I was expected that way. He called to me, and asked if I would view the corpse of his once beautiful wife. I dismounted, and entered the house of mourning. There lay the poor, fair young face, within the narrow confines of the coffin. The cheeks were hollow, the eyes sunken, and the nostrils closed, and I doubt if any air had passed through the left one for weeks—pathognomonic indications of that fell disease, consumption.

“She did not live as long, doctor, as you thought she would, in August,” said Mr. F.

“No, sir: I did not then make allowance for the harsh treatment of Dr. ——, that, I am advised, soon followed.”

A VICTIM OF THE SPANKER.

“O, sir,” he exclaimed, in agony of soul, while the tears coursed freely down his cheeks, and fell upon the coffin,—“O, sir, God only knows what the poor thing suffered. Dr. Youran said the spatting and cold water treatment would save her, and I was anxious to try it, and did, till the poor, dear soul begged us, with tearful eyes, not to punish her further, but to let her die in peace.”

The ignorant scoundrel is still at large, preying upon the invalid public. It is a burning shame that the laxity of our laws permits such ignorant, heartless wretches to go about the country, imposing upon the credulity of invalidity.

The invalids, as we said in our opening, expect to be humbugged, and will believe no honest statement of a case and its probabilities, but will too often swallow the lies and braggadocio, and finally the prescriptions, of ignorant charlatans and impostors.

DR. PULSFEEL LEAVING TOWN.

Mr. Jeaffreson, in the “Book about Doctors,” before often quoted, says of the English travelling doctor of the last century,—

“When Dr. Pulsfeel was tired of London, or felt the want of country air, he adopted the pleasant occupation of fleecing rustic simplicity. For his journeys he provided himself with a stout and fast-trotting hack—stout, that it might bear weighty parcels of medical composition; fast, that in case the ungrateful rabble should commit the indecorum of stoning their benefactor as an impostor,—a mishap that would occasionally occur,—escape might be effected.“In his circuit the doctor took in all the fairs, markets, wakes, and public festivals, not disdaining to stop an entire week, or even month, at an assize town, where he found the sick anxious to benefit by his marvellous wisdom.

“His manner of making himself known in a new place was to ride boldly into the thickest crowd of a town, and inform his listeners that he had come straight from the Duke of So-and-so, or the Emperor of Wallachia, out of an innate desire to do good to his fellow-creatures. He was born in that very town. He had left it when an orphan boy, to seek his fortune in the great world. His adventures had been wonderful. He had visited the Sultan and the Great Mogul; and the King of Mesopotamia had tried to persuade him to tarry and keep the Mesopotamians out of the devil’s clutches by the offer of a thousand pieces of gold a month. He had cured thousands of emperors, kings, queens, princes, grand duchesses, and generalissimos. He sold all kinds of medicaments—dyes for the hair, washes for the complexion, lotions, rings, and love charms, powders to stay the palsy, fevers, croup, and jaundice. His powder was expensive; he couldn’t help that; it was made of pearl-dust and dried violet leaves from the middle of Tartary. Still, he would sell his friends a package at bare cost,—one crown,—as he did not want to make money out of them.

“Nothing could surpass the impudence of the fellow’s lies, save the admiration with which his credulous auditors swallowed his assertions. There they stood—stout yeomen, drunken squires, gay peasant girls, gawky hinds and gabbling crones, deeming themselves in luck to have lived to behold such a miracle of wisdom. Possibly a young student, home from Oxford, with the rashness of inexperience, would smile scornfully, and cry out, ‘Quack!’ (quack-salver, from the article he used to cure wens); but such interruption was usually frowned down by the orthodox friends of the student, and he was warned that he would come to no good end, if he went on as he had begun, a contemptuous unbeliever, and a mocker of wise men.”

A Musical Doctor.

Mr. Dayton, vocalist, told me of a fellow who cut a swell in various capacities a few years ago. He first knew him as a fiddler at fairs. The next time he turned up was under the following circumstances:—

“With Madam L. and some other renowned vocalist, he was giving concerts, when one day their pianist was taken suddenly sick. Madam was in great trepidation.

THE MUSICAL DOCTOR.

“‘What shall I do? The concert cannot be postponed, and we cannot sing unless we have an accompaniment,’ exclaimed the lady.

“I looked about, made some inquiry,—it was in a small town,—but no competent piano player could be found.

“‘We must abandon the concert,’ I said, which seemed inevitable, when there came a sharp knock at the door.

“‘Come in,’ I called.

“The door opened, and instead of a servant, as I had expected, there appeared a tall, stout specimen of the genus homo, with large black eyes, and long, dark hair flowing down on to his shoulders, making his best bow, and what he doubtless intended as his sweetest smile.

“I offered him a chair, and inquired how I could serve him.“‘You want a piano player?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Well, I will undertake to assist you in your strait. Allow me to see your programme,’ he continued, very patronizingly, waiting for us to make no reply whatever.

“‘Are you—that is, do you play rapidly, and at sight?’ asked madam.

“He replied only by a gesture, a sort of pitiful contempt for the ignorance of any person who should ask him such a question....

“Half past seven came, and we went on the stage. I do not know what the fellow’s prelude was; I was otherwise engaged; but his accompaniments were made up, and after he had heard the note sung to which he should have accompanied,—O, it was a horrid jargon, a consecutive blast of discords, a tempest of incomprehensibleness.

ENTHUSIASM.

“Madam caught her breath at the first pausing-place, and signalled him to stop. He took a side glance at her, misinterpreted her, and played on the louder. It became ludicrous in the extreme. He played the minor strains, or what should have been minor, in the major key. He only stopped when he saw us leave the stage. The audience cheered. He took it all as a compliment to himself as a pianist, stopped, and made his most profound obeisance to the house. They laughed and cheered the harder. He mistook it for an encore, bowed again, and returned to the piano. Then the house came down. They stamped, they laughed, they shouted. The boys in the gallery cat-called; the building fairly shook. I ran back to see what it was all about, and there was the pianist (?) beating furiously at the keys, the perspiration pouring in streams from his face. But his playing could only be seen to be appreciated; it could not be heard for the stamping of the audience. He finally desisted, and with repeated halts and smiles, he bowed himself off the stage.

“His grand debut and retirement upon the stage occurred the same night. Madam would not permit him to go on again, and we sang the duets from —— without accompaniment. I think the fellow knew nothing of music; he had ‘cheeked’ it right through.

“Perhaps it was two years afterwards—I was staying at the B. Hotel, Maine—when I heard a deal of talk about a great doctor then in town. After dinner the first day, I noticed a man sauntering leisurely from the dining-hall in embroidered slippers, white silk stockings, black pants, gaudy dressing-gown, with long hair falling down over his shoulders. I thought I recognized that face. I approached him after a while, and called him by name.

“‘What? Why, I think you are mistaken. I do not know you, sir,’ he stammered; and then I knew he had recognized me.

“‘O, yes; I am Dayton. You remember you were our pianist once in a strait, in S.’

“‘O, ah! Come up to my room,’ he said, leading the way.

“I followed, when he told me he was doing a good thing at the practice of medicine about the principal towns of the state, and begged I would say nothing about his former occupation. He stated to me that he had been to Europe, and had been studying medicine meantime, which I have since ascertained was entirely untrue.”

And this was the fellow over whom the town was running wild.The idea of some men trying to become good physicians is as ridiculously absurd as Horace Greeley’s farming, or trying to ascertain if “cundurango is explosive.” The requisite qualities are not in them. They may keep along a few years, or possibly, in communities where there is no competition, succeed in making the people believe they are as good as the common run, and thus succeed on brass instead of brains.

Some of these brainless travelling impostors employ a female or two to precede them from place to place, and make diligent inquiry when the great doctor who performed such marvellous cures in some adjoining town mentioned was coming there. Thus putting it in the shape of an inquiry, it was less likely to excite suspicion.

Two females—one an elderly, lady-like looking woman, the other younger, and anything but lady-like—travelled for a doctor, on a salary, during the summer and autumn of 1868. A lady whose occupation took her from town to town, seeing the two females at various hotels where the doctor was advertised, inveigled the younger one into the confession, in her bad temper, and thus I got my evidence. Another travels on his hair; another on his face; and a fourth on his free advice and treatment; while a fifth succeeds by absurdity of dress.