C. E. Page

The country boor says he must have meat to make muscle; and all the while his vegetarian team is twitching him and his plow along the furrow. Where does he suppose they get their muscles?—Thoreau.

Stupidly ignorant, or unmindful, of the fact that there are, in this country and Europe, hundreds of thousands of people of all ages, sexes and social positions, who live year in and year out mainly, and a large proportion strictly, on the vegetarian diet, and live in health, not only, but found perfect health by abandoning the common mixed diet and coming nearer to first principles—notwithstanding all this, still the farce goes on among the scientists of “proving” by chemical analyses, pretty theories and specious arguments, that man “can not subsist in health on a vegetarian diet.”[17]

[17] Jules Virey estimates that four-tenths of the human race subsist exclusively on a vegetable diet, and that seven-tenths are practically (though not on principle) vegetarians. Virchow estimates the total number at eighty-five per cent.—Oswald.

“The matter is this: in a cold climate we can not thrive without a modicum of fat, but that fat need not come from slaughtered animals. In a colder country than England, the East-Russian peasant, remarkable for his robust health and longevity, subsists on cabbage-soup, rye-bread, and vegetable oils. In a colder country than England, the Gothenburg shepherds live chiefly on milk, barley bread, and esculent roots. The strongest men of the three manliest races of the present world are non-carnivorous: the Turanian mountaineers of Daghestan and Lesghia, the Mandingo tribes of Senegambia, and the Schleswig-Holstein Bauern, who furnish the heaviest cuirassiers for the Prussian army and the ablest seamen for the Hamburg navy. Nor is it true that flesh is an indispensable, or even the best, brain-food. Pythagoras, Plato, Seneca, Paracelsus, Spinoza, Peter Bayle, and Shelley were vegetarians; so were Franklin and Lord Byron in their best years. Newton, while engaged in writing his ‘Principia’ and ‘Quadrature of Curves,’ abstained entirely from animal food, which he had found by experience to be unpropitious to severe mental application. The ablest modern physiologists incline to the same opinion. ‘I use animal food because I have not the opportunity to choose my diet,’ says Professor Welch, of Yale; ‘but, whenever I have abstained from it, I have found my health mentally, morally, and physically better.’”—(“Physical Education.”)

With regard to the muscular vigor of vegetarians: if they have not become noted as “winners of rowing, walking, or boxing matches,” it is chiefly because they are rarely sporting men; besides, they are as yet in this country—although their numbers are quite rapidly increasing—in a very small minority; but, of late, since this objection has been so frequently raised, vegetarians have entered the lists, notably in England, in bicycle races, and have distanced their meat-eating rivals in long races, showing greater staying powers.

Says the London Lancet: “In the summer of 1872, it became necessary to shift the rails on upwards of 500 miles of permanent way on the Great Western line, from the broad to the narrow gauge, and there was only a fortnight to do it in. The work to be got through was enormous. About 3,000 men were employed, and they worked double time, sometimes from four in the morning till nine at night. Not a soul was sick, sorry, or drunk, and the work was accomplished on time. What was the extraordinary support of this wonderful spurt of muscular strength and energy? Weak oatmeal gruel. There was no beer, spirits, or alcoholic drink in any form. Here,” continues the Lancet, “is a very old and well-known agent, cheap enough, and easily procured, capable of imparting ‘staying power’ better, probably, than anything else, which is not employed to anything like the extent it might be with advantage.”

The principal part of the ration allowed in the above case was one and one-half pounds of oatmeal. In view of the immense labor performed by these men on that quantity of this cereal, can it be wondered at that the sedentary dyspeptic who essays to “diet” on three full meals of such food comes to grief? For him a single moderate meal of grain food, with fruit, would be a generous ration.

To very many the term “vegetarian” seems almost to imply one who is restricted to a diet of turnips and water. But Epicurus, the god of gluttons, was himself a vegetarian, for while he regarded pleasure as the summum bonum, and placed the pleasures of the table first, still, he knew that a simple fare was most conducive to health and comfort in this life. As to variety: “with five kinds of cereals, three legumina, eight species of esculent roots, ten or twelve nutritive herbs, thirty to forty varieties of tree fruits, besides berries and nuts, a vegetarian might emulate the Duc de Polignac, who refused to eat the same dish more than once per season.”

In view of the constant violations of natural law as to quality, quantity and frequency of meals, I would say that it is from the nature of the case impossible for people living in the prevailing manner to avoid digestive disorders;[18] in practice I find none altogether exempt from them, except the very small class of abstemious vegetarians referred to—an individual or a family, or two, in each community—all others are more or less dyspeptic, and dyspepsia is incipient consumption. Thousands of dyspeptics are oblivious as to the true nature of their disorder, simply because the most marked symptoms in their cases, now, are affections of the throat and lungs. The popular ignorance in this direction amply accounts for the appalling fact that respiratory diseases destroy the lives of about one-third, and consumption alone one-fifth of all who die in this country. When dyspepsia has blossomed into consumption, unless the primary disease—that of the stomach and intestines—is removed—an impossibility except by a radical change from the evil dietetic habits that have caused it—nature is powerless to heal the lungs, because (1) the inflammation is being perpetually propagated, and (2) the entire nutritive system is becoming more and more hopelessly diseased.

[18] “I think I shall not be far wrong if I say that there are few subjects more important to the well-being of man than the selection and preparation of his food. Our forefathers in their wisdom have provided, by ample and generously endowed organizations, for the dissemination of moral precepts in relation to human conduct, and for the constant supply of sustenance to meet the cravings of religious emotions common to all sorts and conditions of men. In these provisions no student of human nature can fail to recognize the spirit of wisdom and a lofty purpose. But it is not a sign of ancestral wisdom that so little thought has been bestowed on the teaching of what we should eat and drink; that the relations, not only between food and a healthy population, but between food and virtue, between the process of digestion and the state of mind which results from it, have occupied a subordinate place in the practical arrangements of life. No doubt there has long been some practical acknowledgment, on the part of a few educated persons, of the simple fact that a man’s temper, and consequently many of his actions, depends on such an alternative as whether he habitually digests his food well or ill; whether the meals which he eats are properly converted into healthy material, suitable for the ceaseless work of building up both muscle and brain; or whether unhealthy products constantly pollute the course of nutritive supply. But the truth of that fact has never been generally admitted to an extent at all comparable with its exceeding importance. It produces no practical result on the habits of men in the least degree commensurate with the pregnant import it contains. For it is certain that an adequate recognition of the value of proper food to the individual in maintaining a high standard of health, in prolonging healthy life (the prolongation of unhealthy life being small gain either to the individual or to the community), and thus largely promoting cheerful temper, prevalent good-nature, and improved moral tone, would require almost a revolution in the habits of a large part of the community.

“The general outlines of a man’s mental character and physical tendencies are doubtless largely determined by the impress of race and family. That is, the scheme of the building, its characteristics and dimensions, are inherited; but to a very large extent the materials and filling in of the framework depend upon his food and training. By the latter term may be understood all that relates to mental and moral and even to physical education, in part already assumed to be fairly provided for, and therefore not further to be considered here. No matter, then, how consummate the scheme of the architect, nor how vast the design, more or less of failure to rear the edifice results when the materials are ill chosen or wholly unworthy to be used. Many other sources of failure there may be which it is no part of my business to note; but the influence of food is not only itself cardinal in rank, but, by priority of action, gives rise to other and secondary agencies.

“The slightest sketch of the commonest types of human life will suffice to illustrate this truth.

“To commence, I fear it must be admitted that the majority of infants are reared on imperfect milk by weak or ill-fed mothers. And thus it follows that the signs of disease, of feeble vitality, or of fretful disposition, may be observed at a very early age, and are apparent in symptoms of indigestion or in the cravings of want manifested by the ‘peevish’ and sleepless infant. In circumstances where there is no want of abundant nutriment, over-feeding or complicated forms of food, suitable only for older persons, produce for this infant troubles which are no less grave than those of the former. In the next stage of life, among the poor the child takes his place at the parents’ table, where lack of means, as well as of knowledge, deprives him of food more suitable than the rough fare of the adult.... On the whole, perhaps he is not much worse off than the child of the well-to-do, who becomes a pet, and is already familiarized with complex and too solid forms of food and stimulating drinks which custom and self-indulgence have placed on the daily table. And soon afterward commence in consequence—and entirely in consequence, a fact it is impossible too much to emphasize—the ‘sick-headaches’ and ‘bilious attacks,’ which pursue their victim through half a lifetime, to be exchanged for gout or worse at or before the grand climacteric. And so common are these evils that they are regarded by people in general as a necessary appanage of ‘poor humanity.’ No notion can be more erroneous, since it is absolutely true that the complaints referred to are self-engendered, form no necessary part of our physical nature, and for their existence are dependent almost entirely on our habits in relation to food and drink. I except, of course, those cases in which hereditary tendencies are so strong as to produce these evils, despite some care on the part of the unfortunate victim of an ancestor’s self-indulgence. Equally, however, on the part of that little-to-be-revered progenitor was ill-chosen food, or more probably excess in quantity, the cause of disease, and not the physical nature of man.

“The next stage of boyhood transfers the child just spoken of to a public school, where too often inappropriate diet, at the most critical period of growth, has to be supplemented from other sources. It is almost unnecessary to say that chief among these are the pastry-cook and the vender of portable provisions, for much of which latter that skin-stuffed compound of unknown origin, an uncertified sausage, may be accepted as the type.

“After this period arise the temptations to drink, among the youth of all classes, whether at beer-house, tavern, or club. For it is often taught in the bosom of the family, by the father’s example and by the mother’s precept, that wine, beer, and spirits are useful, nay, necessary to health, and that they augment the strength. And the lessons thus inculcated and too well learned were but steps which led to wider experience in the pursuit of health and strength by larger use of the same means. Under such circumstances it often happens, as the youth grows up, that a flagging appetite or a failing digestion habitually demands a dram before or between meals, and that these are regarded rather as occasions to indulge in variety of liquor than as repasts for nourishing the body. It is not surprising, with such training, that the true object of both eating and drinking is entirely lost sight of. The gratification of acquired tastes usurps the function of that zest which healthy appetite produces; and the intention that food should be adapted to the physical needs of the body and the healthy action of the mind is forgotten altogether. So it often comes to pass that at middle age, when man finds himself in the full current of life’s occupations, struggling for pre-eminence with his fellows, indigestion has become persistent in some of its numerous forms, shortens his ‘staying power,’ or spoils his judgment or temper. And, besides all this, few causes are more potent than an incompetent stomach to engender habits of selfishness and egotism. A constant care to provide little personal wants of various kinds, thus rendered necessary, cultivates these sentiments, and they influence the man’s whole character in consequence.”

“But it is necessary to say at this point, and I desire to say it emphatically, that the subject of food need not, even with the views just enunciated, be treated in an ascetic spirit. It is to be considered in relation to a principle, in which we may certainly believe, that aliments most adapted to develop the individual, sound in body and mind, shall not only be most acceptable but that they may be selected and prepared so as to afford scope for the exercise of a refined taste, and produce a fair degree of that pleasure naturally associated with the function of the palate, and derived from a study of the table. For it is certain that nine-tenths of the gormandism which is practiced—for the most part a matter of faith without knowledge—is no more a source of gratification to the eater’s gustatory sense than it is of digestible sustenance to his body.”—“Food and Feeding,” by Sir Henry Thompson.

The stomach, more especially after long years of abusive treatment, is one of the least sensitive organs. “If it had nerves as sensitive as our finger-tips, our attention would be so much taken up with the ordinary digestion of food that we could not properly attend to our work or studies.” At first, in infancy, it is more sensitive, and any excess of food is thrown off, but ere many months the disorder grows worse and deeper-seated, and in the course of years stomachs become so diseased as to give no sign, except when unusually outraged. It may have sores without knowing it. Dr. Beaumont saw sores in St. Martin’s stomach after the latter had drunk liquor, but they occasioned no pain. “Cold sores,” chapped lips, parched or pimpled tongue or mouth, furred tongue, etc., etc., are but signs of serious disease of the stomach and intestines, and, consequently, of the entire organism.

I have classed as one of the most natural and effective measures for the preservation of health or the cure of disease, rest; for diseased organs, rest[19] and light tasks; for the healthy person who desires to keep well, I have said, “rest when tired.” Unfortunately many people, and more especially consumptives, never know when they are tired, but work habitually, until they are exhausted. With the latter, this is usually set down to willfulness or lack of judgment. “She won’t listen to reason,” says the anxious husband. “She is always overdoing,” says another. Jockeys, describing horses thus affected, call them “pullers”: it is the same disease—indigestion. Reason being dethroned by the poisoned circulation in the brain, Nature, through muscular action, essays to excrete the toxic elements. This is stimulation (see “Coffee.”)

[19] The various excretory organs, as the bowels, kidneys, liver, as well as the digestive apparatus, are relieved by fasting, or diminishing the food ration.

It is the stimulus imparted by the thrice daily ingestion of so many unnatural and indigestible articles that compose the mixed diet, which prevents so many from resting when they are tired. With others, however, the effect is quite the reverse: some are always complaining of a “tired feeling.” There is a genuine lack of vital force occasioned by lack of nourishment. When this feeling is experienced on rising, it is usually, almost invariably, at least in part, the effect of close sleeping-rooms. Many persons,—some who are fat, and called healthy, others, perhaps, lean,—are called “lazy” who are positively weak, too weak to work without great effort such as lookers-on know nothing about, although most people may have had similar feelings occasionally—the “after-dinner laziness.” This special form of disease has previously been spoken of. (See p. 34).

Nutrition is the grand factor in the prevention or cure of disease. It may be said, truly enough, that the blood-aerating capacity remains throughout equal, often superior, to the blood-making capacity; and consumption may be appropriately described as dyspeptic starvation. (See “Saline Starvation.”) In those instances where the capital stock (of vitality) is exhausted the victims of this disease must die; but thousands of cases pronounced after a long course of medication and stimulation, hopeless, have been restored by a simple diet and an out-door life. Even hygienic institutes have failed to apply this principle in its entirety when brought face to face with cases that demanded “heroic treatment;” influenced in some measure, possibly, by the popular distrust of their methods, especially the deep prejudice against a restricted diet—now, however, rapidly disappearing—they have hitherto erred continually on the side of excess. Nevertheless, they restore to health, or greatly benefit, ninety per cent. of the broken down invalids who come to them, usually, as a last resort.

I desire here to note particularly the change now going on in the minds of the most eminent and practical physicians in this and European countries, concerning the use of beef-tea. It is found by chemical analysis to be almost identical with “chamber-lye”—the favorite prescription of our grandmothers—and although more agreeable to the taste than urine, even when the latter is drowned in treacle, it is, in my opinion, always injurious, especially in sickness, when, of course, the excretory system is already taxed to the utmost. Most people, even in health, have more than they can well do to excrete their own, once, without swallowing any portion of the waste of animals!

Says Dr. Brunton:

“We find only too frequently that both doctors and patients think that the strength is sure to be kept up if a sufficient quantity of beef-tea can only be got down; but I think it a question whether beef-tea may not very frequently (?) be actually injurious, and whether the products of muscular waste which constitute the chief portion of beef-tea, beef-essence, or even the beef itself, may not, under certain circumstances, be actually poisonous.”

“In many cases of nervous depression we find a feeling of weakness and prostration coming on during digestion, and becoming so very marked about the second hour after a meal has been taken, and at the very time when absorption is going on, that we can hardly do otherwise than ascribe it to actual poisoning by digestive products absorbed into the circulation. From the observation of a number of cases, I came to the conclusion that the languor and faintness of which many patients complained, and which occurred about eleven and four o’clock, was due to actual poisoning by the products of digestion of breakfast and lunch; but at the time when I arrived at this conclusion I had no experimental data to show that the products of digestion were actually poisonous in themselves; and only within the last few months have I seen the conclusions to which I had arrived by clinical observation, confirmed by experiments made in the laboratory. Such experiments have been made by Professor Albertoni, of Genoa, and by Dr. Schmidt-MÜhlheim, in Professor Ludwig’s laboratory at Leipsic.”

“Professor Albertoni and Dr. Schmidt-MÜhlheim independently made the discovery that peptones prevented the coagulation of the blood in dogs, and the latter, under Ludwig’s direction, has also investigated their action upon the circulation. He finds that, when injected into a vein, they greatly depress the circulation, so that the blood-pressure falls very considerably; and when the quantity injected is large, they produce a soporose condition, complete arrest of the secretion by the kidneys,[20] convulsions, and death. From these experiments it is evident that the normal products of digestion are poisons of no inconsiderable power, and that if they reach the general circulation in large quantities they may produce very alarming, if not dangerous symptoms.”

[20] See “Bright’s Disease.”

“Instead of trying to keep up the strength, as it is termed, by loading the stomach with food, the exhausted brain-worker should rather lean toward abstinence from food, and especially toward abstinence from alcoholic liquors.[21] The feeling of muscular weakness and lassitude, which I have already had occasion to mention as frequently coming on about two hours after meals, is not uncommonly met with in persons belonging to the upper classes who are well fed and have little exercise. It is perhaps seen in its most marked form in young women or girls who have left school, and who, having no definite occupation in life, are indisposed to any exercise, either bodily or mental. I am led to look upon this condition as one of poisoning, both on account of the time of its occurrence, during the absorption of digestive products, and by reason of the peculiar symptoms—viz., a curious weight in the legs and arms, the patient describing them as feeling like lumps of lead. These symptoms so much resemble the effect which would be produced by a poison like curare, that one could hardly help attributing them to the action of a depressant or paralyzer of motor nerves or centers. The recent researches of Ludwig and Schmidt-MÜhlheim render it exceedingly probable that peptones are the poisonous agents in these cases; and an observation which I have made seems to confirm this conclusion, for I found that the weakness and languor were less after meals consisting of farinaceous food only. My observations, however, are not sufficiently extensive to absolutely convince me that they are entirely absent after meals of this sort, so that possibly the poisoning by peptones, although one cause of the languor, is not to be looked upon as the only cause.”[22]

[21] See chapter on Coffee.

[22] “Indigestion as a Cause of Nervous Depression.” By T. Lauder Brunton. M.D., F.R.S., in Practitioner.

I am able to vouch for a number of cases of consumption, and marasmus, in which, under tonic treatment and frequent meals, the patients were steadily declining, but which yielded, finally, to the influence of the one-meal-a-day system: comparative rest of the diseased alimentary organs, and consequent improvement in the digestive and assimilative functions proved the needed “stimulant.” The Boston Journal of Chemistry, of February, 1882, gives the history of a well-authenticated case, of an old man of 70 years, who had been declining with pulmonary consumption for three years, and who was pronounced incurable, who was made convalescent by a voluntary and absolute fast of 43 days—taking water freely, however, during the time—and, following this with the “bread and fruit” diet, was restored to health.

Let us contrast this method of restoring the nutritive organs with that of “curing” them by medication:

J. Milner Fothergill, M.D., truly says (in the Practitioner), that “it is more important to study the tongue than to go over the chest with a stethoscope, and that attention to the stomach and bowels is just as essential as the treatment of night sweats. When the tongue is covered with thick fur it is nearly or quite useless to give iron or cod-liver oil; for the tongue is the indicator of the state of the intestinal canal, and absorption through the thick layer of dead epithelial cells is impossible.” And then Dr. Fothergill gives us his method of rasping off the coating, so to say, with “a compound calomel and colocynthe pill every second night, and a mixture of nitro-hydrochloric or phosphoric acid, with infusion of cinchona three times a day until the tongue clears.” I would suggest that nitro-glycerine would act more speedily and reduce the suffering to a minimum! The point, however, to dwell upon,—and it is one worthy of the deepest consideration,—is that the state of the alimentary canal, so aptly described by the authority quoted, and which forbids the absorption of iron and oil, also prohibits the absorption of wholesome substances. Not only this; the secretion of the digestive fluids (even supposing for the moment that these fluids are present in normal amount and quality in the circulation, which is, of course, far from the truth in this as in most disorders) is in great degree prevented by this same physical obstruction, the “thick layer of dead epithelial cells;” and, moreover, the secretion of fecal matters by the glands of the colon is, in like manner and degree, prevented. (See chapter on “Constipation.”)

What have we, then, in summing up, as the effect of this conservative effort of nature to “iron-sheathe and copper-fasten” this most abused alimentary tract, if I may thus characterize the coat which has resulted from the maltreatment of the digestive organs, and but for which the individual would, we may reasonably suppose, have died long ago from some plethoric disease? First: the digestive fluids, being scant and scantily secreted, it results that (2) only a small quantity at best, of the most wholesome food, can be by them digested, and (3) absorption from the small intestines is equally difficult, even supposing that the appropriate “small quantity” of food possible to be digested has not been exceeded, which, in ordinary practice, is anything but a supposable case. Excess is the invariable rule, and therefore (4) the undigested and fermenting food substances, excepting a portion which is absorbed in this poisonous condition, make their sluggish course along the intestines, collect in great masses in the lower bowel, and, finally, (a) either by aid of purgative medicines, or the ordinary stimulating drinks indulged in, (b) the irritating effects of these abnormal accumulations themselves, or (c) by means of injections, the lower bowel is more or less frequently emptied. These extraordinary evacuations are often described by the patient or friends as “exhausting.” That such excreta is not composed of true fecal matters, we may reasonably conclude from the fact that (1) digestion and assimilation are but poorly performed, and but a very small proportion, therefore, of the quantity swallowed (often enough consumptives continue large eaters, gauged by any standard, and, relatively speaking, this is invariably the rule with them)—but a small proportion, I repeat, is absorbed into the circulation, and, therefore, undigested food must form the chief share of the so-called fecal matters, and (2) owing to the heavy fur-coat, lining the colon, the secretion of waste matters from the blood is, as just stated, well nigh prohibited.

Hence it results that under the ordinary treatment the consumptive patient is hurried out of the world by a relative, and, often enough, by an actual, exaggeration of the very practices which originated his disorder. Referring once more to Dr. Fothergill’s, which is, to be sure, the regular drug plan: having scoured off the fur, so to say, with drastic purgatives, which have, possibly, cut a little too deep; or when, from whatever cause, instead of the furred coat, “the tongue is raw, bare, and denuded of epithelium, the patient should,” he says, “take a mixture of bismuth with an alkali and use a milk diet. Seltzer water and milk will often agree when the milk alone is found to be too heavy and constipating.” Here we have a case analogous to that of the robust gourmand whose dinner of a dozen courses is carried on and out by the aid of his “dinner pill,” or the free use of filthy mineral waters: A cup or two of cow’s milk (which, at best, is only a natural aliment for the calf, and which is too often drawn from a creature herself suffering from tuberculosis), is, to the depraved consumptive, even more “heavy and constipating” than the grossest diet indulged in ordinarily, to supposably healthy Christians, not to speak of such occasions as church festivals or society “breakfasts.” One secret of the difficulty which besets the hygienist in his efforts to prevail upon a consumptive patient to persist in a course of “natural medication,” after having once fairly entered upon it, lies in this: There is naturally a letting down, at first, from the stimulated condition, and this is often discouraging; the craving for the customary stimulants is almost as unappeasable as that of the rum-dyspeptic; and what makes the matter worse with the consumptive than with the drunkard, everybody who approaches the former seeks to tempt the appetite: or, in any event, the sight, smell, and hearing of the “good things” renders abstinence from such most difficult; and then, again, after leaving off many objectionable articles of food and drink, and having abstained from them for a few months, we will say, the transient resumption, always imminent, of the use of forbidden fruit operates with renewed force, and the patient finds himself, as he thinks, “gaining a little,” and he is thus encouraged to fall back, more or less gradually, into all his old practices. Coffee, for example,—which originally proved constipating, after its first (laxative) effects ceased,—having been abstained from for some months, is now found to “agree” with and even “help” the patient, who, beginning with a single small cup at breakfast, works up finally to two at each meal; and, altogether, things go on swimmingly for a time. Again, after a period of abstinence from flesh-food, pastry, spices, etc.—to guard against which nature has put the fur-coat upon the intestines, or, perhaps, it should be said that the wear and tear occasioned by all unwholesome articles introduced into the stomach, have produced an effect somewhat analogous to the thickened cuticle resulting from the constant chafing of an ill-fitting shoe, for example,—as the intestinal tract begins to acquire something of its normal condition, there is a point when the resumption of a “generous” diet, in which the aforesaid substances figure largely, will seem to give the patient a fresh impulse healthward: they once more, perhaps, produce the laxative effects simulating that most desirable state of the bowels called “regular.” And so on to the end of the chapter, the patient, friends, and perhaps the medical adviser, are misled as to the real state of affairs, until, finally, the end approaches, and the patient who was “improving so nicely” grows worse, and, after a period of intense suffering, which weans him from all desire to live, and reconciles his friends to the change, dies. “He catched cold, it settled on his lungs, and in his weak state”—etc., etc.

Speaking in round terms, the consumptive’s digestive ability is about on a par, usually, indeed, inferior to his muscular powers; and it is as irrational to expect him to digest and assimilate several meals a day, as to expect him to saw several cords of wood in the same length of time. Both are alike impossible. The fact that the food disappears, or that there is a craving for it, even, or, again, that it “seems to agree with the stomach,” does not change the case. A little food of the simplest sort may be assimilated, a little muscular exercise may be taken, and both prove curative. In common practice, however, the alimentary system is taxed to its own exhaustion and the impairment of the entire organism, while the voluntary muscular system deteriorates by reason of non-use as well as from the general lack of nutrition.

A very grave error, however, is sometimes made—of taking too much exercise; that is, of beginning the change too abruptly. Whatever the state of one’s general health, he can only do with advantage about what he has habitually done. If he has all along lived a very active life and is in his usual health, he can take a good deal of exercise without harm, even with advantage; if, on the other hand, his life is sedentary, but little can be taken—beyond the current amount—without doing more harm than good. In either case, however, there may be a gradual increase of muscular exercise, and for many of the latter class this would prove life conserving, (if persisted in as a habit of life), but spasmodic efforts at building up a muscular system will always fail; nature does nothing in that fashion. The rule should be to exercise a little short of fatigue, and it should be increased little by little each day, “until the labor of working accommodates itself to easy habits.” This rule would leave for some consumptive patients, at first, only the passive exercise of having their muscles pressed by their attendant’s hand, or a gentle walk for a short distance, and so on.

“Combined with a hectic flush of the face, night-sweats, or general emaciation, shortness of breath leaves no doubt that the person thus affected is in the first stage of pulmonary consumption. If the patient were my son, I should remove the windows of his bedroom, and make him pass his days in the open air—as a cow-boy or berry-gatherer, if he could do no better. In case the disease had reached its deliquium period, the stage of violent bowel-complaints, dropsical swellings, and utter prostration,[23] it would be better to let the sufferer die in peace; but, as long as he were able to digest a frugal meal and walk two miles on level ground, I should begin the outdoor cure at any time of the year, and stake my own life on the result. I should provide him with clothing enough to defy the vicissitudes of the seasons, and keep him outdoors in all kinds of weather—walking, riding, or sitting; he would be safe: the fresh air would prevent the progress of the disease. But improve he could not without exercise. Increased exercise is the price of increased vigor. Running and walking steel the leg-sinews. In order to strengthen his wrist-joints a man must handle heavy weights. Almost any bodily exercise—but especially swinging, wood-chopping, carrying weights, and walking up-hill—increases the action of the lungs, and thus gradually their functional vigor. Gymnastics that expand the chest facilitate the action of the respiratory organs, and have the collateral advantage of strengthening the sinews, and invigorating the system in general, by accelerating every function of the vital process. The exponents of the movement-cure give a long list of athletic evolutions, warranted to widen out the chest as infallibly as French-horn practice expands the cheeks. But the trouble with such machine-exercises is that they are almost sure to be discontinued as soon as they have relieved a momentary distress, and, as Dr. Pitcher remarks in his ‘Memoirs of the Osage Indians,’ the symptoms of consumption (caused by smoking and confinement in winter quarters) disappear during their annual buffalo-hunt, but reappear upon their return to the indolent life of the wigwam. The problem is to make outdoor exercise pleasant enough to be permanently preferable to the far niente whose sweets seem especially tempting to consumptives. This purpose accomplished, the steady progress of convalescence is generally insured, for the differences of climate, latitude, and altitude, of age and previous habits, almost disappear before the advantages of an habitual outdoor life over the healthiest indoor occupations.”—(“Physical Education.”)

[23] The fasting consumptive referred to on page 62 had already approached this condition.—Author.

I would not be understood, by any means, as advising every consumptive patient, or every one who supposes himself to be suffering from this disease, to immediately and without advice stop eating; but this much I do say: in all cases of progressive emaciation, that is to say, where the organs of digestion and assimilation have become so impaired that the body is not nourished, but is steadily declining, the attending physician should consider the question of temporary rest for the alimentary organs, so far as the ingestion of food is concerned. The presence even of a craving appetite should be treated as a morbid symptom, and should weigh in favor of abstinence. It should also be borne in mind that the earlier this remedy is applied the smaller will be the “dose” indicated, and the more speedy and complete the relief. Had Mr. Connolly, for example—whose cure by fasting I have already alluded to—at any time during his first few months of “pressure at the lungs, with cough and expectoration,” fasted for a week or ten days,[24] perhaps, under the care of a physician sufficiently intelligent to judge of his needs in this direction, and had he thereafter lived on the plain diet which he now finds so complete, he would in all probability have escaped the illness which followed, and would have enjoyed uninterrupted health to the present day. Again, if he had changed his manner of living five years earlier—from three “mixed” meals[25] of stimulating food, as flesh and the irritating condiments invariably associated with animal food; pastry, white flour, and stimulating drinks, as tea and coffee—to two meals composed of the cereals, vegetables and fruits, prepared in the simplest and plainest manner, there would have been no call for a fast. I have the means of knowing of over five thousand families in this country alone who have made this change for preventive and curative purposes, and with the happiest results. I would say that any person who finds his appetite failing or fitful—sometimes poor, sometimes craving—and who has reason to fear the decline of his nutritive powers, will do well to make a radical change in his habits of living; and the sooner the better. The most pernicious custom of which I have any knowledge, yet one almost universal in the care of the sick, is that of “tempting the appetite,” concocting fancy or especially toothsome dishes, when nature is saying in the plainest manner that feeding has already been overdone. Such preparations are a severe tax upon even robust persons—they are fatal to consumptives. It is infinitely worse than bribing an exhausted laborer, who can scarcely move a muscle, to rouse himself to fresh tasks. He will do more and better work by reason of present and absolute rest; and the same is true of the sick stomach: there will be a relish for the coarsest article of diet—aye, it will be delicious—and digestion will wait on appetite, when the nutritive organs shall have been restored by sufficient rest. The experiments of Tanner at New York, Griscomb at Chicago, and now of Terrence Connolly (the consumptive faster) at Newton, N. J., have, I believe, demonstrated the fact that, in health or in sickness, in all cases of abstinence from all food, saving only water and pure air, of whatever disease the subject may die, it will not be for want of food, so long as there remains any considerable amount of flesh[26] on his bones. By the light of these experiences we shall do well, too, to study more closely the functions of the lymphatic system: human flesh, by absorption, constitutes a most appropriate diet in certain conditions of disease (see article on rheumatism). The absorption and excretion of diseased tissues is, under some circumstances, the only work that nature can with safety undertake, and in these cases no building up can be accomplished until a solid foundation is reached and the debris removed; and not then unless, while this good work is going on, the nutritive organs are given an opportunity to virtually renew themselves.

[24] It is evident that such a fast, then, would have proved, so far as the danger of starvation is concerned, a mere bagatelle, since three years later, as we have seen,—years of decline and emaciation,—he endured, and, with advantage, a fast of over six weeks.

Dr. Tanner, in his forty days’ fast, lost about fifty pounds in weight. Mr. Griscomb lost a little more than that in his fast of forty-five days; and although moving about, taking more exercise every day than many sedentary people, and attending to a large correspondence, etc., was still able to say to the audience assembled to see him break his fast: “Ladies and gentlemen, you see now a man who has swallowed no food, except water, for forty-five days, and yet I can assure you that I am neither faint nor hungry; but I shall soon convince you that I have an excellent appetite,” and, so saying, he proceeded to partake of a very moderate dinner, and in moderate fashion. It is commonly supposed that these are uncommon men: they are uncommon only in possessing a knowledge as to the power of the living organism to withstand abstinence from food, and in having the courage of their opinions. And yet, when discussing the advantages of the two-meal system, uninformed people talk about “getting faint if they go so long” without nourishment! They speak from the three-meal-fish-flesh-fowl and pickle stand-point; accustomed to applying a hot poultice to a gnawing, sick stomach every few hours, they do get faint if the time runs over a single hour.

These various fasts, with the lessons to be drawn from them, must prove, finally, of inestimable value to science in the treatment of disease, where it may be desirable to rest all the viscera, or any portion thereof, concerned in digestion,[27] or to “close the bowels” for certain surgical operations, without resorting to injurious medication, and also—a very important consideration—in cases of enforced abstinence, as in time of famine or shipwreck, to prevent death from fright and discouragement, which have heretofore killed scores where actual starvation has one.

As illustrating the influence of an out-door life, with partial or transient fasting, I will cite

THE CASE OF MR. VICKERS.

Joseph Vickers, born and raised in England, but now of Biddeford, Me., whose home is near my own, and the man himself well known to me, was very “low with consumption” at one time, when in his twenty-second year. His disease was attributed, and without doubt justly, to a severe chill resulting from wading the river on one of his hunting bouts, and being compelled to dry his clothes on his back—a feat he had previously performed repeatedly, except that on this occasion, being very much fatigued, and night coming on, instead of continuing vigorous exercise while his clothes were drying, he “went into camp” and “shivered throughout the night in his soaked garments.” Declining very rapidly, with every symptom of pulmonary consumption, his case was considered hopeless by his friends. Medicine seeming to him useless, he gave up taking it, and his physician consequently gave him no encouragement or hope of recovery. His digestion was very imperfect—as he put it, “Nothing I ate seemed to do me any good”—and to the disgust of his parents and friends he often refused to eat anything for an entire day. Able to be up and dressed a good portion of the time, he would spend as much of the day outdoors as possible, and at night “never slept without a window open in the bed-room.” Gaining a little strength, and being “badgered,” as he says, “all the time, when at home, about eating,” and being very fond of hunting, and not sleeping well, he would rise very early, take his gun and, as he expressed it, would “crawl off to the woods,” and sit or lie down until rested, and then “travel a bit and rest again,” and so spend the entire day, taking no lunch, and eating nothing, drinking from a brook or a spring when thirsty, returning at night, often as late as seven or eight o’clock, when he would eat a little coarse food after resting, and then go to bed. “A couple of weeks” of this sort of life sufficed to bring him home at night with an “appetite for a side of sole-leather,” and he would eat a hearty supper—always of the plainest food—and soon go to bed. From this point his recovery was as rapid as his decline had been. His diet has always been of the plainest sort, mostly vegetable (a large proportion of coarse bread and fruit),—“My drink is always cold water, and I let the rest of the family eat all the fancy stuff,” he remarked. Mr. Vickers,—who is a devout Christian man, and his story corroborated in every feature by others as reliable,—is now sixty-six years old, though he appears like a robust, well-preserved man of fifty.

Excepting under very aggravated conditions, as for example, the case of Mr. Vickers, given above, rarely does any creature ever begin to have consumption with a sound stomach, liver, and intestines. Nor can the digestive organs become diseased, ordinarily, so long as the diet and general regimen are even approximately correct. If we thought more of what would “tickle” the stomach and intestines than the palate, simply, we would banish most of our disorders; pure air, active exercise, a clear conscience, and the cultivation of a spirit of cheerfulness, kindliness, and contentment, would send the balance a-flying. Upon the importance of cheerfulness, a recent writer, a physician with a large practice, and a man of keen perceptions, says: “One of the most important directions of all is personal and subjective. Cultivate with the utmost force possible the habit of cheerfulness. No words can put this out with the strength and weight which I should be glad to give to it. Its value is utterly beyond estimation. The difference between meeting the common, or uncommon, trials of life with cheerfulness or with despondency, and perhaps complaint and grumbling, is often just the difference between life and death.”

The appetite for “sweets”—candy, syrup, sugar, and fancy dishes deluged with sweet sauces—encouraged to an abnormal degree from infancy, and the gratification of this appetite throughout life are prolific aids in establishing the phthisical diathesis. There is a natural appetite for sweet fruits and this demand may be safely met by such forms of food, but never by the unbalancing artificial sweets, or proximate principles of food, as cane or beet sugar and the “bon-bons” formed from them.

Victor Hugo,—that grand man who gave us “Les Miserables,”—in the first volume of the series, puts this bit of physiological wisdom into the mouth of the witty libertine, TholomyÉs, who uses it, to be sure, in a double sense, which I need not here explain: “Now, listen attentively!” says this oracle of the “four.” “Sugar is a salt. Every salt is desiccating. Sugar is the most desiccating of all salts. It sucks up the liquids from the blood through the veins; thence comes the coagulation, then the solidification of the blood; thence the tubercles in the lungs; thence death. And this is why diabetes borders on consumption.” I commend the above thought to consumptives, and to the parents of fat children—the consumptives of the future. Every grain of artificial sugar swallowed, constitutes a tax upon the system—upon the lungs and kidneys, more particularly—a tax upon the individual’s vitality.

Among the prolific causes of consumption in after life, is that of the involuntary cramming and fattening of infancy, followed up during childhood and youth by a somewhat less excessive gluttony, which is taught inferentially by the conversation and example of the elders, as by constantly dwelling upon the delights of the palate, arranging entertainments which are feasts of the body, rather than of the mind, in advance of which all classes discuss with excess of interest the palatal pleasures of the coming “good time,” and at which all unite, if not in gorging themselves, at least in feeding themselves for pleasure to the disregard of the true requirements of their bodies for nutriment.

As a result of all this, sedentary persons become, like stall-fed oxen, degenerated with fat; and this, as just remarked about children, is a predisposing cause of consumption. A very large proportion of consumptives, most of them, in fact, are first thus diseased; and when any person is round and plump, or even fairly covered, so to say, and is yet lacking in muscular power—“easily tired”—it is prima facie evidence that the muscular system is degenerated in the manner described; and if the muscles, then the vital organs within, also. Thus we observe that grossness is by no means essential to fatty degeneration, although all obese persons are, of course, thus affected.

The salary of a fireman (“coal heaver”) depends upon his intelligence in the matter of fuelling up his engine with a view to its “health,” power and longevity; that of the cook or caterer, upon his ingenuity in devising means to accomplish the reverse of all this in the case of the human engine placed at his mercy.

“A well-spread board” should be described as one at which the youngest child (whose teeth are cut) may exercise his will without let or hindrance until, at the first indication of dallying, or “loafing,” over his food, it is evident that he has had enough; and at which the consumptive may eat without being tempted to overindulge, but, paying heed to the first intimation of satiety, rise from the table with the assurance of having performed an agreeable duty, in that he has eaten in quantity and quality, what he can digest and assimilate. The consumptive starves, not for want of food, but for want of digestion and assimilation. It is impossible to emphasize this fact too strongly.

The Scientific American of June 3, 1882, in an article entitled “Tubercle Parasite,”[28] considering Dr. Koch’s theory, says: “According to Dr. Salisbury, this disease (consumption) is one arising from ‘continued unhealthy alimentation, and must be treated by removing the cause. This cause is fermenting food and the products of this fermentation, viz.: alcoholic yeast and alcohol, vinegar yeast and acetic acid, carbonic acid gas, embolism, and interference with nutrition. Consumption of the bowels can be produced at any time in the human subject in from fifteen to thirty days, and consumption of the lungs inside of ninety days, by special, exclusive, and continued feeding upon the diet that produces them—that is, food containing starch and sugar in alcoholic and acetic acid fermentation.’” Dr. Salisbury had found this embryonic form of the vinegar yeast in the blood, sputa, and excretions of persons suffering with consumption. In the blood the plant forms masses by itself, grows inside the white corpuscles, causes the fibrin filaments of the blood to be larger in size and stronger, the red corpuscles to be ropy, sticky, adhesive, making small clots or “thrombi,” which become “emboli” or plugs, and block up the capillaries and blood-vessels. The growth of the vinegar yeast in its embryonal stage, combined with the mechanical interference with nutrition, causes abnormal growths in the substance of organs, called tubercle; and the concurrent inflammatory results, in addition to the chemical action of the vinegar or acetic acid, causes the death and breaking down of the organs invaded—the lungs, for example. That this is not opinion only is shown by the fact that over 246 swine were, at his instance, destroyed by feeding on farinaceous food in a state of alcoholic and vinegar fermentation, the vinegar yeast traced in the blood, found in the excretions, and 104 of the dead swine were subjected to post-mortem examinations and their lungs found broken down and diseased as in ordinary consumption. The same experiment was tried on a number of men, “all healthy, and with no vegetations in the blood. They were given plenty of exercise in the open air,” but within three months these men had consumption of the lungs. “Certainly,” says the Scientific American, “we think the evidence submitted shows that Dr. Salisbury has come nearer to the real intimate nature of consumption than Dr. Koch or any one we know. There is a simplicity, directness, breadth, and positiveness rarely seen in the treatment of a medical subject. Indeed, it is doubtful if there have been experiments so conclusive and extensive before or since.” It must be evident to even the crudest thinker that this fermenting process must ultimately produce the same effects when begun in the stomach, and described as indigestion; and no more efficient means of initiating this process can be imagined than that of swallowing indigestible substances—the most wholesome food-substances may be prepared in such a manner as to render them indigestible—or eating in excess of the needs of the organism, and therefore of the capacity for digestion. Thousands upon thousands of so-called healthy people are in this way approaching the point of decline, more or less slowly, but surely, utterly unconscious of their danger, simply because in their ignorance they can not recognize the premonitory symptoms, of which chronic constipation, for example, is one, and a very grave one. (See article on this subject.)

After all, excess in diet is, usually, only another term for lack of fresh air and exercise, without which no one can become, or continue, robust. While it is true that to command health and muscular vigor one must be well fed, still no amount of food alone can make the right arm like that of a blacksmith. But we can make the muscles grow on ample exercise and—food enough; always, however, considering a constant supply of oxygen as an essential element in the ration. The muscular system wastes—with many is never even tolerably developed—the powers wane, because of sedentary habits. “Inaction contravenes the supreme design of the human constitution, and is therefore adverse to its health.”—Huxley. The lungs begin to take on disease, often, because the individual does nothing to make him breathe deep; exercise is not frequent and vigorous[29] enough to cause frequent deep inspirations; the remote air-cells are in many instances seldom, and with corset-wearers never, inflated, and, consequently, the tendency is to grow together, so to say, or, rather, to fester and slough off, as useless appendages. To form the habit of taking long breaths in the open air, occasionally, throughout the day, would do much to maintain the integrity of lung-tissue, aerate the blood and prevent or cure consumption; but, after all, Nature designs that creatures who inhabit this earth shall be “fit” for something besides drawing their own breath.[30] To be “fit to survive” one must be of use in the world; hence there must be employment that taxes the mental, moral, and physical forces sufficiently to stimulate their growth and development. This, and nothing short of this, is health, in the complete sense of the term. Robust health, if one would secure it, demands that one should be much in the open air and exposed, often, to a low temperature while taking a great deal of vigorous exercise. To be long-lived, on the other hand, requires rather that the diet be restricted to correspond with abstinence from labor and cold, some degree of exercise in the open air, however, being essential. The robust often wear out faster than the brain workers, whose lives are rather on the quiet order. Worry kills ten where work kills one.

The best illustration of the natural means of preventing, or curing, consumption—in fact, of promoting and maintaining health, under any circumstances—I have ever seen, is given in the following true story of

HOW A YOUNG GIRL CURED HERSELF.

“Then you are surprised to learn that I came within six weeks of dying of consumption, thirty years ago, are you, doctor?” The questioner was a bright, healthy little woman of fifty who, in the course of a consultation about a consumptive niece, had expressed herself as having little hope of her recovery, “because she wouldn’t do as I did when I had the disease—and she isn’t nearly as sick as I was.” Straight as an arrow, active and merry, looking more like forty than fifty, Mrs. E. was the last person that any one would select as belonging to a “consumptive family,” or of having suffered with the disease, in her own person, and yet her mother died of it when this daughter was about 19, and the latter’s decline was attributed to inherited tendency and long confinement in the sick-room, during the last year of her mother’s life. “Yes, I have told Lettie how I cured myself after the doctors gave me up, but she will not undertake it—not now, at least—perhaps she may when she gets where I was. Do you want me to give you my recipe for the cure of consumption, Doctor? Tell you the whole story? Well, the way is simple, and the story a short one, and if it will help any one I shall be very glad. I needn’t tell you all about mother’s case—hers was the old-fashioned consumption; she was sick a good many years, but the last year she was almost helpless and would have no one but me to take care of her. Well, I bore up until she died, and then I gave out; I could not go to the grave—I was in bed during the funeral. I had not realized—none of the family had—how poorly I had become; but now it was plain enough. I kept my bed most of the time—could not get rested. I had been sick several weeks when my brother was brought home ill, was taken with typhoid fever, and there was no one to nurse him. I roused myself up and declared that I was able to do it; and I carried the point, in spite of all father could say. Well, he was sick nine weeks, but I gave up before he recovered. I carried him through the worst of it, however, before I took my bed; and then I was very sick indeed. For a while they thought I could live but a few weeks, but I rallied and got more comfortable. I raised a great deal, and for several months remained about the same, apparently; but the autumn came, and when we began to shut the house up I seemed to grow worse; my cough was still very bad, but I couldn’t ‘raise’ much, and I suffered terribly for breath. The doctor who had been attending me—the one who had tended mother—at last said he could do no more for me, and for some months we had no physician, and then father called a new one—a young doctor who was fitting himself for practice in our village. He came to see me, examined my lungs, and I fainted away in the effort. He went out—leaving no medicine—and had a talk with father. He said that he did not care to take the case; that there was no hope for me; my lungs were badly ulcerated, and I had but few weeks to live. ‘She can’t live over six weeks,[31] Mr. B., and she may die any day. I am young, just commencing practice, and it will injure me to have her die on my hands; and I can not help her.’ ‘At least,’ said father, ‘give her something to relieve her suffering.’ They did not know that I could hear them; but spring-time had come again, the day was quite warm, and I had asked to have the window raised at the head of my bed, and so it happened that I could hear all they said. I heard the doctor returning, and I resolved not to take any of his soothing drops; I had taken all I meant to. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘what have you come back for, doctor?’ ‘Your father wished me to prescribe for you,’ said he. ‘Never mind,’ I said, firmly, ‘I shall take nothing more. You say I have six weeks to live: I will spend them in getting rid of the medicines I have taken the past year,’ and he went away. Soon father came in, seeming much disappointed and grieved, and in answer to his questioning, I told him why I had determined to take no more medicine, and what I had resolved to do; and now I will tell you what I did, and how I came to do it. I had read in an old English almanac—not a medical one, like the ones strewn about everywhere now, but there was a good deal of useful information in it—a ‘Sure Cure for Consumption,’ and it was so different from what I had been doing, and appealed so strongly to my judgment, that I had been thinking that if I could only make a start there might be a chance for me; but the effort required was so great that I doubt if I should have had courage enough to undertake it but for my resentment, upon overhearing that conversation—to think that the doctors had given me nothing but medicine, and that I had been eating in such a way—without any appetite, except for some of the ‘rich’ things they were always making because I couldn’t relish anything else. The recipe explained that the disease was caused by lack of fresh air, outdoor exercise, and appropriate food; but I will only tell you what I did, and you will understand all about the reasons for it. First, I told father and the rest of the family that as I had but six weeks to live, they must let me have my own way in everything, and must do as I said. I could not move from the bed alone, but I had them carry me on a comforter out on the lawn and lay me down there. ‘How was I to take exercise—when I could scarcely turn myself in bed?’ was the question. Well, I did turn myself on one side, and, with a stick, begun to dig a little in the ground. It looked then as though I should not do much damage to the nice sod father had taken so much pains to make; but I dug a little hole as large as my fist, and then rested. After a while I turned over on the other side and dug another little hole, filled it up, and rested again. It seemed good to rest and I felt a little better; for the outdoor air, and the exertion I had put forth, ‘loosened’ my cough a little, and I begun to ‘raise.’ At night they carried me back to bed. My bed-room windows had been wide open all day, and I wouldn’t have them shut now; but in answer to their fears about the night air and catching cold, I said, ‘Give me clothes enough, and I will risk the night air—I’m going to breathe pure air the next six weeks—if I live so long.’ They all felt terribly—they thought I was shortening my life, even then—but they yielded, finally, in everything, even to not asking me ‘if I couldn’t eat a little of this, or that, if they would make it for me?’ I had replied: ‘No, when I feel like eating a piece of Graham bread or a potato, without butter or salt, I will eat something—not before.’ This had occurred in the morning, and that very night I asked for a slice of bread and ate a little bit—as big as my two fingers, perhaps. I had them put a teaspoonful of cayenne pepper[32] in a dish and turn warm water on it—a quart—and let it stand overnight, and in the morning was sponged all over in that water—the dregs turned off. I had them bathe an arm and then dry it with a coarse towel, and rub me with it as hard as I could bear (not very hard, to be sure), then a leg, and so on.[33] It seemed to give the dead skin a little life; then they carried me out to my ‘work’ again! I felt like resting after the bath, but after a while I turned over and dug a larger hole than on the day before, filled it—partly with what I raised from my lungs, and such stuff as it was! I could take longer breaths, too; and after digging a minute or so I would have to stop and take a long breath, and then go on again.[34] I was thirsty a good deal, and would drink water—all I wanted. I ate a piece of stale coarse bread and some fruit that morning after I was rested from my first digging, and then I kept on resting for some hours, after which I dug a little more. In the middle of the day, when the sun came down too hot, I had an old umbrella put over me and fastened. At night a little bit of bread and a small potato: I ate as much as I could relish, but not a mouthful more. In this way I kept on, day after day, and they began to see that I was gaining. Father, who could not believe the gain was real, but rather the temporary effect of my will, yet joked me about ruining the lawn: ‘I shall have to turf it all over again, Lucia,’ said he, even before I could dig a hole large enough in a day to bury a cat in, and he tried to laugh at his little joke. I remember that I did laugh, and came near strangling in a coughing fit in consequence, but that was a help; what I needed was to cough and raise the stuff up—those old ulcers that the doctor said my lungs were covered with—and I found fresh air, flavored with a little exercise, a better ‘expectorant,’ as you doctors say, than those I had been taking. I began to feel hopeful—the novelty of the idea—digging for my life! I took a desperate view of it—six weeks to live—‘I’ll die fighting,’ I said to myself. It seemed almost droll—droll enough, at any rate, to interest my mind, and I would say funny things to the others to make them laugh, and this seemed to make them try to be cheerful and to cheer me on. The third day, I remember that I ate the same kind of a breakfast—just a little—and at night asked them to boil a beet! I would have only one vegetable at a time, lest I might be tempted to overeat and lose my appetite, and so spoil everything.[35] I was impressed with the idea of ‘earning my living’ at outdoor work—‘by the sweat of my brow’—and not to eat more than I earned by the exercise. I had renounced my coffee and tea; I ate no grease of any kind, nor meat—bread, fruit, and vegetables only—no salt or spices, pastry, pie, puddings, nor cake, nor ‘sweets’ of any sort, except the natural, whole sweet furnished by nature, in the form of vegetables and sweet fruits. The prescription said that some people ate too much soft food,—bread and milk, puddings, and the like,—and that while such dishes were better than many others in common use, still they were not the best, especially for sick people with weak stomachs, but that dry (farinaceous) food was every way better; and so I ate bread, or unleavened biscuit, which, after a little practice, the girl could make very nice,—just the meal and water well mixed and moulded stiff and baked in a hot oven,—and I ate them very slowly, chewing each mouthful thoroughly. You can tell, perhaps, doctor, just why this should make a difference:[36] I only know that it seemed to agree with my stomach better. They bathed me every morning in the same way, only after a while they did not have to work so slowly and cautiously. I could exercise more and more, from day to day, and with less and less fatigue, and I laughed to myself that father’s joke would prove something more than a joke; I was bound to undo all his nice work; and I knew he wouldn’t care, so that I could get well. After a while I could raise myself up and sit erect, and dig a little, first on one side and then on the other; and by the time my ‘six weeks’ were up—and I told father so one day—I could dig a pretty good grave for myself, if they wanted to bury me; only, it wouldn’t be quite deep enough to hold me down—for I had actually raised myself to my feet, stood alone, and walked a few steps without help. On the eighth week I could walk about—would walk off a dozen steps, come back, sit down—perhaps lie down. The more I did, the more I could do—always taking care not to exhaust myself—and the more I could eat; but I took even more care not to overeat than not to overwork: I found that the real thing was to eat little enough—not to see how much I could eat—so that I could increase the amount regularly, rather than to lose my appetite and eat nothing some days, or eat without an appetite, and next day eat enormously, perhaps, as mother used to; I wouldn’t have them ‘fix up’ anything—I was afraid of being put back. I ate but twice a day, and sometimes my breakfast was nothing but fruit—two or three oranges or as many apples, or a huge slice of watermelon—this was food and drink, both. I wore the least possible weight of clothing—often removing my stockings as well as shoes, and going barefooted and bare-armed when the weather was very warm. I had lost all fear of taking cold, though I kept comfortable always—throwing off clothing when too warm, and putting it on, as any great change in the temperature made it necessary, but to the extent of my increasing strength I endeavored to keep warm by exerting my muscles. One day, after some months of self-treatment, and when it had become evident that I was really convalescent, I asked brother to call Dr. Osgood (the young doctor who refused to take my case). ‘Why, sis,’ said he, ‘you are not in earnest?’ ‘Yes, I am,’ said I, ‘I want to tell him how to cure consumption! You tell him I want to see him, but don’t say what for.’ He had been away somewhere, and had forgotten all about me, of course, but when brother spoke to him about me, he was astonished to find that I was alive. ‘It was amazing’ he said. ‘Yes, if there is any chance of saving(!) her I will call’—and he came. He expressed his pleasure at finding me so well, and I suppose he thought I had come to a point where I felt the need of his advice and a ‘tonic,’ perhaps; but I just made him listen to the story of my self-cure, and asked him if he couldn’t advise others to do the same way, and so do his patients more good. He was inclined to be vexed, at first, but finally he laughed and said: ‘Really, Miss B——, I have come here at your request, and you have prescribed for me, instead of I for you, and I thank you for it—will pay you for it, if you will name the price—but I could not practice in that way. Why, how many consumptives would act upon my advice, if it was of that character? How many, indeed, would have the second visit from me, or recommend me to others? They would even denounce me to their friends—to every one they saw, and I would have to go to digging in the ground myself, or leave for other parts. No, Miss B——, you learned the true secret, and you were “fit” to “survive” because you worked out your own salvation: you have taught me something—a valuable lesson, I may say, and one that I shall profit by as I have an opportunity; but we could never set up such a reform—one doctor, nor two, nor three, alone—the time is not ripe for it, physicians are not ripe for it, and it can only come, if it is ever to come, by just such independent action as your case represents.’ And so he went away, and I continued my ‘treatment.’ The next summer I had a little flower garden of my own, watered and tended it, and, a little later, helped about the kitchen-garden, besides taking care of my own room; and so I went on, gaining steadily, until, within two years, I was well—better than I had known myself since my romping days, and I have scarcely had a real sick day since—never a serious illness from that day to this, nearly thirty years.” “How do I keep well?” you ask. “Why, by pursuing the same principle that cured me—the same, in fact, that would have prevented my decline, in the first place. I never breathe ‘indoor’ air, winter nor summer, day nor night; I eat only the simplest food, and in moderation—yet I will, sometimes, eat a little more than I need—some meals or some days—and will have a little headache, or, perhaps, an old tooth will ache, or there may be a little disturbance in the stomach; but whatever it is, I eat more moderately—sometimes go without a meal; and if anything more serious than I have named presents itself—lack of appetite, or a bad feeling at the stomach, or a bad headache—I go all day without eating, and keep about my work, as usual, or take a walk outdoors, and this plan always works a cure. You see, I dress right—loose garments, no corsets, no heavy skirts hanging to my waist or hips, no smothering flannels, except the lightest, and those only in the coldest weather; I keep busy about something most of the time; take a good deal of exercise; go out when I can, and bring outdoors in when I can’t go out—by having every part of my house well ventilated and as light and ‘sunshiny’ as need be (you see, doctor, I am not whimsically afraid of flies nor of fading the carpet); I think of my escape, of my good health, and this makes me cheerful. I feel sure of not getting sick—I have no anxiety on that score,—and I try to do what good I can, in my small way, and all this is as it should be—it is ‘healthy,’ and, all things being so, there is only one other chance to err, and that is in eating, and so when anything troubles me, I know what it is. So many people go wrong in all these things—dress bad, breathe bad air, feel languid in consequence and lie about doing nothing, indoors; eat worse food than I do, and eat more and oftener—no wonder they are always ailing, nor that so many die. But, Doctor, this will not cure my niece—our talking—and I don’t suppose I have taught you anything, as I did the young doctor, so many years ago; but if, as you say, you can tell the story for the benefit of others, I shall be very glad indeed to see it in print. You will send me a copy of the paper, won’t you? ‘A dozen copies?’ Well, all the better, I will send them to my friends; they will wonder how the ‘old story’ got into the papers.” And that is the way this history of a “Natural Cure” came to be printed.

[A] In accordance with a universal law of nature,—“the conservation of energy,”—“gastric juice,” upon which digestion depends, “is secreted from the blood by the glands of the stomach, in proportion to the needs of the organism for food, and not in proportion to the amount of food swallowed.” There is, therefore, a normal dyspepsia for whatever of excess is taken. Moreover, in such cases, none of the food is well digested.