Читать книгу: «Off-Hand Sketches, a Little Dashed with Humor», страница 10
THE CODE OF HONOUR
TWO young men, one with a leather cap on his head and military buttons on his coat, sat in close conversation, long years ago, in the bar-room of the—Hotel. The subject that occupied their attention seemed to be a very exciting one, at least to him of the military buttons and black cap, for he emphasized strongly, knit his brow awfully, and at last went so far as to swear a terrible oath.
"Don't permit yourself to get so excited, Tom," interposed a friend. "It won't help the matter at all."
"But I've got no patience."
"Then it is time you had some," coolly returned the friend. "If you intend pushing your way into the good graces of my lady Mary Clinton, you must do something more than fume about the little matter of rivalry that has sprung up."
"Yes; but to think of a poor milk-sop of an author—author?—pah!—scribbler!—to think, I say, of a spiritless creature like Blake thrusting himself between me and such a girl as Mary Clinton; and worse, gaining her notice, is too bad! He has sonneteered her eyebrows, no doubt—flattered her in verse until she don't know who or where she is, and in this way become a formidable rival. But I won't bear it—I'll—ll"—
"What will you do?"
"Do? I'll—I'll wing him! that's what I'll do. I'll challenge the puppy and shoot him."
And the young lieutenant, for such he was, flourished his right arm and looked pistol-balls and death.
"But he won't fight, Tom."
"Won't he?" and the lieutenant's face brightened. "Then I'll post him for a coward; that'll finish him. All women hate cowards. I'll post him—yes, and cowhide him in the bargain, if necessary."
"Posting will do," half sarcastically replied his friend. "But upon what pretext will you challenge him?"
"I'll make one. I'll insult him the first time I meet him and then, if he says any thing, challenge and shoot him."
"That would be quite gentlemanly, quite according to the code of honour," returned the friend, quietly.
The young military gentleman we have introduced was named Redmond. The reader has already penetrated his character. In person he was quite good-looking, though not the Adonis he deemed himself. He had fallen deeply in love with the "acres of charms" possessed by a certain Miss Clinton, and was making rapid inroad upon her heart—at least he thought so—when a young man well known in the literary circles made his appearance, and was received with a degree of favour that confounded the officer, who had already begun to think himself sure of the prize. Blake had a much readier tongue and a great deal more in his head than the other, and could therefore, in the matter of mind at least, appear to much better advantage than his rival. He had also written and published one or two popular works; this gave him a standing as an author. Take him all in all, he was a rival to be feared, and Redmond was not long in making the discovery. What was to be done? A military man must not be put down or beaten off by a mere civilian. The rival must be gotten rid of in some manner; the professional means was, as has been seen thought of first. Blake must be challenged and killed off, and then the course would be clear.
A few days after this brave and honourable determination, the officer met the author in a public place, and purposely jostled him rudely. Blake said nothing, thinking it possible that it was an accident; but he remained near Redmond, to give him a chance to repeat the insult, if such had been his intention. It was not long before the author was again jostled in a still ruder manner than before at the same time some offensive word was muttered by the officer. This was in the presence of a number of respectable persons, who could not help hearing, seeing, and understanding all. Satisfied that an insult was intended, Blake looked him in the face for a moment, and then asked, loud enough to be heard all around—"Did you intend to jostle me?"
"I did," was the angry retort.
"Gentlemen never do such things."
As Blake said this with marked emphasis, he looked steadily into the officer's face.
"You'll hear from me, sir." And as the officer said this, menacingly, he turned and walked away with a military air.
"There's trouble for you now, Blake; he'll challenge you," said two or three friends who instantly gathered around him.
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly; he is an officer—fighting is his trade."
"Well, let him."
"What'll you do?"
"Accept the challenge, of course."
"And fight?"
"Certainly."
"He'll shoot you."
"I'm not afraid."
Blake returned with his friend to his lodgings, where he found a billet already from Redmond, who was all eagerness to wing his rival.
On the next morning, two friends of the bellige-rents were closeted for the purpose of arranging the preliminaries for the fight.
"The weapon?" asked the friend of the military man. "Your principal, by the laws of honour, has the choice; as, also, to name time and place, &c."
"Yes, I understand. All is settled."
"He will fight, then?"
"Fight? Oh, certainly; Blake is no coward."
"Well, then, name the weapons."
"A pair of goose-quills."
"Sir!" in profound astonishment.
"The weapons are to be a pair of good Russia quills, opaque, manufactured into pens of approved quality. The place of meeting, the—mdash; Gazette; the time, to-morrow morning, bright and early."
"Do you mean to insult me?"
"By no means."
"You cannot be serious."
"Never was more serious in my life. By the code of honour, the challenged party has the right to choose weapons, place of meeting, and time. Is it not so?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. Your principal has challenged mine. All these rights are of course his; and he is justified in choosing those weapons with which he is most familiar. The weapon he can use best is the pen, and he chooses that. If Lieut. Redmond had been the challenged party, he would, of course, have named pistols, with which he is familiar, and Mr. Blake would have been called a coward, poltroon, or something as bad, if, after sending a challenge, he had objected to the weapons. Will your principal find himself in a different position if he decline this meeting on like grounds? I think not. Pens are as good as pistols at any time, and will do as much."
"Fighting with pens! Preposterous!"
"Not quite so preposterous as you may think. Mr. B. has more than insinuated that Mr. Redmond is no gentleman. For this he is challenged to a single combat that is to prove him to be a gentleman or not one. Surely the most sensible weapon with which to do this is the pen. Pistols won't demonstrate the matter; only the pen can do it, so the pen is chosen. In the—Gazette of to-morrow morning my friend stands ready to prove that he is a gentleman; and your friend that he is one, and that a gentleman has a right to insult publicly and without provocation whomsoever he pleases. Depend upon it, you will find this quite as serious an affair as if pistols were used."
"I did not come here, sir, to be trifled with."
"No trifling in the matter at all; I am in sober earnest. Pens are the weapons; the—Gazette, the battle-ground; time, early as you please to-morrow morning. Are you prepared for the meeting?"
"No."
"Do you understand the consequences?"
"What consequences?"
"Your principal will be posted as a coward before night."
"Are you mad?"
"No, cool and earnest. We fully understand what we are about."
The officer's second was nonplussed; he did not know what to say or think. He was unprepared for such a position of affairs.
"I'll see you in the course of an hour," he at length said, rising.
"Very well; you will find me here."
"Is all settled?" asked the valiant lieutenant, as his second came into his room at the hotel, where he was pacing the floor.
"Settled? No; nor likely to be. I objected to the weapons, and, indeed, the whole proposed arrangement."
"Objected to the weapons! And, pray, what did he name? A blunderbuss?"
"No; nor a duck gun, with trumpet muzzle; but an infernal pen!"
"A what?"
"Why, curse the fellow, a pen! You are to use pens—the place of meeting, the—Gazette—time, to-morrow morning. He is to prove you are no gentleman, and you are to prove you are one, and that a gentleman is at all times privileged to insult whomsoever he pleases without provocation."
"He's a cowardly fool!"
"If his terms are not accepted, he threatens to post you for a coward before night."
"What?"
"You must accept or be posted. Think of that!"
The precise terms in which the principal swore, and the manner in which he fumed for the next five minutes, need not be told. He was called back to more sober feelings by the question—"Do you accept the terms of the meeting?"
"No, of course not; the fellow's a fool."
"Then you consent to be posted. How will that sound?"
"I'll cut off the rascal's ears if he dare do such a thing."
"That won't secure Mary Clinton, the cause of this contest."
"Hang it, no!"
"With pens for weapons he will wing you a little too quick."
"No doubt. But the public won't bear him out such an outrage—such a violation of all the rules of honour."
"By the code of honour, the challenged party has the right to choose the weapons, &c."
"I know."
"And you are afraid to meet the man you have challenged upon the terms he proposes. That is all plain and simple enough. The world will understand it all."
"But what is to be done?"
"You must fight, apologize, or be posted; there is no alternative. To be posted won't do; the laugh would be too strongly against you."
"It will be as bad, and even worse, to fight as he proposes."
"True. What then?"
"It must be made up somehow or other."
"So I think. Will you write an apology?"
"I don't know; that's too humiliating."
"It's the least of the three evils."
So, at last, thought the valiant Lieut. Redmond. When the seconds again met, it was to arrange a settlement of differences. This could only be done by a very humbly written apology, which was made. On the next day the young officer left the city, a little wiser than he came. Blake and his second said but little about the matter. A few choice friends were let into the secret, which afforded many a hearty laugh. Among these friends was Mary Clinton, who not long after gave her heart and hand to the redoubtable author.
As for the lieutenant, he declares that he had as lief come in contact with a Paixhan gun as an author with his "infernal pen." He understands pistols, small swords, rifles, and even cannons, but he can't stand up when pen-work is the order of the day. The odds would be too much against him.
TREATING A CASE ACTIVELY
A PHYSICIAN'S STORY
I WAS once sent for, in great haste, to attend a gentleman of respectability, whose wife, a lady of intelligence and refinement, had discovered him in his room lying senseless upon the floor. On arriving at the house, I found Mrs. H— in great distress of mind.
"What is the matter with Mr. H—?" I asked, on meeting his lady, who was in tears and looking the picture of distress.
"I'm afraid it is apoplexy," she replied. "I found him lying upon the floor, where he had, to all appearance, fallen suddenly from his chair. His face is purple, and though he breathes, it is with great difficulty."
I went up to see my patient. He had been lifted from the floor, and was now lying upon the bed. Sure enough, his face was purple and his breathing laboured, but somehow the symptoms did not indicate apoplexy. Every vein in his head and face was turgid, and he lay perfectly stupid, but still I saw no clear indications of an actual or approaching congestion of the brain.
"Hadn't he better be bled, doctor?" asked the anxious wife.
"I don't know that it is necessary," I replied. "I think, if we let him alone, it will pass off in the course of a few hours."
"A few hours! He may die in half an hour."
"I don't think the case is so dangerous, madam."
"Apoplexy not dangerous?"
"I hardly think it apoplexy," I replied.
"Pray, what do you think it is, doctor?"
Mrs. H— looked anxiously into my face.
I delicately hinted that he might, possibly, have been drinking too much brandy; but to this she positively and almost indignantly objected.
"No, doctor; I ought to know about that," she said. "Depend upon it, the disease is more deeply seated. I am sure he had better be bled. Won't you bleed him, doctor? A few ounces of blood taken from his arm may give life to the now stagnant circulation of the blood in his veins."
Thus urged, I, after some reflection, ordered a bowl and bandage, and opening a vein, from which the blood flowed freely, relieved him of about eight ounces of his circulating medium. But he still lay as insensible as before, much to the distress of his poor wife.
"Something else must be done, doctor," she urged, seeing that bleeding had accomplished nothing. "If my husband is not quickly relieved, he must die."
By this time, several friends and relatives, who had been sent for, arrived, and urged upon me the adoption of some more active means for restoring the sick man to consciousness. One proposed mustard plasters all over his body; another a blister on the head; another his immersion in hot water. I suggested that it might be well to use a stomach-pump.
"Why, doctor?" asked one of the friends.
"Perhaps he has taken some drug," I replied.
"Impossible, doctor," said the wife. "He has not been from home to-day, and there is no drug of any kind in the house."
"No brandy?" I ventured this suggestion again.
"No, doctor, no spirits of any kind, nor even wine, in the house," returned Mrs. H—, in an offended tone.
I was not the regular family physician, and had been called in to meet the alarming emergency, because my office happened to be nearest to the dwelling of Mr. H—. Feeling my position to be a difficult one, I suggested that the family physician had better be called.
"But the delay, doctor," urged the friends. "No harm will result from it, be assured," I replied.
But my words did not assure them. However, as I was firm in my resolution not to do any thing more for the patient until Dr. S— came, they had to submit. I wished to make a call of importance in the neighbourhood, and proposed going, to be back by the time Dr. S— arrived; but the friends of the sick man would not suffer me to leave the room.
When Dr. S— came, we conversed aside for a few minutes, and I gave him my views of the case, and stated what I had done and why I had done it. We then proceeded to the bedside of our patient; there were still no signs of approaching consciousness.
"Don't you think his head ought to be shaved and blistered?" asked the wife, anxiously. Dr. S— thought a moment, and then said—"Yes, by all means. Send for a barber; and also for a fresh fly-blister, four inches by nine."
I looked into the face of Dr. S— with surprise; it was perfectly grave and earnest. I hinted to him my doubt of the good that mode of treatment would do; but he spoke confidently of the result, and said that it would not only cure the disease, but, he believed, take away the predisposition thereto, with which Mr. H— was affected in a high degree.
The barber came. The head of H— was shaved, and Dr. S— applied the blister with his own hands, which completely covered the scalp from forehead to occiput.
"Let it remain on for two hours, and then make use of the ordinary dressing," said Dr. S—. "If he should not recover during the action of the blister, don't feel uneasy; sensibility will be restored soon after."
I did not call again, but I heard from Dr. S— the result.
After we left, the friends stood anxiously around the bed upon which the sick man lay; but though the blister began to draw, no signs of returning consciousness showed themselves, further than an occasional low moan, or an uneasy tossing of the arms. For full two hours the burning plaster parched the tender skin of H—'s shorn head, and was then removed; it had done good service. Dressings were then applied; repeated and repeated again; but still the sick man lay in a deep stupor.
"It has done no good; hadn't we better send for the doctor?" suggested the wife.
Just then the eyes of H— opened, and he looked with half-stupid surprise from face to face of the anxious group that surrounded the bed.
"What in the mischief's the matter?" he at length said. At the same time, feeling a strange sensation about his head, he placed his hand rather heavily thereon.
"Heavens and earth!" He was now fully in his senses. "Heavens and earth! what ails my head?"
"For mercy's sake, keep quiet," said the wife, the glad tears gushing over her face. "You have been very ill; there, there, now!" And she spoke soothingly. "Don't say a word, but lie very still."
"But my head! What's the matter with my head? It feels as if scalded. Where's my hair? Heavens and earth! Sarah, I don't understand this. And my arm? What's my arm tied up in this way for?"
"Be quiet, my dear husband, and I'll explain it all. Oh, be very quiet; your life depends upon it." Mr. H— sank back upon the pillow from which he had arisen, and closed his eyes to think. He put his hand to his head, and felt it, tenderly, all over, from temple to temple, and from nape to forehead.
"Is it a blister?" he at length asked.
"Yes, dear. You have been very ill; we feared for your life," said Mrs. H—, affectionately; "there have been two physicians in attendance."
H— closed his eyes again; his lips moved. Those nearest were not much edified by the whispered words that issued therefrom. They would have sounded very strangely in a church, or to ears polite and refined. After this, he lay for some time quiet.
"Threatened with apoplexy, I suppose?" he then said, interrogatively.
"Yes, dear," replied his wife. "I found you lying insensible upon the floor, on happening to come into your room. It was most providential that I discovered you when I did, or you would certainly have died."
H— shut his eyes and muttered something, with an air of impatience; but its meaning was not understood. Finding him out of danger, friends and relatives retired, and the sick man was left alone with his family.
"Sarah," he said, "why, in the name of goodness, did you permit the doctors to butcher me in this way? I'm laid up for a week or two, and all for nothing."
"It was to save your life, dear."
"Save the—!"
"H-u-s-h! There! do, for mercy's sake, be quiet; every thing depends upon it."
With a gesture of impatience, H— shut his eyes, teeth, and hands, and lay perfectly still for some minutes. Then he turned his face to the wall, muttering in a low, petulant voice—"Too bad! too bad! too bad!"
I had not erred in my first and my last impressions of H—'s disease, neither had Dr. S— although he used a very extraordinary mode of treatment. The facts of the case were these:
H— had a weakness; he could not taste wine nor strong drink without being tempted into excess. Both himself and friends were mortified and grieved at this; and they, by admonition, and he, by good resolutions, tried to bring about a reform; but to see was to taste, to taste was to fall. At last, his friends urged him to shut himself up at home for a certain time, and see if total abstinence would not give him strength. He got on pretty well for a few days, particularly so, as his coachman kept a well-filled bottle for him in the carriage-house, to which he not unfrequently resorted; but a too ardent devotion to this bottle brought on the supposed apoplexy.
Dr. S— was right in his mode of treating the disease after all, and did not err in supposing that it would reach the predisposition. The cure was effectual. H— kept quiet on the subject, and bore his shaved head upon his shoulders with as much philosophy as he could muster. A wig, after the sores made by the blister had disappeared, concealed the barber's work until his own hair grew again. He never ventured upon wine or brandy again for fear of apoplexy.
When the truth leaked out, as leak out such things always will, the friends of H— had many a hearty laugh; but they wisely concealed from the object of their merriment the fact that they knew any thing more than appeared of the cause of his supposed illness.
