Wheeling register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1878-1935, 1897-11-18
CHAPTER I.


me? l am not penitent? How can l
he penitent? l do not regret it? How
can regret it? l would do it again?
How could l help but to DO it again?
Yes, yes, know, l know? Who
knows it so we'll as 1? 1t is written
in the tables of Gods law: Thou
shalt do no murder? But was it muir
der? Was it crime? Blood? Yes, it
was the spilling of blood. Blood will
have blood, you say. But is there no
difference? Hear me out Let me
speak. 1t is hard to remember all now
and here-lying here-but listen,
only listen. Then tell me if l did
wrong. No, tell me if God Himself
will not justify me. Aye, justify me
though / outraged His edict Bias
phemy? All, Father, do not go.
Father
y
1t is less than year since my health
broke down, but the soul lives fast, and
it seems to me like a lifetime. l had
overworked myself miserably. My life
as a physician in London had been a
hard one, but it was not my practice
that had wrecked me. How to perform
that operation on the throat was the
beginning of my trouble. You know
what happened. I mastered my prob
lem, and they called the operation by
my name 1t has brought me fame;
it has made me rich; it has saved a
thousand lives, and will save ten thou
sand more, and yet I-I-for taking one
life-one-under conditions
Father, bear with me. I will tell all.
My nerves were burnt out. Gloom, de-
preston, sleeplessness, prostration,
sometimes collapse, consuming fire
within, paralysing frost without-you
know what it is-we call it
| watched the progress of my dis
ease and gave myself the customary
treatment. Hygiene, diet, drugs, cleo
tricity, I tried them all. But neither
dumb-bells nor Indian clubs, neither
walking nor riding, neither liberal food
nor doses of egg and brandy, neither
musk nor ergot nor anti-pyrin, neither
faradisation, nor galvanisation availed
to lift the black shades that hung over
me day and night, and made the gift of
life mockery. I knew why. My
work possessed me like fever.
could neither do it to my content nor
leave it undone. l was drawing water
In a sieve.
My wife sent for Gull. Full we'll l
, knew what he would advise. 1t was
rest. | must take six months absolute
holiday, and in order to cut myself off
entirely form all temptations to mental
activity, I must leave London and go
/ ,broad. Change of scene, of life and Of
habit, new peoples, new customs, new
aiths, and a new climate-these sepa-
'ately and together with total cessation
II my usual occupations, were to Danish
long series of functional derange-
ments which had for their basis the
exhaustion of the sympathetic nervous
system.
was 10th to go. Looking back upon
my condition, l see that my reluctance
was justified To launch a creature
who was all nerves into the perpetual,
/ if trifing, vexations Of travel, was a
mistake, folly, madness. But | did
not perceive this; | was thinking only
of my home, and the dear souls from
whom 1 must be separated. During
the seven years of our married life my
wife had grown to be more, or other,
than the object of my love. That gen.
tie soothing, that soft healing which
the mere presence of an affectionate
woman who is all strength and cour-
age, may bring to a man who is wasted
by work or worry, my wife's presence
had long brought to me, and | shrank
from the thought of scenes where she
could no longer move about me, meet
ing my wishes and anticipating my
wants.
This was weakness and 1 knew it;
but 1 had another weakness which l
did not know. My boy, little son six
years of age the day before 1 set sail,
was all the world to me. Paternal love
may eat up all the other passions. 1t
was so in my case. The tyranny of my
affection for my only child was even
more constant and unrelenting than
the tyranny of my work. Nay, the two
were one; for out of my instinct as a
father came my strength as a DOCTOR
The boy had suffered a throat trouble
from his birth. When he was babe
| delivered him from a fierce attack of
it, and when he was four l brought
him back from the jaws of death. Thus
twice l had saved his life, and each
R1o fRaa PATHWAY