Chapter 1
A hospital. That’s where everything would have ended. I would have ended up in some ritzy place with a king-size bed, a private balcony, a jetted tub, a separate living room, a kitchenette, a lap pool, overlooking the ocean, with a five-star restaurant on site. I would get room service breakfast every day, massages and other spa treatments, private laundry service, satellite television, high-speed Wi-Fi, and every other amenity that I could ever want. That would have been the type of place I would have ended up at if things had continued. Of course, that wouldn’t have solved the problem. But people in my industry still tend to jettison off to those types of places at least once in their career, claim “exhaustion”—or maybe Epstein-Barre—and hide away for a 30-day vacation.
I wouldn’t have been the first to do it.
Hiding away from time to time over the last ten years wasn’t exactly a new concept to me. I had spent time in India at the feet of Sadhus. In Tibet with monks who refused to speak but were not above a reproaching glare if I stepped out of line. I’d been to Machu Pichu, the rainforests, a retreat to see the Northern Lights, done an Ayahuasca retreat in Peru, and been on safari in what was white people’s version of “wild Africa”. I’m pretty sure the wilds of
Africa didn’t include elaborate treehouse style hotels with twelvehundred thread count sheets on the Tempur-Pedic mattresses.
Other times, I had just taken Ecstasy and danced at some of the most exclusive clubs in L.A., New York, Ibiza, Las Vegas, London, Tokyo—everywhere in the world, really. Anywhere there was hedonism and debauchery, places that helped the rich and overprivileged “relax”. But a decade of using alternative forms of treatment had left me completely exhausted. Left me uncreative, unproductive, and unhappy. Exhaustion was definitely my diagnosis now—and I wasn’t using the word as a euphemism for “drug problem” or “secret sex tape”—though I’d used drugs recreationally before. Nothing severe, but using drugs is still not the best choice sometimes. However, I could almost guarantee that there were no sex tapes featuring yours truly out there since I hadn’t had sex in so long that I almost forgot what it was like to actual touch another man in that way.
Ultimately, I was merely exhausted. When I looked into the rearview mirror, the dark circles under my eyes were almost as dark as my pupils. Maybe that was hyperbole, but they were definitely prominent. I hadn’t trimmed my stylish beard in several days and I was desperately in need of a shower. But I hadn’t dared to stop to
get a hotel on my cross-country trip. Sure, if I’d had an assistant, agent, or manager with me, I would have just sent them inside to pay and get a key to a room. By myself, however, that was a dangerous idea. Being so recognizable has its drawbacks. Even stopping for gas, I put off until the very last second since I was paranoid that someone would recognize me while at the pumps.
I’d been on the road for nearly forty-two hours. Even with the Red Bulls and coffees, and innumerable cigarettes, I’d still had to stop to take naps in out of the way rest stops along the way. The car was smelling fairly rank and I felt like I was getting at least one bedsore from sitting for so long. God, I’d lost so much weight. Not that I was ever more than a normal weight for my size, but I had gone from a normal weight, well-toned, muscled, tan—to…this. I was pale, skeletal, and weak. Even the camera couldn’t make up for all the weight I had lost over the last six months.
When I crossed into Ohio from Indiana on highway 90, I breathed a little easier. I had less than two hours to go before I could park my car, crawl into a bed, and pretend to be dead for as long as I could. I lit up a cigarette and cracked the driver’s side window, immediately being assaulted by frigid air. Obviously, no one had told upper Ohio that spring had sprung. I shoved the cigarette
between my teeth and held it tightly as I pulled my cardigan more snuggly around me, somehow managing to keep the car on the road throughout the process. Between the frigid air and the cigarette, as well as the last half of a Red Bull in the cupholder, I’d be able to drive for the two hours I had left.
Glancing at the gas gauge, I gave a sigh of relief. A little over half a tank of gas. I could easily make it to Point Worth. Thrown out into skull-fucked nowhere of Ohio, between Toledo and Marblehead, is Point Worth, right on the shores of Lake Erie. It’s a town of less than five-thousand and has all the amenities you’d expect for a population that size. A good time in Point Worth is driving into Toledo for “fine dining” and a visit to the “big ole movie theater”. It’s the kind of place where you see a lot of Carhartt, if you catch my drift. The coveralls and bib-overalls are particularly popular during fall and winter.
Thinking of the fashion choices in Point Worth, I glanced down at myself. My DSquared2 jeans, R13 distressed Cashmere Sweater, Brunello Cucinelli cardigan, and Buscemi sneakers would look out of place. Yeah, I looked like a bunch of designers tossed their highly pricey and ugly cookies up all over me. However, they were all the warmest items in my bags, so that’s what I was wearing. I’d do
some shopping when I got to Point Worth so that I’d blend in better with the locals. After I slept for days. But I’d tie cinderblocks around my ankles and throw myself into Lake Erie before I wore Carhartt. I’d done enough of that in my youth. Besides, the color of mustard-brown shit is not really the best look for me.
It’s funny how the last two hours of a long trip are always the longest and hardest. The last of my Red Bull disappeared quickly and my cigarettes were dwindling quickly. I groaned to myself as I realized that I’d either have to slow down on the chain-smoking or stop again before Point Worth. Risking a problem so close to Point Worth, I ended up stopping at a convenience store in the middle of nowhere and grabbed another Red Bull and a carton of cigarettes. Menthol. They had the best bang for your buck, in my opinion.
When the wheels of my car first touched pavement past the city limits of Point Worth, I had smoked nearly half of a fresh pack of cigarettes and the freshly purchased Red Bull had been drained. I was still more tired than I ever remembered being in my entire life. I put my sunglasses on—designer again—as I drove through town as quickly as I could without drawing the attention of the police. Luckily, I was driving my old Lincoln MKZ, which I had done on purpose, so the car itself didn’t draw much attention if any.
Halfway through town, I hooked a left towards the shores of Lake Erie, where, on the outskirts of town, my salvation awaited. When I could see Lake Erie in the distance, I gave a sigh of relief as I took another turn down a wooded road. A few miles further and I found the driveway I’d been looking for like I had just been there the day before. I drove down the long driveway until the woods gave way to an acre sized clearing. The American Craftsman style home, still in excellent condition, sat in the middle of the lot, forest greens and browns and majestic, looking like Heaven.
The old Chevy pickup that was always up by the house was still sitting there, clean and in excellent shape—but still ancient. The smaller Honda Civic, newer, but also in excellent condition sat next to it. I pulled up behind the Civic and threw my car into park. Immediately, I turned the car off and laid my head against the steering wheel. I had a quarter tank of gas left. Now I was safe and I didn’t have to worry about stopping anywhere. Of course, I could’ve filled up when I stopped for Red Bull and cigarettes, but I had just wanted to get what I had stopped for and go.
With a great summoning of will and determination, I opened my door and stepped out onto the gravel driveway onto rickety legs. The wood stacked at the side of the house still had piles of slush on
it, though the rest of the acre seemed fairly clear of winter. I grabbed my bags from the trunk, as well as the overly large gift bag, and locked the car up tight. Not that anyone would be dumb enough to try to steal anything on this piece of land. I walked around the house from the driveway and walked up the steps to the front porch. However, before I made it to the porch, the front door swung open and a whirlwind made up of a housedress, slippers, and cackling voice accosted me.
“Well, if you came looking for warm weather, you fucked up, Robbie!” The crazed woman laughed loudly. “You should’ve brought some of that California weather with you!”
“Hi, Oma.” I smiled weakly at her.
“Hi,Oma. Hi,Omahe says.” She put her hands on her hips. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in two years, and the best you got is hi,Oma?”
“I’m sorry.” I grinned. “It’s been a long trip and I’m just really tired.”
“Well, you look like something the cat swallowed whole and barfed up half-digested, that’s for sure.” She shook her head.
I grimaced as she marched forward and threw her arms around me, bags and all. Even being hugged hurt my bones and what little
muscle I had left.
“You smell like Big Foot’s asshole, too.” She pulled away, but didn’t rub salt into the wound by making a face. “You’re still smoking.”
I just looked at her.
“I brought you a gift.” I held up the gift bag.
“Is it chocolate?” She asked. “You know I got the sugars.”
“It’s not chocolate, Oma.” I replied. “You can’t eat it.”
“Well, shit.” She sighed, disappointed, then looked me up and down. “That’s…well, that’s an outfit.”
I frowned.
“Look like something straight out of a fashion magazine. You may as well get in the house.” She shrugged. “Can’t get you settled in if you just stand out here looking like an idiot, can we?”
“I guess not.” I said neutrally.
“Did you have any trouble driving in?” My grandmother asked me as we entered the house and she shut the door tightly against the cold. “All the roads were surely clear by now?”
“It was a little patchy in Iowa and Illinois.” I answered, still holding my bags, looking in at the warm living room and the wide staircase that led upstairs. “But nothing too bad.”
“Sons of bitches can’t even agree on a baseball team, how the hell do you expect their infrastructure to work?” She snorted.
“Now, look, I made you some Bratwurst, creamed peas and potatoes, cabbage…”
My stomach turned.
“And you look like you could use a good meal.” She finished. Her eyes were appraising the dark circles under my eyes and the sharp angles of my face. I didn’t want to remove my cardigan.
“Yeah.” I nodded, not wanting to admit the truth. “That sounds delicious, Oma.”
My grandmother beamed at me, but her eyes looked sad.
The truth was, I didn’t know if my stomach would allow me to keep down a meal made up of greasy sausage, creamy vegetables, and gas-inducing greenery. I didn’t have to ask to know that there was probably also bacon in the cabbage. And, if I knew my Oma, she had made an apple pie or Stollen. But…if I didn’t eat, that would bring on a whole new set of problems that I didn’t want to deal with at the moment, if ever.
“Just set those bags down, then.” She shoved at my arms.
“We’ll get them up to your room after you eat.”
It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning, which is when I told my grandmother to expect me. I hadn’t even eaten anything for breakfast. In fact, I hadn’t eaten anything solid in seventy-two hours. Coffee, Red Bull, and nicotine had been my sustenance for the last three days. I had only slept sporadically. My body was going to reject the food. There was no way I was going to keep it down. However, I just had to keep it down until I got upstairs. No matter how exhausted I was, I knew that I could do that.
“Just sit down there.” My grandmother practically shoved me into a chair at the kitchen chair and tossed her gift bag into another chair. “I’ll fix us a plate. What do you want to drink, Robbie?”
“Rob’s fine.” I rolled my eyes since her back was turned. “Water, please.”
“I’ll call you whatever the Hell I want.” My grandmother waggled her head as she faced the stove, plate in hand. “I wiped your ass and nose, I’ll call you Robbie ‘til the fucking cows come home.”
“Okay.” I put my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands.
“You must be tired from the trip.” She snorted as she shoveled food onto the plate in her hand. “Giving up that easy.”
I just made a humming sound in response.
My grandmother worked at the stove for a minute, doling out portions of food onto the first plate, then another. Finally, she came over to the table and slapped one of them down in front of me. On the plate was a single Bratwurst, one spoonful of the potatoes and peas, and a small portion of the cabbage. Her plate held twice as much food as the one she had practically slammed down in front of me. She sat down in the seat across from me and glared at me.
“What?” I asked it more roughly than I had intended.
“Maybe you won’t puke it up if you don’t eat too much.” She growled back. “What the Hell have you gotten up to? You look like a goddamn corpse and that uppity looking sweater isn’t hiding shit from me. It doesn’t cover your goddamn face.”
“It’s a cardigan.”
“It could be a goddamn tarp and I’d still know you weigh fifty pounds less than the last time I saw you.” She snorted. “You been on that stuff?”
“That…stuff?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” She picked her fork up aggressively. “You know what I’m talking about. You been doing them drugs?”
“Not for over a year.” I replied evenly.
“Mmm.” She appraised me. “Ya’ sick? You got that HIV or something? Shooting up can do that. All that unprotected sex…”
“I’ve never shot up anything and I’ve never in my life had unprotected sex.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been tested every six months since I was twenty-years-old and my doctor put me on PrEP five years ago. Not that I need it right now, so that’s moot.”
“Now, I’ve heard of that.” She jabbed her fork at me. “The boys over in Toledo at the center were telling me about how you can get it for free if you do this voucher program.”
I nodded.
“You still volunteer at the LGBTQ center?” I asked, picking up my fork.
“Have been since before you left.” She shook her head like I was an idiot for thinking otherwise. “Like an asshole in the middle of the night. And it’s LGBTQIA now.”
I rolled my eyes.
“But don’t change the fucking subject.” She skewered a potato and crammed it in her mouth. “Why the Hell do you look like Death warmed over, Robbie?”
I used my fork to cut a bite-size piece of bratwurst off and tentatively shoved it in my mouth. It was delicious. And I wanted to puke. But I chewed it and swallowed, managing to not grimace.
“I’m tired.” I replied. “I’m…I’m just tired, Oma.”
“Well, tired calls for a nap.” She snorted once again. “You look like you’re ready for the dirt.”
It wasn’t my intention, but I dropped my fork on my plate and put my head to the table. And then the tears came. Silent, but big and wet, rolling out of my eyes onto the wood directly beneath my face.
“Put your napkin under your face so you don’t ruin the finish.” My grandmother stated blandly.
I just did as I was told and slid the cloth napkin under my face. For what seemed like forever, I cried exhausted tears, wondering how I had let myself get to this place physically, emotionally, and mentally. How was I back at my Oma’s house in the middle of nowhere, looking skeletal, all of the life I had completely gone. When the tears finally stopped, I sat up, puffy faced, surely, with red eyes, absolutely, and picked my fork back up.
“I hope you didn’t come here for sympathy.” She eyed me. “You’re welcome here as long as you want, Robbie. But I’m not
going to sit here and play the ‘poor pitiful me’ game with you. You just had to rush off and act a damn fool, you sit there and suffer.”
“Thanks, Oma.” I sniffled wetly and cut off another piece of sausage. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Count on me?” She scoffed. “Who the Hell got up in the middle of the night when you called last night and made up a room with fresh sheets, aired out the room, and made it livable again?
Damn right, I’ll take your thanks. And whatever gift’s in that bag, ya’ little asshole.”
“Could you not…”
“No, I cannot.” She stopped me. “And if you weren’t so goddamn special now, you’d have remembered your manners. You left here in the middle of the night, sixteengoddamnyearsold, without so much as a word, and I haven’t seen an inch of your skin more than three times in the decade since.”
“Look, I’m sorry, Oma, but…”
“And I don’t give a good goddamn how special you are in Hollywood—or all over the world. You’re here. You’re only going to hear the truth from me, Robbie.”
“Rob.”
“Thought you’d been going by ‘Jacob’?” She waved me off.
“Of all the dumbass things. Like Robert Wagner is such a bad name.”
“Of course it’s not bad.” I shook my head, shoving another piece of the sausage into my mouth. “But, surely, someone of your age is aware that there’s already an actor by that name?”
She waggled her head again.
“Still better than ‘Jacob Michaels’.” She replied. “Sounds like a goddamn rock star or porn star.”
“Well, I have been known to put on a concert.” I mumbled.
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved me off. “I saw that on T.V. Royal Albert Hall—aren’t you fancy? Okay. So, that show was pretty good. But you’re not as special as you think, Robbie.”
“I played Carnegie, too. Twice.” I looked up at her.
She couldn’t help herself, she chuckled.
“I don’t think I’m special, Oma.” I sighed, sliding my fork into the potatoes. “I’m just tired now. Nothing else.”
We ate in silence for several minutes, casting glances at each other from time to time, trying to find some middle ground.
“You ever at least get your GED?” She asked.
“Yes.” I said. “I got it when I was twenty-one and had a break.”
“Well, a postcard or something telling me as such would’ve been nice.” She said. “Or, ya’ know, you could’ve called or told me on one of your brief visits.”
“Oma. I’m sorry.” I said, totally wasted of energy. “Can we finish this fight tomorrow? I just don’t have it in me.”
“I doubt you’ll be up before Monday.” She rolled her eyes. “But you can bet your ass we’ll fight then, too.”
“Great.” I spat. “Can’t wait.”
“What’s in this goddamn bag?!” She growled, yanking the gift bag out of the chair at the side of the table.
My grandmother yanked the paper out of the top of the bag and pulled out the box holding her gift. The ladies at the store had wrapped it for me. I had done the shopping myself, but I’d paid for gift wrapping. When you drop nearly so much money on one item, you may as well splurge and get the item professionally wrapped. I didn’t try to get the purse for free or even at reduced cost directly from Balenciaga. If they found out I was just giving it to my grandmother, they wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. My
grandmother pried the box open violently, then stopped suddenly, her face going blank.
“Do you like it?” I asked blandly.
“It’s a purse.”
“It’s a Balenciaga.” I said.
“Well, I don’t know what the Hell that is…but this is goddamn gorgeous is what it is.” She mooned over the bag inside. “How much this set you back?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, if it cost more than a hundred bucks, I’ll beat the Hell out of you.”
“Then it cost fifty.” I replied.
“Fifty my cellulite-riddled ass.” She laughed suddenly, yanking the bag out of the box and turning it over and around, looking at it from every angle. “Black goes with everything.”
“Balenciaga goes with anything.”
“I’ll tell people it’s a Coach bag.” She nodded, making me cringe. “No one knows what the Hell Balensiatcha or whatever is. And no one knows how to pronounce that.”
“People in Spain might disagree, but whatever makes you happy, Oma.”
“You went to fucking Spain for a handbag??”
“No.” I laughed loudly. “There’s a shop in Beverly Hills.”
She waggled her head again, but her spirit wasn’t in it. The bag was just too nice for her to pretend she wasn’t impressed. My grandmother examined the bag inside and out, getting more and more impressed the longer she looked at it. Then, suddenly, she seemed to have a thought.
“The boys at the center will love it.” She beamed. “You don’t know him because you haven’t been here in forever, but Carlos, he’s a drag queen, and he’s my favorite of all my boys—he loves fashion. He’ll be jealous as shit. You think we could order one for him?”
“It cost over fourteen-thousand dollars.” I said evenly.
“Well…shit.” She held the purse to her chest as she stared down at it. “Can you get him something nice—but not that nice? Maybe some nice high heels or something?”
“I’ll order something for Carlos, Oma.” I just agreed so that I wouldn’t have to argue. “What size high heel does Carlos wear?”
“How the Hell should I know?”
“Well, I thought maybe you were loaning him some of your items.”
“You’ve still got a goddamn smart mouth.” She snapped, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
“Find out his heel size, Oma.” I waved her off. “I’ll order him some Louboutin heels. If they come in his size.”
“Those the one with the red soles?”
“Yes.”
She squealed and hugged her purse.
“You sure got over being mad at me.” I cocked an eyebrow at her.
Even that hurt.
“I’m happy for Carlos and me. You’re still a fucking asshole.” She snapped again. “But…thank you, Robbie.”
“Of course.” I nodded before shoving a potato into my mouth.
After I managed to finish the scant amount of food that my grandmother had put on my plate, drank a big glass of water, and helped her put things away, I was allowed to grab my bags and make my way upstairs. Oma was on my heels as we climbed the stairs together, her steps much steadier and spry than my own. At the top of the stairs, I was slightly out of breath and she dashed around me down the hall. She dashed past what used to be my room when I was a teenager and went to the end of the hall.
“What?” I pointed at my old door.
“Turned it into a sewing room.” She answered. “I’m going to put you in your mom and dad’s old room. So, you’ll have your own bathroom.”
“Okay.”
I ventured further down the hall and let her open the door for me. Inside, the room was very clean, smelled fresh, and there was nothing but the furniture to remind me of my parents. Not that being reminded of them was particularly hard on me. The furniture was all still the same—heavy, dark wood, well-made. But all of the linens were different, the pictures on the wall were bright and cheerful, the curtains were gauzy with heavier drapes pulled to the side. Early spring sunlight streamed through the windows, making the room look absolutely cheerful.
Oma watched as I sauntered over to the bed and set my bags down at the foot of the bed. I looked around the room, spotting the door to the bathroom off to the side. It was a fairly small bathroom, but it was private, and it was clean. That’s all that I cared about. It had a large claw foot tub and a hand-held shower head, a pedestal sink, medicine cabinet, it would be more than enough. The room itself was large, with enough room for a chest of drawers, a king-
size bed, two bedside tables, and a sofa. This was almost like going for an extended stay at a B&B.
“Don’t you smoke those cigarettes in here.” Oma snarled.
“I’ll go outside when I smoke.”
“And don’t do any drugs in here.”
I glared at her.
“I don’t do drugs.” I snapped. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Okay.” She nodded. “You ain’t got any on you, do you?”
“Only prescription.” I squinted at her.
“Anything good?”
I rolled my eyes. “Just Paxil and Nexium.”
“Damn.” She shrugged.
My grandmother wasn’t going to take pills that weren’t prescribed to her, so I don’t know why she was posturing. Of course, she might have just been curious about what good drugs she thought a celebrity from Hollywood took.
“Why the Hell are you on Paxil for fuck’s sake?” She asked.
“Dropping fourteen-grand on a purse take it out of you?”
“Can we discuss it later?”
She rolled her eyes but relented.
“Well, get them clothes off and I’ll get them washed.” She said, heading towards the door. “Probably have to wash everydamn-thing you brought the way you smoke.”
“The bags were in the trunk.”
“Well, I’ll wash your sweaters and jeans if you want.” She said. “And your underbritches. Just leave them in the hall there.”
“It’ll all have to be dry cleaned.” I shook my head.
“Even your underwear?!?”
“Well, no.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Well, I’m not just washing a pair of underwear. Throw ‘em in the hamper.”
“I can do my own laundry, Oma.”
“You don’t know how to work my machine.” She waved me off. “I don’t know that we have a dry cleaner in town. But we can run your fancy ass clothes over to Toledo when I go to the center one day next week.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Or I can do it myself.”
“I bet you haven’t seen the inside of a dry cleaner or a washing machine since you were eighteen-years-old.” She snorted. “Probably wouldn’t know what the Hell to do. Probably got an assistant for all of that.”
“She doesn’t do my laundry.”
She was waggling her head again.
“Just, leave me be, please.” I waved her off. “I’ll take care of my laundry.”
“Fine.” She turned up her nose and screwed up her mouth. “I’ll bring you some dinner later.”
“I just want to sleep.”
“I’ll bring you some fucking dinner later, Robbie.” She stated loudly. “You can wake up to eat it and go back to bed. Then, in the morning, I’ll bring you some goddamn breakfast if you don’t feel like coming downstairs. Then you can go back to sleep. You seeing a pattern here?!? I gotta put at least ten pounds on you before I can take you anywhere or people will think I’m living with a goddamn zombie. People around here already call me a fucking witch due to all my herbs. Don’t need them thinking I know fucking Voodoo.”
“Fine.” I held my hands up in resignation. “Wait. What?”
“Oh, those goddamn bastard kids of the Kelly’s?” She rolled her eyes. “Been telling their friends that I’m a witch ‘cause I live out here all alone and got my garden. One time I might’ve shot at ‘em when they came up on my property. So, they have to spread their rumors.”
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of On chloroform and other anæsthetics: their action and administration
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: On chloroform and other anæsthetics: their action and administration
Author: John Snow
Editor: Benjamin Ward Richardson
Release date: June 14, 2022 [eBook #68315]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: John Churchill, 1858
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON CHLOROFORM AND OTHER ANÆSTHETICS: THEIR ACTION AND ADMINISTRATION ***
Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
CONTENTS.
C P D C
F C I C
A C I
S C I
M D A C
T T K S
S C D C
Alleged closure of glottis
THE LIFE OF JOHN SNOW, M.D.
There is not much credit in the mere acts of living and dying; in being driven by unavoidable fate through the common journey, with shoulders uncovered and the whip over them; in doing nothing save the drudgery of existence; in enjoying, in an approach to the recognition of enjoyment, the brief dreams of childhood; in struggling into manhood; in battling through the after-strife obedient to the castigator behind; and in dying at last, as though life had never been; dead to-day, wept for tomorrow, and forgotten by the morrow’s succeeding sun. There is not much credit in this surely, for credit must be earned by something done beyond that which all must perforce do. But, in the face of all the struggles incidental to the existence, so to have managed as to have stolen out of time hours which other men knew not in their calendar—so to have defied the inexorable taskmaster as to perform more than is included in his demands; so to have willed and acted as to live on when death has done his worst; to assist all coming wayfarers in their conflict wherever they may meet it; to prove that there is something more in life than labour lost, and nothing more in death than an idea—Hoc opus hic labor est—in this there is achieved the grand attainment; the perpetual life.
He whom I, with poor biographer’s pencil, put forward now in brief sketch, is one amongst the few who have thus realized the ideality of death. It were but little matter, therefore, though no biography should appear at all; it is of but little count that such biography, as the recollections of friends and intimates shall call forth, be scanty in its details; it is of but little count that the life of him who is to be shadowed forth is destitute of incident fitted for the
taste of wonder-loving, passion-courting, romance-devouring, readers. Biographies for these are common. Good men are scarce.
J S , the subject of the present memoir, was born at York, on the fifteenth day of June, 1813. He was the eldest son of his parents. His father was a farmer. His mother, who is living, resides still at York. As a child, he showed his love of industry; and increasing years added only to the intensity with which he applied himself to any work that was before him. He occasionally assisted his father in agricultural pursuits, and often in later life spoke with great naïveté of the recollections of those early winter mornings when his boy’s fingers were too intimately to be pleasantly acquainted with the effects of benumbing cold. He was first sent to a private school at York, where he learned all that he could learn there. He was fond of the study of mathematics, and in arithmetic became very proficient. At the age of fourteen, he went to Newcastle-on-Tyne, as an apprentice to Mr. William Hardcastle, surgeon, of that place. He had also the opportunities of studying at the Newcastle Infirmary. During the third year of his apprenticeship, viz., when he was seventeen years old, he formed an idea that the vegetarian body-feeding faith was the true and the old; and with that consistency which throughout life attended him, tried the system rigidly for more than eight years. He was a noted swimmer at this time, and could make head against the tide longer than any of his omnivorous friends. I have heard him tell that so long as he continued to qualify his vegetables with milk and butter, the vegetarian plan supported him fairly. But on one unfortunate morning, when taking his milk breakfast, some quizzical friend, learned in botany, cross-examined him as to the vegetable on which he was then feeding. The joke went home; and the use of milk, as food for a pure vegetarian, became too absurd for consistency. The milk, therefore, must be put aside, and the butter and the eggs. The experiment did not answer; the health of our pure vegetarian gave way under the ordeal, and although in after life he maintained that an approach to the vegetarian practice was commendable, in that it kept the body in better tone for the exercise of the mind, he admitted that in his own case his health paid the forfeit of his extreme adherence to an hypothesis. Amongst his earlier scientific readings was a book in defence of the vegetable regimen by John Frank Newton. This book is annotated by himself, 1833. It is an useful book, full of curious arguments, facts and suggestions, many of
which, as his own after writings indicate, he had carefully studied and applied.
At or about the same time that he adopted his vegetarian views, he also took the extremity of view and of action, in reference to the temperance cause. He not only joined the ranks of the total abstinence reformers, but became a powerful advocate of their principles for many succeeding years. In the latter part of his life, he occasionally and by necessity took a little wine, but his views on the subject remained to the end unchanged; he had strong faith in the temperance cause, and a belief that it must ultimately become an universal system.
In 1831–32, cholera visited Newcastle and its neighbourhood, and proved terribly fatal. In the emergency, Mr. Snow was sent by Mr. Hardcastle to the Killingworth Colliery, to attend the sufferers from the disease there. In this labour he was indefatigable, and his exertions were crowned with great success. He made also on this occasion many observations relating to this disease, which proved to him of immense account in after years.
He left Newcastle in 1833, and engaged himself as assistant to Mr. Watson of Burnop Field, near Newcastle. Here he resided for twelve months, fulfilling the assistant duties; regarding which it can only be said, and that from analogy, that they were neither without their anxiety nor their reward. Leaving Burnop Field in 1834–5, he revisited his native place, York; made a short stay, and thence, to a certain half-inaccessible village called Pately Bridge, in Yorkshire, to assistant it with Mr. Warburton, surgeon there. Some few years ago a friend of mine went to the same village, by the recommendation of Dr. Snow, as assistant to the present Mr. Warburton of that place, a son of Dr. Snow’s “old master”. The circumstance of this recommendation often led Dr. Snow to refer to his life at Pately Bridge in our conversations. He invariably, on such occasions, spoke of Mr. Warburton, his “old master”, in terms of sincere respect, and depicted his own life there with great liveliness. He was a vegetarian then, and his habits puzzled the housewives, shocked the cooks, and astonished the children. His culinary peculiarities were, however, attended to with great kindliness. Eighteen months at Pately Bridge, with many rough rides, a fair share of night work, a good gleaning of experience, and this sojourn was over. Now back again went our
student to York, to stay this time a few months, and—not to be idle— to take an active share in the formation of temperance societies. In leisure days during this period it was his grand amusement to make long walking explorations into the country. In these peregrinations he collected all kinds of information, geological, social, sanitary, and architectural.
At last York must be again left; the London student life was in view. In the summer of the year at which we have arrived, 1836, he set off from York to Liverpool, and, trudging it afoot from Liverpool through the whole of North and South Wales, turned London-ward, calling at Bath by the way, on a visit to his uncle, Mr. Empson, to whom, to the end of his life, he was devotedly attached. October 1836 —eventful October—brought him to the “great city”, and placed him on the benches of the Hunterian School of Medicine in Windmillstreet: a school long since closed, and now almost a myth; like the mill which gave the name to the locality.
I am indebted to the courtesy of Mr. Joshua Parsons of Beckington, near Bath, for an insight into the life and manners of my beloved friend during his student career. Mr. Parsons had the happiness to be the special fellow-student of Snow. Their friendship, cemented early in life, never declined, but had added to it, “on my part,” says Mr. Parsons, “respect and admiration for the solid talents and industry of my old colleague.” Speaking of their common labours, Mr. Parsons writes as follows:
“Our acquaintance commenced in 1836, at the Hunterian School of Medicine in Windmill-street, where we were both dissecting at that time. It happened that we usually overstayed our fellows, and often worked far on into the evening. The acquaintance thus grew into intimacy, which ended by our lodging and reading together. We were constant companions from that time till I left town, in October 1837. During that period Dr. Snow was, as a student, characterized by the same mental qualities which have marked him ever since. Not particularly quick of apprehension, or ready in invention, he yet always kept in the foreground by his indomitable perseverance and determination in following up whatever line of investigation was open to him. The object of this steady pursuit with him was always truth: the naked truth, for its own sake, was what he sought and loved. No consideration of honour or profit seemed to have power to
bias his opinions on any subject. At the period of our co-residence he was a strict vegetarian, and many and great were the controversies held between us on the subject. These led to trials of our comparative strength and endurance, in one of which, on Easter Monday 1837, we walked to St. Alban’s, and back to town through Harrow,—a distance, I believe, of rather more than fifty miles. On reaching the Edgeware Road, my companion was fairly beaten, and obliged to reach home in an omnibus. But though this, you will say, shows a fair amount of strength, yet it was my impression that my friend’s constitutional powers were impaired by his mode of living, for I observed that he suffered from an amount of physical excitability not to be looked for in a man of his bodily powers and placid mental organization. I remember, on two or three occasions, so slight an injury as a cut of the finger with a dinner knife, or a graze of the skin, producing such an amount of fever, attended by so rapid a pulse, and so intense a flush upon the cheeks, that I once asked the opinion of an experienced medical friend about him, and was by that opinion alone restrained from summoning his uncle to his bedside. He also was subject to great drowsiness, so that he was obliged often to close his books, and retire to bed long before his inclination would have led him to do so.”
In October 1837, Mr. Snow took out his hospital practice at the Westminster Hospital. On May 2nd, 1838, he passed his examination, and was entered duly as a member of the Royal College of Surgeons of England. He lived at this time at 11, Bateman’s Buildings, Soho-square.
In July 1838, Mr. Thurnham having resigned his post of apothecary to the Westminster Hospital, Mr. Snow, with much promise of support from the medical staff, competed for the vacant post. He presented excellent testimonials from Mr. Hardcastle, Mr. James Allen of York, Dr. Conquest, Mr. W. B. Lynn, Surgeon to the Westminster Hospital, Mr. Anthony White, Sir Anthony Carlisle, Mr. Warburton, and Dr. Hunter Lane. His canvass was very satisfactory; but he was compelled to resign his claims from a cause which he did not expect. By the laws of the hospital, the office of apothecary could only be held by a member of the Apothecaries’ Company. In those days the worshipful Company were sometimes lenient in admitting students to examination. The leniency, however, clearly extended to
those only who had friends at court. To render himself eligible, Mr. Snow addressed a very simple, earnest, and gentlemanly request to the Court of Examiners of the Apothecaries’ Company, begging to be allowed to go up to his examination at the second court in July instead of the first in October, at which he was legally admissible. The request, under the circumstances, was not very great; but for some reason it met with refusal. After the refusal he addressed a second note to the Court, equal in tone with the first. In this note he urged the simple character of the request; he reminded the sapient body that they had allowed a similar extension of privilege to that asked by himself to others, and even for less important reasons. He explained that he had attended the practice of the Newcastle Infirmary; and promised that if he could be admitted, he would fulfil the required term of hospital curriculum rigidly. Lastly, he stated the expenses into which the canvass had led him, and once more prayed for leniency of the examiners, from “confidence in their kindness”. The confidence was misplaced. The Blackfriars Shylocks demanded the pound of flesh; and our disappointed student, on the very eve of success, was compelled to relate his discomfiture in the following address:
“To the Governors of Westminster Hospital.
“M
L , L , G ,
“I became a candidate for the vacant office of Apothecary to the Hospital a little before my term of study was completed, expecting that the Court of Examiners of the Apothecaries’ Company would admit me for examination in time for the election, knowing that they had granted a similar boon to my fellowstudents on less important occasions. I have asked the favour of that Court with all due respect and ceremony, showing them that my course of study had already been twice as long as they require; and they have refused to examine me till my last item of study was completed according to their own peculiar curriculum, without stating any reason for their refusal. I must therefore necessarily resign, which I beg most respectfully to do, and to offer my sincere thanks to all those who have taken trouble in my behalf,”
On the first Court of October 1838, held on October 4th of that year, Mr. Snow met the Blackfriars Shylocks by legal right. They had not forgotten him, and gave him good proof of their remembrances. He passed, however, safe and sound; and, having the double
qualification, laid himself out for the duties of a general practitioner in medicine in the great city.
At this time there existed in London a society (now sunken into the “Medical Society of London”) called the “Westminster Medical Society.” It was a society which had long given encouragement to those junior members of the medical profession who might wish for a hearing at its meetings and debates. Mr. Snow was not the man to lose an opportunity such as this. I have often heard him say, both privately and publicly, that, upon this early connexion with the “Westminster Medical,” his continuance in London depended, and all his succeeding scientific success. When he first attended the meetings of the “Westminster Medical,” he was very timid; and although he always spoke to the point, found it difficult to obtain a favourable notice. At first, as he told me, nobody ever replied to what he said. After a long time some grave counsellor condescended to refer to him as the “last speaker”. “In reference to an observation made by the last speaker, Mr. President, I could bring forward many practical objections; but I prefer to observe on the admirable, and, I have no hesitation in saying profound, remarks which Dr. Goldstick” (a very great gun, of course) “has done us the favour to lay before the society.” A little later and somebody ventured to name the “last speaker” even by his name. Then some one, bolder still, concurred with Mr. Snow; and ultimately Mr. Snow became recognized more and more, until, as we shall see in the sequel, the presidential honours were his own.
Frith-street, Soho-square, No. 54, was the house at which Mr. Snow, to use his own words, first “nailed up his colours”. He removed from Bateman’s Buildings in the beginning of September 1838, and became, in Frith-street, the tenant of Mrs. Williamson, widow of Captain Williamson, known as the author of several works on India. He bought no practice, nor exhibited any pretence. Like mighty Columbus, his caravel was very insignificant when compared with the voyage on which he embarked, and through which he sailed so successfully. He did not find the voyage very smooth either at first. How could he? A man cast at large in the modern Babylon, with few introductions, no plethora of purse, and great purposes in hand, need never ignore the necessities from the idea of rising to the crest of the wave by three cheers and a long pull. Snow was too foreseeing
