bath of vitriol would cure the drowsiness of a tired man. An imaginary evil has yielded to a real evil, and, what is worse, becomes itself soon real enough to confirm the opinion of the drug-worshipers that the patient must be "put under a course of corrective tonics." For very soon the unnatural irritation is followed by an abnormal lassitude, a digestive torpor, attended with symptoms of distress that plainly distinguish it from the original remissness of the bowels. In the eyes of the drug-dupes, however, it is nothing but a relapse of the former complaint, and must be combated with more effective remedies. "Treacle and brimstone, thrice a day," was the verdict of the mediæval Æsculap. "The timely use of our incomparable invigorant will regulate the action of the bowels and impart a generous and speedy impulse to the organic functions of the whole body," says the inventor of the new patent "liver-regulator"—a new combination of "valuable herbs" with the usual basis of alcohol. "A wineglassful every morning." The herbs prove their value by enabling the vender to accommodate his customers on Sunday morning, when common dram-shops are closed, and with an equal disregard of times and seasons the alcoholic principle opens the bowels. The incomparable stimulant admits no such excuses as fatigue or warm weather; the charm works; the regular attacks of a life-endangering poison have to be as regularly repelled. Other symptoms, such as troubled dreams, fretfulness, heart-burn and irregular pulse, seem, indeed, to indicate the approach of a new disease, but that will be met by other drugs, and in the mean while the liver-cure is continued. After the lapse of a few months the patient gets possibly a chance to escape his doom; out-door exercise, the excitement of a pleasant journey, a new residence, a change of diet, encourage the hope that the bowels may be left to their own resources, and the "tonic" is provisionally discontinued. An exceptionally strong constitution may really be able to overcome the after-effects of the drug-disease (for from beginning to end it has been nothing but that), but in a great plurality of cases the event proves that the stimulant has fastened upon the system: constipation, in an aggravated form, returns, and can now be relieved only by the wonted means—"a fact," as the orthodox drug-doctor would not fail to observe, "which should convince idealists that now and then Nature can really not dispense with a little assistance."[1]
- ↑ Two generations ago the abuse of purgative drugs was carried to a degree which undoubtedly shortened the average longevity of many families. Thousands of parents made it a rule (which still has its advocates) to dose their children at the end of every month; and Wieland's practical philosopher not only prescribes a laxative for every fit of ill humor, but answers the sentimental tirades of his wife by sentencing her to a prompt enema:
"Brummt mein Engel wie ein Bar, 'Lise,' sprech ich, 'musst purgiren,' Rufe dann den Bader her, Lasse sie recht durch-klystiren."
