This 1903 text survives in an untitled, previously unpublished manuscript now in the Mark Twain Papers. Clemens identified it as “Autobiog.” in the upper left corner of the first page, adding (and later canceling) “Hannibal, 1842,” the place and year of the first anecdote about his experience with castor oil. Clemens was always skeptical of doctors and had long since concluded that they were of little or no assistance to their patients. “I am not afraid of doctors in ordinary or trifling ailments, but in a serious case I should not allow any one to persuade me to call one,” he wrote Henry H. Rogers on 8 January 1900 (Salm, in HHR, 425). In the present rather desultory essay, however, he remained more or less focused on what he considered the unfairness of the way contemporary doctors charged for their services. For an indispensable overview of Clemens’s attitude toward doctors and medical practice in general, see Mark Twain and Medicine: “Any Mummery Will Cure” (Ober 2003).
Paine planned to publish this manuscript in his edition of the autobiography, using the title adopted here and placing it after “Scraps from My Autobiography. Private History of a Manuscript That Came to Grief” ( MTA, 1:175–89). He suppressed the names of several physicians when he prepared his typescript for the printer. For reasons unknown, however, he decided not to include it, even after it had been set in type.
I was seven years old when I came so near going to Heaven that time. I do not know why I did not go; I was prepared. This was habit. I had been sick a considerable part of those seven years, and had naturally formed the custom of being prepared. Religion was made up almost exclusively of fire and brimstoneⒶapparatus note in those days, and this furnished a motive for preparation which none but the very thoughtlessⒶapparatus note neglected. To be honest, I will acknowledge that I sometimes neglected it myself; but it was only when I was well. I do not remember what malady it was that came so near to removing me from this life, that time,Ⓐapparatus note but I remember what it was that defeated it. It was half a teacupful of castor oil—straight. That is, without molasses, or other ameliorations. Many took molasses with their oil, but I was not of that class. Perhaps I knew thatⒶapparatus note nothing could make oil palatable, for I had had a large experience; I had drunk barrels of castor oil in my time. No, not barrels, kegs; let us postpone exaggerations to a properer time and subject.
The castor oil saved me. I had begun to die, the family were grouped for the function; they were familiar with it, so was I. I had performed the star part so many times that I knew just what to do at each stage without a rehearsal, although so young; and they—they had played the minor rôles so often that they could do it asleep. They often went to sleep when I was dying. At first it used to hurt meⒶapparatus note, but later I did not mind it, but got some one to joggle them, then went on with my rendition. I can see us at it, to this day.
Dr.Ⓐapparatus note Meredith was ourⒶapparatus note family physician in those days; he probably removed from the hamletⒶapparatus note of Florida to the village of HannibalⒺexplanatory note about the same time that we did, in order to keep my custom. No, that could not have been the reason; I have already said that in that early geological period the doctor was paid by the year and furnished the drugs himselfⒺexplanatory note; therefore he would not really value my custom, if sane. He often tried to kill me, I suppose; it would be but natural, for he had a family to support, and was a man of good judgment and right intentions, but he never succeeded [begin page 189] in a single instance. It was the irony of fate that his own son CharlesⒺexplanatory note should pull me out of Bear creek at last when another half minute would have endedⒶapparatus note my life. He never smiled again.
Consider the wisdom and righteousness of that old-time custom—the paying of the physician by the year. Consider what a safeguard it was, for both the physician’s livelihood and self-respect, andⒶapparatus note the family’s health. The physician had a regular and assured income, and that was an advantage to him; the family were safe from his invasions when nothing was the matter, and goodness knows that was an advantage to the family.
Look at the difference in our day. What is the common, the universal, custom of the physician with a limited practice? It is this: to keep on coming and coming, long after the patient has ceased to need him—and charging for every visit. Almost as a rule—I might fairly leave that “almost” out—you are driven to the unpleasant compulsion of discharging him, in order to get rid of him. As a consequence you dread to call him again; and youⒶapparatus note put it off just as long as you canⒶapparatus note without peril.
I make this charge deliberately. I draw it from four sources: from my own experience, from the experience of friends, from the statements (hotly worded) of distinguished New York and London physicians, and from editorial statements in the medical journals. Your physician knows you are afraid to discharge him, lest it turn out that you did it too early;Ⓐapparatus note he takes a discreditable advantage of this fear.
The hard-driven physician comes no oftener than he is obliged to. As soon as it is safe to say it, he says, “I shall not come again unless you send for me.”
In Hartford our old family physician, Dr. Taft,Ⓐapparatus note made us familiar with that remark, butⒶapparatus note we never got it out of his neglectedⒶapparatus note successorⒺexplanatory note. Eight years ago (in 1895)Ⓐapparatus note I arrived from Europe and went straight to Elmira, N.Y. In the bath-tubⒶapparatus note, that evening, (May 26),Ⓐapparatus note I found a round, flatⒶapparatus note pink spot on the outside of my portⒶapparatus note thigh, the size of a dime. The next morning we moved up on the East Hill, and called up a doctor (Theron WalesⒺexplanatory note),Ⓐapparatus note from below and he said it was an incipient carbuncle. He began to treat it. And also began to talk. To let him tell it, the carbuncle had always been the master of the human race until by God’s mercy he became a member of it. Then he sang the long list of his victories, carbuncle by carbuncle, naming the proprietorⒶapparatus note in each case and the place on him where the carbuncle roosted, and the illustrious methods whereby he had conducted those carbuncles to a happy and spectacular finish. ThisⒶapparatus note was a very dull man, by nature and acquirement, but he was an old friend of the kinship, and I had to endure him, though I give you my word that as between his society and the carbuncle’s, I would have selectedⒶapparatus note the carbuncle’s every time. He had the special characteristic of every limited-practice physician whom I have ever known: he was tedious, witless, commonplace, a stayer, loved to hear himself talk, and was a spirit-rottingⒶapparatus note bore.
With all his boasted experience he knew nothing about carbuncles that was not known by our old ex-slave cook, Aunty CordⒺexplanatory note,Ⓐapparatus note and he did nothing with mine which she could not have done as well or better. He applied that ancient persuader,Ⓐapparatus note a slice of raw salt pork,Ⓐapparatus note and came daily while it was doing its work. Came to watch it, I suppose; the cat could have done it as effectively, and certainly the cook could—and gratis. Then he lanced it, and came daily for thirty days more; sometimes to dress the wound—which the cook could have done as well as he—but most of the time for no conceivable reason, unless to exhaustⒶapparatus note me with his two-hour [begin page 190] visits and his colorless conversation. So many of these visits were professionally objectless that I took them for social visits, or I would have retired him.
He not only charged me for every one of those odious visitations, but charged me a third more than he would have charged a resident. I did not find out this latter detail—Ⓐapparatus notethis robbery,—until six months ago.
That burglar still keeps up that custom—of paying what people take for social calls, after his professional services are no longer needed,Ⓐapparatus note and then charging for them after the family, growing suspicious, have given him a large hintⒶapparatus note and gotten rid of him.
He did not cure my carbuncle. He watched over it forty-fiveⒶapparatus note days like a tender and ignorant carbuncle-angel, then I started across the country with my family. I lectured every night for twenty-threeⒶapparatus note nights, the nightly dressing of the cavern left by the carbuncle going on every night, and at last the place was healed and I walked aboard the ship at VancouverⒺexplanatory note unassisted.
Carbuncles have families, when they are treated by bunglers. Mine’s first son was born at sea and was lanced in Sydney. The second son was born in Melbourne, but there was a real doctor there—Fitz Gerald—a doctor with an immense practice, and he said he would cure it in twenty-four hours. He kept his word; also, he taught us his art, and we squelched the rest of the family, one by one, as they arrived. Only one of them lasted two days. The carbuncle-expert of Elmira charged me $135 for half-curing one carbuncle. If I had not been obliged to leave on the lecture-tour he would be propagatingⒶapparatus note that one’s posterity to this day.
That Elmira leech knew that I had fallen heir to a heavyⒶapparatus note debt, and was starting on a year’s journey around the globe to lecture it off and set myself free, but that did not move him to spare me when he had a chance to afflict me with social calls and charge pirate-rates for them. I resolved that I would never again sit in the Sunday school that he superintended, and I have kept my word to this day. However, I was never in it anyway.Ⓐapparatus note
It is a bad business to get the habit of getting sick. You will find it hard to break. From my seventh year to my fifty-sixth I had had the habit of being well—I had hardly knownⒶapparatus note what sickness was, in all that time. Then the change came. We were living in Berlin. On a very cold winter’s night I lectured for the benefit of an English or American church-charity in a hall that was as hot as the Hereafter. On my way home, I froze. I spent thirty-fourⒶapparatus note days in bed, with congestion of the wind’ard lungⒺexplanatory note. That was the beginning. That lung has remained in a damaged condition ever since. Whenever I catch a cold in the head it descends at once to the bronchial tubes, and I have to send for the medical plumber. That is, I used to do that, but when I found out at last that to relieve it, modify it, shorten its stay or cure it were all beyond his art, I ceased from calling him and allowed the cough to bark itself out at its leisure and perish of fatigue. Its term is six weeks, under these conditions. Before giving up, I experimented with ten physicians in different parts of the world.
In the beginning of ’96 I caught a cold in Ceylon, and by the time we reached Bombay, a few days later, my tubes were in bad shape and I sent for the plumber. He bore the great name of Sidney Smith. I took his dreadful medicine seven days, with no improvement, then I discharged him. He charged me double price per visitationⒶapparatus note because I was not a resident. It was the custom, I was told. I thought it would have been as rational to charge me double because I was a Presbyterian. I paid half the billⒺexplanatory note.
[begin page 191]I barked at audiences all about India for six weeks, then the cough expired by statute of limitation. I had attacks in London, later. The first doctor (Parsons),Ⓐapparatus note soon confessed that he was making no progress with the case, and retired from the struggle with honor; the other one (Ogilvie),Ⓐapparatus note probably concluded before long, that the case was beyond his science, for he stopped bothering with it, but came every day and told ancient anecdotes forⒶapparatus note an hour and enjoyed them—I could see it. I was deceived again; I took these wearisome afflictions for social calls, and forebore to protect myself. But at last I saw that in my weak state the burden of his society was a positive danger, so I pulled the remains of my resolution together and discharged him. He charged full rates for all those visits, whereas he knew quite well that to collect on a full half of them was plain dishonesty.
Dr. Meredith . . . village of Hannibal] Dr. Hugh Meredith (1806–64), born in Pennsylvania, was a personal friend and business associate of Clemens’s father in Florida, Missouri, and then in Hannibal. The two men collaborated in planning improvements in both towns. Dr. Meredith joined the 1849 Gold Rush, but returned in early 1851. For several weeks in the winter of 1851–52 he edited Orion Clemens’s Hannibal Journal while Orion attended to the family’s property in Tennessee ( Inds, 335; Wecter 1952, 55; see AD, 28 Mar 1906).
I have already said . . . furnished the drugs himself] See “My Autobiography [Random Extracts from It],” written in 1897–98 (215.3–6).
his own son Charles] Charles (b. 1833?) was the oldest of Dr. Meredith’s five children. He accompanied his father to the California gold fields, and later made a second trip west ( Inds, 335).
our old family physician, Dr. Taft . . . neglected successor] Cincinnatus A. Taft (1822–84) began practicing homeopathic medicine in Hartford in 1846, and became the Clemenses’ physician after they moved there in 1871. He was well loved by his patients; after his death Clemens praised him as a man “full of courteous grace and dignity” whose “heart was firm and strong . . . and freighted with human sympathies” (18 July 1884 to the Editor of the Hartford Courant, CtHMTH; 17 Feb 1871 to JLC and family, L4, 333 n. 3). Taft’s “successor” has not been identified; the family did not find another satisfactory physician for several years (19 Apr 1888 to Langdon, CtHMTH).
Theron Wales] Theron A. Wales (b. 1842) received his medical degree in 1873 from the University of Pennsylvania, and immediately established a practice in Elmira. According to A History of the Valley and County of Chemung, his “superior literary attainments” earned him a “reputation as a writer upon various topics” (Towner 1892, “Personal References,” 133; L4: SLC and OLC to the Langdons, 9 Feb 1870, 68 n. 6; 22 Feb 1871 to OC, 335 n. 2).
our old ex-slave cook, Aunty Cord] Mary Ann (“Auntie”) Cord (1798–1888) was the cook at Quarry Farm, the Cranes’ property near Elmira. Thirteen years after she had been separated from her family by the slave market, she was miraculously reunited with her youngest son, who had escaped to Elmira and become a Union soldier. Clemens wrote a moving account of her history, “A True Story, Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It,” which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly in November 1874 (SLC 1874b; 2 Sept 1874 to Howells, L6, 219 n. 2).
I lectured every night for twenty-three nights . . . ship at Vancouver] To recover financially from the failure of the Paige typesetting-machine venture, and the collapse of Charles L. Webster and Company in 1894, Clemens undertook a year-long world lecture tour in July 1895, accompanied by his wife and their daughter Clara. He opened in Cleveland, and made more than twenty appearances in the United States and Canada before embarking from Vancouver for Australia, New Zealand, Ceylon, India, Mauritius, and South Africa. In July 1896 they returned to England, where Clemens wrote Following the Equator, based on the trip.
We were living in Berlin . . . congestion of the wind’ard lung] The Clemenses sojourned in Berlin in the winter of 1891–92. Clemens lectured there on 13 January (the occasion has not been further identified), and wrote in his notebook, “Went to our cousin’s (Frau Generalin von Versen) ball, after the lecture; we all came home at 2 am., & I have been in bed ever since—three weeks—with congestion of lungs and influenza” (Notebook 31, TS p. 21, CU-MARK; see AD, 29 Mar 1906, note at 456.25–26).
Sidney Smith . . . I paid half the bill] Clemens wrote to Dr. Smith on 1 February 1896, complaining about his fee:
Twenty-five rupees per visit seems unaccountably large, & I have waited, in order to make some inquiries. I find from conversation with some of your well-to-do patients in Bombay that you charge them Rs. 10 per visit.
There may be some mistake somewhere & it may be that you can explain it. . . . Meantime I enclose cheque for Rs. 40 & will await an explanation of the seemingly extra charge. (CU-MARK)
Source document.
MS Untitled manuscript of 14 leaves, written in 1903.The MS was written in black ink on heavy cream-colored paper, measuring 5 11/16 by 8 15/16 inches. Clemens noted in the text that he was writing eight years after 1895 (189.22), and the date is confirmed by the evidence of the paper, which he used intermittently during 1903. Paine planned to publish the piece in MTA, with the title adopted here; he included it in the printer’s copy that he prepared for that book, immediately following “Scraps from My Autobiography. Private History of a Manuscript That Came to Grief,” and it was evidently already set in type when he decided to omit it. It is published here for the first time.