Only to think that any man—in the daytime, with his eyes open, not being crazy and not wanting to commit suicide—should walk straight into a canal or a river! Only to think of that, I sny! Yet a good many did it in and around London in Chiristmas week, 1891. 'The dense fog it was, of course, that made them. People could' hardly sce six feet ahead of their noses; may be less at times, and in some spots, ' For you understand' the difference between mere darkness and a fog. In the dark, no matter how black it is you can always see the lights if there are avy. Buta fog! A fog is to have your eyes put out; it is blindness. As for shipwrecks and other calamities due to fogs—why, there's no end to them, The London papers have wondered why somebody hasn't invented way to scatter fogs. Ab, yes, why?
Here's a woman's story about a fog, one of those thick mists that hang most of us twelve months in the year. She says that from April to September, 1889, she w ill tohave any pleasure or comfort, thing to notice, inasmuch as her disposition was naturally cheerful and lively. The trouble, whatever you call it, came on her gradually, much as a fog rives, At tics she Simply felt languid. Very little exertion made her tired. Her breath cxme to be very short, too, and she often felt faint, She couldn't eat; that is, not with any relish, and her sleep was broken up into naps and snatches instead of being solid and straight away, us good sleep always is, Her spirits were dull and depressed. To be sure, How else could they be She ind great pain in the region of the heart, which frightened her, as it would you, for the heart is a vital organ and we are pro: perly scared when there's anything ailing it. Every morsel she ate distressed her. Even the swallowing of a mouthful of water was a painful matter. For several weeks she went on in this fashion, She kept on with her!
ork in the house and shop (a bakery), but it was as munch as ever she could do.
Simple medicines, such as we all know of these she tried, but no good came of it. So she next consulted the family doctor, a man who has a large practice and is considered very clever. He examined her carefully and then said, "Mrs. Plowright, you are suffering [from congestion of the liver, heart disease, and. debility."
This was a statement fit to make the poor woman give up in despair. Indeed, it nearly id. But the doctor was right; that is, from his point of view. He treated the patient for some time. For a short space, o¢casioually, he relieved her; then she was bad as ever. "Once in a while," she says, "my heart most stopped beating. and I looked and felt like a dying person." This, she was told, was the incurable complaint called angina pectoris; but it wasn't, nor any thing like it, Suill, it was cerions and dangerous, Her letter ends in these words: I had read. in a book about Mother Seigel's Curative Syrup, and my husband had taken some of it jand thought highly of it.
But I had not. mmneh faith in it, f began by taking fifteen drops, but as this had no effect I took thirty drops and followed the directions. This dose suited me, and after having used up the bottle I felt better. I could eat and digest food, the pain in my chest and side gradually went away, and after two bottles more I was well, and have been well ever since."
(Signed) Mus. Prownicurr, ife of Mr. William, Plowright, of the Lincolnshire Bakery, 23, Cheetham Street, North Street, Cheetham, Manchester.
What are we to think of this case? We are to think that this lady's li disease" was what is called " functional," not "organic" disease. In plain English, the heart's action was disturbed by the blood Kerreal and only malady. he liver trouble ison created by indigestion and dyspepsia—
and debility were parts of the same puzzle, And sow as the asthma.
Now, what is the worst fog that ever darkqved England? It is the fog which keeps doctors and people from seeing that nearly all the complaints they suffer from are nothing more or less than symptoms of indigestion and dyspepsia, and curable by the remedy mentioned by Mrs. Plowright. By reason of this foy folks walk straight into open yraves—very day.
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Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.