Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 February 1895 — DUPIE’S PREDICAMENT. [ARTICLE]

DUPIE’S PREDICAMENT.

Chicago Mall. “My head aches,” said De Puyster Jones, as he rested his dome of thought on his; right hand and leaned .his elboirctt the tableF“Pqor dear,” said his wife. “Ihaveshooting pain&up and down my” back, Mrs. ears ring. My breathing is difficult, and I am suffering from palpitation of the heart. There is a sort of mist before my eyes and pains in all my join ts." ' ------ -; ‘ ‘Oh, Dupie, how you frighten me I I’ll hurry and call Dr. Sedgwick.” “You'll do nothing of the kind', 7 madame. At my age a man is either a fool or his own physician. I know exactly what is the matter with me. It is an old complaint in our family, Mrs. Jones. Bring me a quart of boiling hot water.” “How do you know that you haven’t got appendicitis, Dupie, or some of those other horrible new diseases?” “Bring me a quart of hot water, M rs. Jones, and don't get hysterical.” “Are you in great pain, De Puyster?” ' “I shall be in less when you bring me what I asked for. A man who can't stand pain, Mrs. Jones, has no right to get married. ” jlaggie brought a quart of water, steaming from the kettle.' Mr. Jones, drank it in little sips and swallows. Then he groaned violently.A —r “Dupie, you’ve scalded y burs elf,” cried Mrs. Jones, in alarm. “Maggie, you mean well, hut, you don’t know anything about what a man has to suffer. Scalding, hot water is the only thing that will do me any good. “Can’t I hold your head, Dupie?’’ “Mrs. Jones, if you will kindly retire and leave me alone with my disease I shall be obliged.” n. It was an anxious night for Mrs, De Puyster Jones. She tossed on the bed in the spare room for hours. Finally she succeeded in getting off into a troubled sleep. Some time later she was awakened by the pressure of an icy cold hand on her forehead. She started up in alarm. “Mrs. Jones,” sounded the voice.of her husband in the darkened room, “Mrs. Jones. I am suffering unedurable agony.” “Oh, Dupie, dear! shall I get you some more hot water?” “If you wish to make fun of my pain” “Let me make you a good mustard plaster, Dupie?” “How often have I told you, mad--ams -that-Ia case of-severe and sudden illness a trained physician should be sent for at once?” “But I thought, Dupie, you —•” “Nevermind what you thought, Mrs. Jones. The time for action has arrived.” “I’ll call Dr. Sedgwick, De Puyster.” “And tell him to hurry. I’m perfectly calm, Mrs. Jones,’but I may as well tell you that I consider my condition critical.” in. Bridget, the cook, went hurriedly down to the lower flat for Dr. Sedgwick. Meanwhile Mrs. Jones had put De Puyster back to bed with a hot water bottle at his feet and a compress on his forehead. Dr. Sedgwick came with a big case of medicine and another of instruments. Mr. Jones greeted his arrival with the groan. Dupie's pulse, the doctor said, was normal, though his skin was- flushed. Then Mrs. Jones held her husband’s head while the doctor opened his mouth and tbok a £nap shot of his interior arrangements. “Most alarming," he said, when he had completed the survey. “Your husband is suffering from severe inflammation of the alimentary canal. .The membrane is greatly irritated. There are also indications of bacillary undurated escula pius.” De Puyster groaned again despairingly. “Is it as bad as that," doctor?” whispered Maggie. “What are the chances of his recovery?" “We’ll pull him through all righty madam. It may be necessary later to remove a small portion of the duodenum. At present the best thing vou can do is to feed him on cracked ice. This will allay the thermal inflammation and afford at least temporary relief." Mrs. Jones filled a bowl with cracked ice and brought it to the bedside. “If the doctor ordered it, Maggie,"groaned De Puyster, feebly, “I suppose I’ll have to take it. But these sudden changes of diet are enough to kill anybody.” « • iv. “flow do you feel now, Dupie, dear?” asked Mrs. Jones at 7 o’clock the next morning. “Thank you, madam,” said De Puyster, stiffly. “The agony has abated." “And, Dupie, dear, I have an Idea." “Yes," assented her husband in a doubting tone of voice. “Do you remember what we had for dinner last night?" , “Perfectly, madam. Beefsteak—very tough beefsteak -potatoes, preserves and coffee, and— —” “A Welsh rarebit.” “Well, Mrs. Jones?"' “Isn’t it possible, Dupie, that the rarebit didn't agree with you?" “Do you mean to insinuate, madam, that nothing more than stomach ache was the matter with me last <jight?” “Don't get angry, Duple. Only

<1 vr>u know I felt a little shaky mysdf last night after eating the rarebit. I didn't have as many symptoms as , ?y ou— d id, and of courselcouldn’t kay anything about it when* you were so ill.” ' -“A wpman whq Will jeer at; her husband when he is lying onH bed or pain, Mrs. Jones ‘ Oh, Dupie, I’m not jeering. I think youare the bravest, dearest man in the world, and I shouldn’t bfe a bit surprised if -you- did have that ajyful disease the doctorspoke of.” - -- “Funny thing what fools doctors are." said De Puyster Jones to “Bob” Rogers, when the drug clerk came into the store the next afternoon . “What’s the friatter now?” asked Mr. Rogers, sympathetically. “We had a rarebit up at our house for dinner last night, and it gave me a bit of a stomach ache. My wife insisted on sending for a doctor, and just to humor her. I let him come. He poked down my throat and felt my pulse an<J told me I.was suffering from something with a name a foot loufl? In fact,4ie rather thought an operation would be necessary.” “And you’re all right this'morning?” “Why, certainly. The stuff the doctor forced on me stirred me a bit, but otherwise I’m as sound as a new dollar. Next time I’ll insist on having my own way about calling a physician at all,” Dickens’s Place in Literature? Frederick Harrison in t>.e For.un. A A . • The glory of Charles Dickens will always be in his “Pickwick,” his first, his best, his inimitable triumph. It is true that it is a novel without a plot, without beginning, middle or end, with much more of caricature than of character, with some extravagant" tomfoolery and plenty of vulgarity. ‘ But its originality, its irrepressible drolleries, its substantial human nature and its intense vitality place it quite in a class by itself. We can no more group it or test it by any canon of criticism than we cotild “Pantagruel” or “Faust,” There are some works of I genius which seem to transcend all criticism, of which the very extravagances and incoherences increase the charm. And Pickwick ought to live with Gil Blas and Tristram : Shandy. In a deeper vein, the tragic scenes in “Oliver Twist” and in “ Barnaby Ru dge” must long hold their ground, for ..they can be ■ read ’ and reread in youth, in manhood, in old age. The story., of Dotlieboys Hall, the Yarmouth memories of Copperfield, i Little Nell, Mrs. Gamp, Micawber. Topts, Capt. Cuttie, Pecksniff ’ and many more will continue to delight the youth of the English speakling races. But few writers’ are re- ' membered so keenly by certain -e Itara e-t-ers, ce rtai n ■ scrn e.s, - i neidental whimsies and so little for entire novels treated strictly as works of art. There is no reason whatever ■ for pretending that all the scores of t ales are at all to be com pared to the best-of themy or the4ftvention of some-Hfi m4am e scenes ami chararacter is enough to make a supreme I and faultless artist. The young and the uncritical make too much of ; Charles' Dickens when they fail to 'distinguish between his best and his worst. The fastidious seniors make too little of him when they note his many shortcomings and fail ' to see that in certain elements, of '•humor he has no equal and no rival. I If we mean Charles Dickens to live we must fix our eye on these supreme gifts alone.