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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK AND THE CASE OF GEORGE DEDLOW
BY S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D. HARVARD AND EDINBURGH

CONTENTS
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK THE CASE OF GEORGE DEDLOW

INTRODUCTION
Both of the tales in this little volume appeared originally in the ``Atlantic Monthly'' as anonymous contributions. I owe to the present owners of that journal permission to use them. ``The Autobiography of a Quack '' has been recast with large additions.
``The Case of George Dedlow'' was not written with any intention that it should appear in print. I lent the manuscript to the Rev. Dr. Furness and forgot it. This gentleman sent it to the Rev. Edward Everett Hale. He, presuming, I fancy, that every one desired to appear in the ``Atlantic,'' offered it to that journal. To my surprise, soon afterwards I received a proof and a check. The story was inserted as a leading article without my name. It was at once accepted by many as the description of a real case. Money was collected in several places to assist the unfortunate man, and benevolent persons went to the ``Stump Hospital,'' in Philadelphia, to see the sufferer and to offer him aid. The spiritual incident at the end of the story was received with joy by the spiritualists as a valuable proof of the truth of their beliefs. S. WEIR MITCHELL

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK
At this present moment of time I am what the doctors call an interesting case, and am to be found in bed No. 10, Ward 11, Massachusetts General Hospital. I am told that I have what is called Addison's disease, and that it is this pleasing malady which causes me to be covered with large blotches of a dark mulatto tint. However, it is a rather grim subject to joke about, because, if I believed the doctor who comes around every day, and thumps me, and listens to my chest with as much pleasure as if I were music all through--I say, if I really believed him, I should suppose I was going to die. The fact is, I don't believe him at all. Some of these days I shall take a turn and get about again; but meanwhile it is rather dull for a stirring, active person like me to have to lie still and watch myself getting big brown and yellow spots all over me, like a map that has taken to growing.
The man on my right has consumption --smells of cod-liver oil, and coughs all night. The man on my left is a down-easter with a liver which has struck work; looks like a human pumpkin; and how he contrives to whittle jackstraws all day, and eat as he does, I can't understand. I have tried reading and tried whittling, but they don't either of them satisfy me, so that yesterday I concluded to ask the doctor if he couldn't suggest some other amusement.
I waited until he had gone through the ward, and then seized my chance, and asked him to stop a moment.
``Well, my man,'' said he, ``what do you want!''
I thought him rather disrespectful, but I replied, ``Something to do, doctor.''
He thought a little, and then said: ``I'll tell you what to do. I think if you were to write out a plain account of your life it would be pretty well worth reading. If half of what you told me last week be true, you must be about as clever a scamp as there is to be met with. I suppose you would just as lief put it on paper as talk it.''
``Pretty nearly,'' said I. ``I think I will try it, doctor.''
After he left I lay awhile thinking over the matter. I knew well that I was what the world calls a scamp, and I knew also that I had got little good out of the fact. If a man is what people call virtuous, and fails in life, he gets credit at least for the virtue; but when a man is a--is--well, one of liberal views, and breaks down, somehow or other people don't credit him with even the intelligence he has put into the business. This I call hard. If I did not recall with satisfaction the energy and skill with which I did my work, I should be nothing but disgusted at the melancholy spectacle of my failure. I suppose that I shall at least find occupation in reviewing all this, and I think, therefore, for my own