Part 96 (1/2)

”Well, that was all it was worth,” remarked Mr. Choate, quietly.

Another of these free advice fellows detained the author at the post-office last week, and very patronizingly asked,--

”What would you take for a code id de ed, docdor?”

”Take? take two pocket handkerchiefs,” was the cheap prescription for a cheap patient.

INGRATES.

”What, then! doth Charity fail?

Is Faith of no avail?

Is Hope blown out like a light By a gust of wind in the night?

The clas.h.i.+ng of creeds, and the strife Of the many beliefs, that in vain Perplex man's heart and brain, Are nought but the rustle of leaves, When the breath of G.o.d upheaves The boughs of the Tree of Life, And they subside again!

And I remember still The words, and from whom they came, Not he that repeateth the name, But he that doeth the will!”

”Of all men, the physician is most likely to discover the leading traits of character in his fellow-beings; on no other condition than that of sickness do they present themselves without those guards upon the countenance and tongue that an artificial mode of life has rendered almost indispensable to their existence; in city life, more especially.”

”The confiding patient often hangs, as it were, with an oppressive weight upon the conscientious physician, and if he be afflicted with a generous, sympathizing soul, farewell to his happiness. His heart will bleed for distress, both bodily and pecuniary, that he cannot alleviate, and he gives up in despair a profession which will so severely tax his nervous system as to render the best medical talent comparatively useless....

”Those who speak of the grat.i.tude of the low Catholic Irish in this (New York) city, or any other city, as they present their true characters to the young pract.i.tioner, will find but one opinion,--a more improvident, heartless, and dishonest cla.s.s of people never defiled the fair face of the earth. They are indeed a bitter curse to the young and humane physician.”

And this from the pen of one of the most n.o.ble and humane physicians of the great metropolis, whose generosity forbids him ever to refuse a visit, day or night, to the distressed, even amongst the lowest of the cla.s.s he so bitterly condemns. The above is the experience of other physicians besides Dr. Dixon, and in other cities besides New York.

During my days of extreme poverty in H., an Irish woman, whose child, suffering with cholera infantum, I s.n.a.t.c.hed from the very jaws of death, cheated me out of my fees, when I afterwards learned that she owned two tenements, and had money in the Savings Bank.

While I was practising in H., one cold winter's night, an Irishman came for me to go to Front Street, as a man had fallen down stairs, and was ”kilt intirely.”

”Then it is Mr. Roberts, the undertaker, whom you want,” I replied.

”O, no, he isn't kilt intirely, but broke his arrum, doctor.”

Therefore I drew on my boots, took my hat and case, and was soon at the designated number. A drunken row, as usual. It was near midnight, Sat.u.r.day night. A big, burly fellow lay on the bed in a large front room, surrounded by a dozen men and women, nearly all drunk, except the patient.

His arm was dislocated at the shoulder downward. I drew off my coat, jumped upon the bed, set the man up, raised the limb, clapped my knee under the limb, raised the arm, and using it for a lever, the bone snapped into the socket as quickly as I am telling the story.

”Ah, that gives me aise; ah, G.o.d bless you, docther. How mooch is the damage? Get the wallet, woman, and let me pay the good docther,” said the grateful patient. ”How mooch? Say it asy, noo.”

”Two dollars.” A very modest fee for such a job at midnight.

”O, the divil!” cried the woman. ”And is it two dollars for the snap of a job likes to that, noo, ye'll be axin' a poor man?”

I made no reply. The man asked for the money.

”Will yeze be axin' that much?” asked a six and a half foot Irishman who stood by the opposite side of the bed.