And be perfectly calm and collected, unruffled,
While gently his sighs by a sunflower are muffled.
Again, when we reach the domain of the eye-
That beautiful organ so like to the sky-
The delicate, sensitive, beautiful slash
Iridectomy calls for, should be done with a gash
So fine in its features, so graceful in curve,
That nature will halt to admire its sweet swerve.
And then-now, you members who do much of this
Will want to get out your old student 's hiss—
In the line of obstetrics, where is the face
That never saw loveliness in such a place?
Your patient, of course, is having some pain!
But they're sweet, if they 're frequent enough, and again,
They certainly will, and its lovely to know,
Produce a production! a blossom, a blow!
In cases like this there should be no annoy ;
The nurse and attendants all pregnant with joy,
Should buoy up the patient (no pun-understand!)
And bring the whole cargo to light and to land.
Again, in prognosing any kind of disease,
It is well to avoid getting up any breeze
By telling the patients they 're likely to die,
When the trouble in fact may be all in your eye,
And the patient as safe as old Aristotle,
When he stranded on Greece like a castor oil bottle!
Just tell 'em you'll fetch 'em out all high and dry,
That all things are lovely and the goose hangeth high!
That the bright shining sun will be struck by a comet,
Before the hearse starts, and they ever get on it!
That the lilies which float in the sunlight 's broad gleam
Will pull out their roots and start up the stream
Before they e 'er launch in Charon 's old shell
Which crosses the river and paddles for—well,
Encourage your patients, and teach them to know
That there's something to live for, to blossom and grow;
Don't give up the case 'till flowers cease to bloom,
Because sadness comes o 'er you, despondence, and gloom!
Don't take a back seat while blossoms still flutter,
For there's flowers in physic "too utterly utter!"'
The Birth and Death of Pain
Read October 16, 1896, at the commemoration of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the First Public Demonstration of Surgical Anesthesia.
ORGIVE a moment, if a friend's regret,
Delay the task your honoring kindness set.
I miss one face to all men ever dear;
I miss one voice that all men loved to hear.
How glad were I to sit with you apart
Could the dead master use his higher art
To lift on wings of ever lightsome mirth
The burdened muse above the dust of earth,
To stamp with jests the heavy ore of thought,
To give a day, with proud remembrance fraught.
The vital pathos of that Holmes-spun art
Which knew so well to reach the common heart.
Alas! for me, for you, that fatal hour!
Gone is the master! Ah! not mine the power
To gild with jests, that almost win a tear,
The thronging memories that are with us here.
The Birth of Pain! Let centuries roll away;
Come back with me to nature's primal day.
What mighty forces pledged the dust to life!
What awful will decreed its silent strife!
Till through vast ages rose on hill and plain
Life's saddest voice, the birth-right wail of pain.
The keener sense, and ever growing mind,
Served but to add a torment twice refined,
As life, more tender, as it grew more sweet,
The cruel links of sorrow found complete
When yearning love to conscious pity grown
Felt the mad pain thrills, that were not its own.
What will implacable, beyond our ken,
Set this stern fiat for the tribes of men!
This, none shall 'scape, who share our human fates:
One stern democracy of anguish waits
By poor men's cots-within the rich man's gates.
What purpose hath it?
Nay, thy quest is vain :
If the baffled brain
Cries, 'tis to warn, to punish—Ah, refrain!
When writhes the child, beneath the surgeon's hand,
What soul shall hope that pain to understand?
Lo! Science falters o'er the hopeless task,
And Love and Faith in vain an answer ask,
When thrilling nerves demand what good is wrought
Where torture clogs the very source of thought.
Lo! Mercy ever broadening down the years
Seeks but to count a lessening sum of tears.
The rack is the torture chamber lies
A sorry show for shuddering tourists' eyes.
How useless pain, both Church and State have learned
Since the last witch, or patient martyr burned.
Yet still, forever, he who strove to gain
'By swift despatch a shorter lease for pain
Saw the grim theater, and 'neath his knife,
Felt the keen torture, in the quivering life.
A word for him who, silent, grave, serene,
The thought-stirred master of that tragic scene,
Recorded pity through the hand of skill,
Heard not a cry, but, ever conscious, still.
In mercy merciless, swift, bold intent,
Felt the slow moments that in torture went
While 'neath his touch, as none today has seen,
In anguish shook life's agonized machine.
The task is o'er; the precious blood is stayed;
But double price the hour of tension paid.
A pitying hand is on the sufferer's brow-
"Thank God 'tis over." Few who face me now
Recall this memory, let the curtain fall,
Far gladder days shall know this storied hall!
Though Science patient as the fruitful years,
Still taught our art to close some fount of tears,
Yet who that served this sacred home of pain
Could e'er have dreamed one scarce-imagined gain,
Or hoped a day would bring his fearful art
No need to steel the ever kindly heart.
So fled the years! While haply here or there,
Some trust delusive left the old despair;
Some comet thought-flashed fitful through the night,
No lasting record, and no constant light.
Then radiant morning broke, and ampler hope
To art and science gave illumined scope,
What Angel bore the Christ-like gift inspired
What love divine with noblest courage fired
One eager soul that paid in bitter tears
For the glad helping of unnumbered fears,
From the strange record of creation tore
The sentence sad, each sorrowing mother bore
Struck from the roll of pangs one awful sum,
Made pain a dream, and suffering gently dumb!
Whatever triumphs still shall hold the mind,
Whatever gifts shall yet enrich mankind,
Ah! here, no hours shall strike through all the years,
No hour as sweet, as when hope, doubt and fears,
'Mid deepening stillness, watched one eager brain,
With God-like will, decree the Death of Pain.
How did we thank him? Ah! no joy-bells rang,
No pæans greeted, and no poet sang,
No cannon thundered, from the guarded strand
This mighty victory to a grateful land!
We took the gift, so humbly, simply given,
And coldly selfish-left our debt to Heaven.
How shall we thank him? Hush! a gladder hour
Has struck for him; a wiser power
Shall know full well how fitly to reward
The generous soul, that found the world so hard.
Oh! fruitful Mother-you, whose thronging states,
Shall deal not vainly with man's changing fates,
Of freeborn thought, or war's heroic deeds,
Much have your proud hands given, but nought exceeds This Heaven-sent answer to the cry of prayer,
This priceless gift which all mankind may share.
A solemn hour for such as gravely pause
To note the process of creation's laws!
Ah, surely, he, whose dark, unfathomed mind
With prescient thought, the scheme of life designed,
Who bade His highest creature slowly rise,
Spurred by sad needs, and lured by many a prize,
Saw, with a God's pure joy, His ripening plan,
His highest mercy brought by man to man.
-DR. S. Weir Mitchell.
HERE in the corner Pharmacy,
This lithesome lady lingers,
And potent pills and philters true
Are fashioned by her fingers.
Her face behind the soda fount,
May oft be seen in summer,
How sweetly foams the soda fizz,
When you receive it from her!
While mixing belladonna drops
With tincture of lobelia
And putting up prescriptions she
Is fairer than Ophelia.
Each poison has its proper place,
Each potion in its chalice;
Her daedal fingers are so deft,
They call her digit Alice.
-DR. HARVEY WASHINGTON Wiley.
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