  EMINENT PHYSICIANS AND SURGEONS.
THEIR ORIGIN, BOYHOOD, EARLY STRUGGLES, ETC.—DOCTORS ARE PUBLIC PROPERTY.—DR. MOTT, OF OYSTER BAY.—DR. PARKER.—A “PLOUGH-BOY.”—THE FARMER’S BOY AND THE OLD DOCTOR.—SCENE IN BELLEVUE HOSPITAL.—“LEAVES FROM THE LIFE OF AN UNFLEDGED ÆSCULAPIAN.”—FIRST PATIENT.—“NONPLUSSED!”—ALL RIGHT AT LAST.—PROFESSORS EBERLE AND DEWEES.—A HARD START.—“FOOTING IT.”—ABERNETHY’S BOYHOOD.—“OLD SQUEERS.”—SPARE THE BOY AND SPOIL THE ROD.—A DIGRESSION.—SKIRTING A BOG.—AN AGREEABLE TURN.—PROFESSOR HOLMES.—A HOMELESS STUDENT. It is amusing, as well as instructive, to compare notes on the various circumstances which have led different young men to adopt the science of medicine as their profession. The advantages of birth and “noble blood” weigh lightly, when thrown into the balance, against circumstances of after life, and its necessities, in ourselves or fellow-creatures. In searching through biographies of famous people, of all ages and countries (to collect a chapter on “Origin of Great The earlier histories and traits of character—no matter which way they point—of all great men are interesting to review; and yet it is a lamentable fact that the accounts of boyhood days, aspirations, hopes, and struggles, with the many little interesting items and episodes of the youth of most great men are very meagre, and, in many cases, entirely lost to the world. In the published biographies of physicians this is particularly the case. You read the biography of one, and it will suffice for the whole. It begins something like this:— “Dr. A. was born in Blanktown, about the year 18—; entered the office of Dr. Bolus, where he studied physic; attended college at Spoon Haven, where he graduated with honors; arrived at eminence in his profession;” and, if defunct, ends, “he died at Mortgrass, and sleeps with his fathers. Requiescat in pace.” In presenting to the public the following little sketches of physicians, I may only say that doctors, of all men, are considered public property, and have suffered more of the public’s kicks and cuffs than any other class of men, from the time when Hercules amused himself by setting up old Dr. Chiron, and shooting poisoned arrows at his vulnerable heel, to the little divertisement of the lovely St. Calvin and his consistory in cooking Michael Servetus, the Spanish physician; to the imprisonment of our army surgeons by their “brethren” of the South, that they might not be instrumental in restoring Union soldiers to the ranks; or the more recent imprisonment of a physician without cause, and the wholesale slaughter of students, in the Isle of Cuba. “The Quaker Surgeon.” Dr. Valentine Mott gave no intimation, in his boyhood days, of the great ability that for a time seemed to lie A “plough-boy” is as likely to become an eminent surgeon as is the son of a practising physician. Dr. Willard Parker, one of the most prominent physicians and surgeons of New York city, was born in New Hampshire, in 1802, of humble though most respectable parents. When Willard was but a few years old, his family removed to Middlesex County, Mass., evidently with a hope of bettering their circumstances. Here Mr. Parker entered more fully upon the practical duties of an agricultural life, instructing his son Willard, when not attending the village school, in the mysteries of “Haw, Buck, and gee up, Dobbin.” Until he was sixteen years old, young Parker was brought up a “plough-boy” and a tiller of the soil. From a “plough-boy” he became the “master” of a village school, “teaching the young idea how to shoot,” which honest pursuit he continued for several years, until he had accumulated sufficient means to enter Harvard. He was a hard-working student, and his books were not thrown aside when he had obtained a diploma, in 1830.... As a lecturer and operator, Dr. Parker has been most successful.... Since the death of Dr. Valentine Mott, in April, 1865, Professor Parker has been elected president of the New York Inebriate Asylum (Binghamton). An Onondaga Farmer Boy. Imagine, dear reader, looking back over the space of nearly forty years, that you see an uncouth young man, twenty years of age, clad in the coarse clothes and cowhide boots of an Onondaga farmer, who, straightening up from his laborious task of potato hoeing, stops for a moment, leaning with one hand upon his hoe, while he wipes the sweat from his handsome, intelligent, though sun-burned brow with a cotton handkerchief in the other. Here is a picture for a painter! Now he seems studiously observing the old village doctor, who, seated in his crazy old gig, drawn by his ancient sorrel mare, is leisurely jogging by on the main turnpike. THE ONONDAGA FARMER BOY. “Good evening, Stephen; p’taters doin’ well?” says the doctor. Receiving an affirmative answer, the doctor drives past, and is gone from the sight, but not from the memory, of the young farmer. “And that is a representative of the science of medicine!” So saying, the young man “hoed out his row,”—which was his last,—picked up his coat, and returned to the parental mansion, but a few rods distant. This was the turning-point in his life. It is operating-day at Bellevue Hospital, in New York city. A very serious and important operation is about to be performed. Three hundred students and physicians are seated in a semicircle under the great dome of the hospital, in profound silence and intense interest, while the professor and attending surgeon is delivering a brief but comprehensive lecture relative to the forthcoming operation. The speaker is a man of middle age, medium height, deep, expressive eyes, well-developed brow, with that excellent quality of muscle and nerve that is only the result of earlier out-door exercise and development, with calm deportment and modest speech. “His conciseness of expression and quiet self-possession are evident to every beholder, and comprehensive and congenial to every listener.” Who is this splendid man before whom students and physicians bow in such profound respect and veneration, and to whom even Professors Mott, Parker, Elliott, Clark, etc., give especial attention? It is Stephen Smith, M. D., once the Onondaga farmer boy! Says Dr. Francis, of New York, “When a youthful farmer is seen studying the works of learned authors during that portion of the day which is generally set aside for relaxation and pleasing pastime, one may easily predict for him ultimate success in the branch of life that he may choose, provided he follows out the higher instincts of his nature. The same zeal that caused Stephen Smith, farmer, to study at the risk of ease, and meet the fatigue of body with the energies of mind, has ever marked his course in after years.” Commencing Practice. From that excellent work, “Scenes in the Practice of a New York Surgeon,” by Dr. E. H. Dixon, I copy, with “In the year 1830 I was sent forth, like our long-suffering and much-abused prototype,—old father Noah’s crow,—from the ark of safety, the old St. Duane Street College. I pitched my tent, and set up my trap, in what was then a fashionable up-town street. “I hired a modest house, and had my arm-chair, my midnight couch, and my few books in my melancholy little office, and I confess that I now and then left an amputating-knife, or some other awful-looking instrument, on the table, to impress the poor women who came to me for advice. “These little matters, although the ‘Academy’ would frown upon them, I considered quite pardonable. God knows I would willingly have adopted their most approved method of a splendid residence, and silver-mounted harnesses for my bays; but they were yet in dream-land, eating moonbeams, and my vicious little nag had nearly all this time to eat his oats and nurse his bad temper in his comfortable stable. “In this miserable way I read over my old books, watered my rose-bushes,—sometimes with tears,—drank my tea and ate my toast, and occasionally listened to the complaint of an unfortunate Irish damsel, with her customary account of ‘a pain in me side an’ a flutterin’ about me heart.’ At rare intervals I ministered to some of her countrywomen in their fulfilment of the great command when placed in the Garden of Eden. (What a dirty place it would have been if inhabited by Irish women!) “And thus I spent nearly a year without a single call to any person of character. I think I should have left in despair if it had not been for a lovely creature up the street. She was the wife of a distinguished fish merchant down town. “This lovely woman was Mrs. Mackerel. I will explain “One bitter cold night in January, just as I was about to retire, a furious ring at the front door made me feel particularly amiable! A servant announced the sudden and alarming illness of Mrs. Mackerel, with the assurance that as the family physician was out of town, Mrs. M. would be obliged if I would immediately visit her. Accordingly, I soon found myself in the presence of the accomplished lady, having—I confess it—given my hair an extra touch as I entered the beautiful chamber. “Mrs. Mackerel was not a bad-tempered lady; she was only a beautiful fool—nothing less, dear reader, or she would have never married old Mackerel. Her charms would have procured her a husband of at least a tolerable exterior. His physiognomy presented a remarkable resemblance to his namesake. Besides, he chewed and smoked, and the combination of the aroma of his favorite luxuries with the articles of his merchandise must have been most uncongenial to the curve of such lips and such nostrils as Mrs. Mackerel’s. “I was received by Mr. Mackerel in a manner that increased observation has since taught me is sufficiently indicative of the hysterical finale of a domestic dialogue. He was not so obtuse as to let me directly into the true cause of his wife’s nervous attack and his own collectedness, and yet he felt it would not answer to make too light of it before me. “Mr. and Mrs. M. had just returned from a party. (The party must be the ‘scape-goat’!) He assured me that as the lady was in the full enjoyment of health previously, he felt obliged to attribute the cause of her attack and speechless condition—for she spoke not one word, or gave a sign—to the dancing, heated room, and the supper. “I was fully prepared to realize the powers of ice-cream, “I placed my finger on her delicate and jewelled wrist. All seemed calm as the thought of an angel’s breast! “I was nonplussed. ‘Could any tumultuous passion ever have agitated that bosom so gently swelling in repose?’ “Mackerel’s curious questions touching my sagacity as to his wife’s condition received about as satisfactory a solution as do most questions put to me on the cause and treatment of diseases; and having tolerably befogged him with opinions, and lulled his suspicions to rest, by the apparent innocent answers to his leading questions, he arrived at the conclusion most desirable to him, viz., that I was a fool—a conviction quite necessary in some nervous cases.... “So pleased was Mr. M. with the soothing influences of my brief visit that he very courteously waited on me to the outside door, instead of ordering a servant to show me out, and astonished me by desiring me to call on the patient again in the morning. “After my usual diversion of investigating ‘a pain an’ a flutterin’ about me heart,’ and an ‘O, I’m kilt intirely,’ I visited Mrs. Mackerel, and had the extreme pleasure of finding her quite composed, and in conversation with her fashionable friend, Mrs. Tiptape. The latter was the daughter of a ‘retired milliner,’ and had formed a desirable union with Tiptape, the eminent dry goods merchant. Fortunately—for she was a woman of influence—I passed the critical examination of Mrs. T. unscathed by her sharp black eyes, and, as the sequel will show, was considered by her ‘quite an agreeable person.’ “One evening she assured me that she felt she should now rapidly recover, as Mr. Mackerel had concluded to take her to Saratoga. I, of course, acquiesced in the decision, though my previous opinion had not been asked. I took a final leave of the lovely woman, and the poor child soon departed for Saratoga. “The ensuing week there was a sheriff’s sale at Mackerel’s residence. The day following the Mackerels’ departure, Mr. Tiptape did me the honor to inquire after the health of my family; and a week later, Master Tiptape having fallen and bumped his dear nose on the floor, I had the felicity of soothing the anguish of his mamma in her magnificent boudoir, and holding to her lovely nose the smelling salts, and offering such consolation as her trying position required!” Thus was commenced the practice of one of the first physicians of New York. The facts are avouched for. The names, of course, are manufactured, to cover the occupation of the parties. The doctor still lives, in the enjoyment of a lucrative and respectable practice, and the love and confidence of his numerous friends and patrons. Quite as ludicrous scenes could be revealed by most physicians, if they would but take the time to think over their earlier efforts, and the various circumstances which were mainly instrumental in getting them into a respectable practice. How Professor Eberle started. The young man who has just squeezed through a medical college, and come out with his “sheepskin,” who thinks all Energy and determination are better property than even scholastic lore and a medical diploma, for unless you possess the former, talent and education fall to the earth. Dr. William P. Dewees, formerly Professor of Obstetrics in the University of Pennsylvania, the celebrated author, physician, and surgeon, practised seventeen years before he obtained a diploma. He was of Swedish descent on his father’s side, and Irish on his mother’s. His father died in very limited circumstances, when William was a boy; hence he received no collegiate education until such time as he could earn means, by his own efforts, to pay for that coveted desideratum. We find him, with an ordinary school education, serving as an apothecary’s clerk, a student of medicine, and at the early age of twenty-one years trying to practise medicine in a country town fourteen miles from Philadelphia. Young Dewees possessed great talent and energy, but his personal appearance was scarcely such, at that early age, as to inspire the stoical country folks with the requisite confidence to speedily intrust him with their precious lives and more cherished coppers! “He was scarcely of medium stature, florid complexion, brown hair, and was remarkably youthful in his appearance,” says Professor Hodge, M. D. I have before me an excellent likeness “of the embryo professor,” which admirably corresponds with the description A hard Starting. Sketch of Western Practice.—The following interesting sketch is from the able pen of Dr. Richmond, of Ohio, now a wealthy and eminent M. D. It was originally contributed, if I mistake not, to the “Scalpel.” “I set myself down with my household goods in a land of strangers. How I was to procure bread, or what I was to do, were shrouded in the mysterious future. Memory came to my consolation; for, in spite of myself, the ‘Diary of a London Physician,’ read in other days, came, with its racy pictures, flitting before my mind’s eye; and I knew not but I, too, might yet wish myself, my Mary, and my child sleeping in the cold grave, to hide me from the persecution that seemed to follow me with such sleepless vigilance.... “My store of old watches now came into play. A gentleman wishing to sell out his land, I invested all the wealth I possessed in the purchase of a ten-acre lot, shouldered my axe, and by the aid of a brother I soon prepared logs for the mill sufficient to erect me a small dwelling. I never was happier than when preparing the ground and splitting the blocks of sandstone for the foundation of my house. One customer, whose wife I had carried through a lingering fever, furnished me a frame for a dwelling, and I fell in his debt for a pair of boots. Another furnished nails and glass, and in the course of eight months I moved into my new house. “For two years I fed my cow, and raised my own provender to feed my gallant nag, which shared my toil and its “My nag had died, and the terrible drought of 1846 forced me to relinquish the horse I had hired, and for five months I performed all my visits on foot, often travelling from six to ten miles to see one patient.... “These were trying times; but what if the elements were unpropitious? I had food and shelter for myself and family,—blessings about which I had often been in doubt,—and I was fully prepared to let ‘the heathen rage, and the people imagine’ what they chose!... The first winter was one of great severity; the weather was very changeable, and the most awful snow-storms were often succeeded by heavy rains, and the roads so horrid as to be impassable on horseback or in carriages. I had a patient five miles distant, sick with lung fever, and, in an attendance of forty days I made thirty journeys on foot (three hundred miles to attend one patient!) His recovery added much to my reputation, and I received for my services a new cloak and coat, which I much needed, and a hive of honey bees!... “An old horse which I again hired of a friend had a polite way of limping, and was a source of much merriment among my patrons. I persistently attributed what they deemed a fault entirely to the politeness of the quadruped; and this nag, with my plain and rustic appearance, endeared me to the laboring population, and thus my calamities became my greatest friends. My fortune changed, and the experience and name I had acquired now came in as capital in trade, and a flood of ‘luck’ soon followed.” Abernethy’s Boyhood. Seated upon the outside of an ancient London stage-coach, to which were attached four raw-boned, old horses, just ready to start for Wolverhaven one pleasant afternoon, you may easily imagine, kind reader,—for it is a fact,—a THE POLITE QUADRUPED. The stage-horn is sounded, the driver cracks his whip, the sleepy old nags wake up, the coach rocks from side to side, and in a moment more the team is off for its destination. Why! the reader is readily reminded of the scene of “Old Squeers,” taking the wretched little boys down to his “Academy,” in Yorkshire, “where youth were boarded, clothed, furnished with pocket-money,” and taught everything, from “writing to trigonometry,” “arithmetic to astronomy,” The elderly gentleman, in top-wig and immense ruffles, was Dr. Robertson, teacher of Wolverhampton Grammar School, and the chubby little boy was Master John Abernethy. Who the “other boy” was is not known, as he never made his mark in after life. Says Dr. Macilwain,— “We can quite imagine a little boy, careless in his dress, not slovenly, however, with both hands in his trousers pockets, some morning about the year 1774, standing under the sunny side of the wall at Wolverhampton School; his pockets containing, perhaps, a few shillings, some ha’pence, a knife with the point broken, a pencil, together with a tolerably accurate sketch of ‘Old Robertson’s wig,’—which article, shown in an accredited portrait now before us, was one of those enormous by-gone bushes, which represented a sort of impenetrable fence around the cranium, as if to guard the precious material within; the said boy just finishing a story to his laughing companions, though no sign of mirth appeared in him, save the least curl of the lip, and a smile that would creep out of the corner of his eye in spite of himself.” YOUNG ABERNETHY. “The doctor” was represented as being a passionate man. “‘Why, what an old plagiarist Mr. Dickens must have been!’ you exclaim. “But the case in ‘Nicholas Nickleby’ is worse, far worse, for ‘the little boy sitting on the trunk only sneezed.’ “‘Hallo, sir,’ growled the schoolmaster (Squeers), ‘what’s that?’ “‘Nothing, sir,’ replied the little boy. “‘Nothing, sir!’ exclaimed Squeers. “‘Please, sir, I sneezed!’ rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him. “‘O, sneezed, did you?’ retorted Mr. Squeers. ‘Then what did you say “Nothing” for, sir?’ “In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into his eyes, and began to cry; wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the head, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.” Robertson was a fact; Squeers was a fable. That’s the difference. As Dr. Robertson taught neither arithmetic nor writing in his school, the pupils went to King Street, to a Miss Ready, to receive instruction in those branches. This lady, if report is true, wielded the quill and cowhide with equal grace and mercy, and when the case came to hand, did not accept the modern advice, to “spare the boy and spoil the rod.” When the great surgeon was at the height of his fame, in London, many years afterwards, Miss Ready, still rejoicing An old schoolmate, when eighty-five years old, wrote to the author of “Memoirs of Abernethy,” saying, among other things, “In sports he took the first place, and usually made a strong side; was quick and active, and soon learned a new game.” It was contrary to his own desire that John Abernethy became a physician. “Had my father let me be a lawyer, I should have known by heart every act of Parliament,” he repeatedly affirmed. This was not bragging, as the following anecdote will illustrate:— On a birthday anniversary of Mrs. Abernethy, mother of John, a gentleman recited a long copy of verses, which he had composed for the occasion. “Ah,” said young Abernethy, “that is a good joke, pretending you have written these verses in honor of my mother. Why, sir, I know those lines well, and can say them by heart.” “It is quite impossible, as no one has seen the copy but myself,” rejoined the gentleman, the least annoyed by the accusation of plagiarism. Upon this Abernethy arose, and repeated them throughout, correctly, to the no small discomfiture of the author. Abernethy had remembered them by hearing the gentleman recite them but once! “A boy thwarted in his choice of a profession is generally somewhat indifferent as to the course next presented to him.” Residing next door neighbor to Abernethy’s father was Dr. Charles Blicke, a surgeon in extensive practice. This was very convenient. Sir Charles is represented as having been quick-sighted enough to discover that “the Abernethy boy” “All that young Abernethy probably knew of Sir Charles was, that he rode about in a fine carriage, saw a great many people, and took a great many fees; all of which, though presenting no further attractions for Abernethy, made a prima facie case not altogether repulsive.” We must not forget to mention that young Abernethy was of a very inquiring mind. “When I was a boy,” he said in after years, “I half ruined myself in buying oranges and sweetmeats, in order to ascertain the effects of different kinds of diet on diseases.” Whether he tried said “oranges and other things” on himself or some unfortunate victim, my informant saith not; but I leave the reader to decide by his own earlier appetites and experiences. “When I was a boy,” I think is significant of the probabilities that it was his own digestive organs that were “half ruined.” Be it as it may, it reminds me of the case of a little country boy, who, on his first advent to the city on a holiday, was chaperoned by his somewhat older and sharper city cousin,—“one of the b’hoy’s,”—who exercised a sort of vigilance over the uninitiated rustic, that the little fellow might not surfeit himself by too great a rapacity for peanuts, gingerbread, candies, and oranges, often generously sharing the danger by partaking largely of the small boy’s purchases in order to spare his more delicate stomach. Finding the ignorant little rustic about to devour a nice-looking orange, his cousin pounced upon him just in time to prevent the rash act. “Here, Sammy; don’t you know that is one of the nastiest and most indigestiblest things you could put into your stomach? Give it here!” “Leastwise, Sammy, let’s have a hold of it, and suck the abominable juice out for you.” (For this digression I beg the pardon of the reader; for the idea I thank Frank Leslie.) George Macilwain, M. D., F. R. C. S., etc., in prefacing the life of the great London surgeon, gives a brief and interesting sketch of his own boyhood, also his early impressions of Abernethy, and his first attendance on his lectures. “My father practised on the border of a forest, and when he was called at night to visit a distant patient, it was the greatest treat to me, when a little boy, to be allowed to saddle my pony and accompany him. I used to wonder what he could find so ‘disagreeable’ in that which was to me the greatest possible pleasure; for whether we were skirting a bog on the darkest night, or cantering over the heather by moonlight, I certainly thought there could be nobody happier than I and my pony. It was on one of these occasions that I first heard the name of ‘Abernethy.’ The next distinct impression I have of him was derived from hearing father say that a lady patient of his had gone up to London to have an operation performed by Dr. Abernethy, though my father did not think the operation necessary to a cure, and that Abernethy entirely agreed with him; that the operation was not performed; that he sent the lady back, and she was recovering. This gave me a notion that Dr. Abernethy must be a good man, as well as a great physician. “As long as surgery meant riding across the forest with my father, holding his horse, or, if he stopped in too long, seeing if his horse rode as well as my pony, I thought it a very agreeable occupation; but when I found that it included many other things not so agreeable, I soon discovered that there was a profession I liked much better.... “When Dr. Abernethy entered, I was pleased with the expression of his countenance. I almost fancied he sympathized with the melancholy with which I felt oppressed. At first I listened with some attention; as he proceeded, I began even to feel pleasure; as he progressed, I found myself entertained; and before he concluded, I was delighted. What an agreeable, happy man he seems! What a fine profession! What wouldn’t I give to know as much as he does! Well, I will see what I can do. In short, I was converted.” All who ever heard him lecture agree that Dr. Abernethy had a most happy way of addressing students. Notwithstanding he has often been represented as rough in his every-day intercourse with men, he was easy, mild, and agreeable in the lecture-hall, and kind and compassionate in the operating-room. After having carefully studied all that has been written respecting his style and manner as a lecturer and delineator, and also studiously listened to and watched the ways and peculiarities of our most excellent lecturer on anatomy at Harvard, I find many striking resemblances between Dr. Abernethy and Professor Oliver Wendell Holmes. “The position of Abernethy was always easy and natural, sometimes almost homely. In the anatomical lecture he always stood, and either leaned against the wall, with his arms folded before him, or rested one hand on the table; sometimes one hand in his pocket. In his surgical lecture he usually sat. He was particularly happy in a kind of cosiness, or friendliness of manner, which seemed to identify him with his audience, as if we were about to investigate He always kept his eye on the audience, except slightly turning to one side to explain a diagram or subject, “turning his back on no man.” “He had no offensive habits. We have known lecturers who never began without making faces;” we might add, “and with many a hem and haw, or nose-blowing.” “Not long ago we heard a very sensible lecturer, and a very estimable man, produce a most ludicrous effect by the above. He had been stating very clearly some important facts, and he then observed,— “‘The great importance of these I will now proceed to show—’ when he immediately began to apply his pocket-handkerchief most vigorously to his nose, still facing his audience.” The ludicrousness of this “illustration” may well be imagined. Of course the students lost their gravity, and laughed and cheered vigorously. Going in to hear Dr. Holmes lecture, at one o’clock one afternoon, recently, the writer was both shocked and astonished, on the occasion of the professor slipping in a pleasing innuendo, by hearing the students cheer with their hands, and stamp with their thick boots on the seats. I shall have occasion to refer to this splendid man, the pleasing lecturer, the skilful operator, the able author, the ripe scholar, the pride of Harvard and the state,—Dr. O. W. Holmes,—in another chapter. The homeless Student. (Scene from the Early Life of a Boston Physician. By permission.) Standing on the steps of the Astor House, New York, one cheerless forenoon in early June, with my carpet-bag in one hand and my fresh medical diploma in the other, with a heavy weight of sorrow at my heart, and only sixteen cents in my pocket, I presented, to myself at least, a picture of such utter despair as words are inadequate to express.[4] My home—no; I had none—the home, rather, of my kind old father-in-law, where dwelt, for the time being, my wife and child, was many hundred miles away. And how was I to reach it? I could not walk that distance, and sixteen cents would not carry me there. I looked up Broadway, and I looked down towards the Battery. I was alone amid an immense sea of humans, which ebbed and flowed continually past me. O, how wistfully I looked to see if there might be one face amongst the throng which I might recognize! but there was none. Strange, passing strange, not one of that host did I ever gaze upon before! Where—how—should I raise the money necessary to take me from this land of strangers? “Pinny, sir? Just one pinny. Me father is broken up, and me mither is sick at home. For God’s sake give me jist one pinny to buy me some bread.” I turned my gaze upon the picture of squalor and wretchedness just by my side. I need not describe her; she was just like a thousand others in that great Babel. “Here is doubtless a case of distress, but it is not of the heart, like mine. Such poor have no heart. Skin, muscle, head, stomach! heart, none!” “Where is your father, did you say?” I asked, mechanically. “In the Slarter-house; broken up from a fall from a “What is he doing in a slaughter-house, sis?” I inquired. “The Slarter-house is Bellyvew horse-pittle, sir; that’s what we Irish call it, sir. Will ye give me the pinny, sir?” “PINNY, SIR? JUST ONE PINNY.” “O, yes, to be sure. Here are pennies for you. Go!” I knew of a poor Irishman who was brought in there at the hospital a few days before badly “broken up” from a fall on Twenty-sixth Street. His name was John Murphy; they are all named Murphy, or something similar; so it was useless to ask the child her father’s name—probably it would have been Murphy. The conversation had the good effect of arousing me from my lethargy to action. I must not stay in this metropolis I went to Professor ——, the dean, and requested him to take back my diploma, and let me have sufficient money to carry me home. He complied—God bless him!—and I took the Sound steamer that afternoon for the land of my nativity. What cared I if I was a second-class passenger; I would in two days see my wife and my child! ········ I had reached home, and was in the bosom of my family once more, and amongst my friends, in a Christian land; for which I “thanked God, and took courage.” “Then pledged me the wine-cup, and fondly I swore I had a “call” to practise in a country town twenty-five miles from E——, where my family was to remain a few days till I had secured a house to cover their heads amongst the good friends who were to become my future patrons, as a few of them had been previous to my going to college. The stage, a one-horse affair, called for my trunk, medicine-case, etc., and, having no money with which to pay my fare, I told the driver that “I would walk along,” while he picked up another passenger in an opposite direction, “and if he overtook me on the road before I got a ride with some one going to S——, he could take me in.” I walked bravely along a mile or more, and, hearing the stage coming, I stepped from the road-side, secreting myself beneath a friendly tree till he drove past. Issuing from my hiding-place, I trudged along till noon. My darling little wife had taken the precaution to place in my oversack pocket some doughnuts and cheese, and, when I had reached a clear, running brook, I sat myself down upon a log, under the shade Thus refreshed, I picked up my overcoat, and again walked along. Before dark I reached S——, pretty tired and foot-sore from such a long walk. THE PENNILESS PHYSICIAN. The people, who were expecting me, were much surprised at my non-arrival in the mail; but the unsophisticated driver assured them I had probably secured a ride ahead of him, and I would put in an appearance before nightfall. About midnight the door-bell rang,—I stopped at the hotel that night,—and a young gentleman asked for Dr. C. I answered the call at once, which was to the daughter of one of the most influential citizens of the place. The young man who called me was her intended. They had been to a party, and she had partaken freely of oysters, milk, and pickles. Never did fifteen grains of ipecac prove a greater friend to The news of the new doctor’s arrival, fresh from a New York college, and his first “remarkable cure of the post-master’s daughter” that same night, spread like wildfire, and my reputation was nearly established. |
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