Addison Darre Crabtre

THE DOCTOR AS POET, AUTHOR, AND MUSICIAN.

“Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.” “To patient study, and unwearied thought, And wise and watchful nurture of his powers, Must the true poet consecrate his hours: Thus, and thus only, may the crown be bought Which his great brethren all their lives have sought; For not to careless wreathers of chance-flowers Openeth the Muse her amaranthine bowers, But to the few, who worthily have fought The toilsome fight, and won their way to fame. With such as these I may not cast my lot, With such as these I must not seek a name; Content to please a while and be forgot; Winning from daily toil—which irks me not— Rare and brief leisure my poor song to frame.”

OUR PATRON, OUR PATTERN.—SOME WRITERS.—SOME BLUNDERS.—AN OLD SMOKER.—OLD GREEKS.—A DUKE ANSWERED BY A COUNTRY MISS.—THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.—“LITTLE DAISY.”—“CASA WAPPA!”—FINE POETRY.—MORE SCHOOLMASTERS AND TAILORS.—NAPOLEON’S AND WASHINGTON’S PHYSICIANS.—A FRENCH “BUTCHER.”—A DIF. OF OPINION.—SOME EPITAPHS.—DR. HOLMES’ “ONE-HOSS SHAY.”—HEALTHFUL INFLUENCE OF MUSIC.—SAVED BY MUSIC.—A GERMAN TOUCH-UP.—MUSIC ON ANIMALS.—MUSIC AMONG THE MICE.—MUSIC AND HEALTH.

Apollo,—the father of Æsculapius, the “father of physicians”—was the god of poetry and of music, as well as the patron of physicians. He presented to Mercurius the famous caduceus, which has descended in the semblance of the shepherd’s crook—he being the protector of shepherds and the Muses—and the physician’s cane and surgeon’s pole. Apollo is represented with flowing hair,—which the Romans loved to imitate, with an effort also at his graces of person and mind. Students at this day who court the Muses begin by allowing, or coaxing their hair to grow long, forgetting, as they nurse a sickly goatee or mustache, assisting its show by an occasional dose of nitrate of silver, that their god was further represented as a tall, beardless youth, and instead of a bottle or cigar, he held a lyre in his hand and discoursed music.

AN EMBRYO APOLLO.

I think Dr. Apollo a very safe pattern for our students to imitate, those particularly who are “fast,” and who only think, with Bobby Burns,—

“Just now we’re living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail;
Heave care owre side!
And large, before enjoyment’s gale,
Let’s tak the tide.”

It is quite impossible to mention all, even of the most celebrated of our physicians, who have contributed to the literary and musical world. But I shall quote a sufficient number to disprove the assertion that “literary physicians have not, as a rule, prospered as medical practitioners.”

Who has developed and promulgated the knowledge relative to anatomy, chemistry, physiology, botany, etc., but the physicians? The true representation of sculpture, of painting, of engraving, and most of the arts, depends upon the learned writing of the doctors.

Da Vinci owed his success as a portrait painter to his knowledge of anatomy and physiology derived from study under a physician, as also did Michael Angelo. How would our Powers have succeeded as a sculptor, without this knowledge, or Miss Bonheur as a painter of animals? Dr. Hunter says “Vinci (L.) was at the time the best anatomist in the world.”

Crabbe, to be sure, failed as a physician, but succeeded as a literary man; but then Crabbe was no physician, and was unread in medicine and surgery. Arbuthnot also failed in the same manner, and for the same cause. All who have so failed may attribute it to the fact they did not succeed in what they were not, but did succeed in what they were—as Oliver Goldsmith. He squandered at the gaming table the money given him by his kind uncle to get him through Trinity College, and though spending two years afterwards in Edinburgh, and passing one year at Leyden, ostensibly reading medicine, he totally failed to pass an examination before the surgeons of the college at London, and was rejected “as being insufficiently informed.” He had previously been writing for the unappreciative booksellers, and authorship now became, per force, his only means of livelihood.

Goldsmith was an excellent, kind-hearted man; and if he had only got married and had a good wife to develop him, he would have been a greater man than he was.

It has been intimated in these pages that Shakspeare was prejudiced against medicine,—throwing “physic to the dogs;” but it is evident from a careful perusal of his works that Shakspeare was ignorant, and also superstitious, as respects this much abused science. Of the superstitions we need not further treat, but refer the intelligent reader to any of his plays for the truth of our intimation.

In Act II., Scene 1, of Coriolanus, he says by Menenius Agrippa, the friend of Coriolanus, “It gives me an estate of seven years’ health, in which time I will make a lip at the physician; the most sovereign prescription of Galen is but empirical,” etc. Coriolanus was banished from Rome, and died in the fifth century before Christ (about 490), and Galen was not born till six hundred years afterwards, viz.,—A. D. 130.

We should smile to see the Apollo Belvedere with “glasses on his nose,”—as many of our young ape-ollos now wear for effect; but it would scarcely be less ridiculous than Gloster saying in Lear, “I shall not want spectacles.” King Lyr reigned during the earliest period of the Anglo-Saxon history, and spectacles were not introduced into England until the beginning of the fourteenth century. It is said that the painter Cigoli in his representation of the aged Simeon at the circumcision of Christ, made this same error by placing spectacles on the patriarch’s nose.

More ludicrous than either of the above is the painting by Albert Durer, the German artist (about 1515), of his scene, “Peter denying Christ,” wherein he represents a Roman soldier leaning against the door-post comfortably smoking a tobacco pipe. The pipe, to which Germans are particularly partial, was just being introduced during Durer’s latter years. The tobacco was not introduced into Europe until 1496, and was, when first burned, twisted together.[8]

The Spaniards, in their report on their return from the first voyage of Columbus said that “the savages would twist up long rolls of tobacco leaves, and lighting one end, smoke away like devils.” (The primitive cigar.)

Ancient Greek Authors.

Nearly all the ancient Greek physicians were authors of no mean calibre, considering the age in which they lived.

Pherecydes, a Greek philosopher and physician, wrote a book on diet during the sixth century before Christ. Pythagoras, his illustrious pupil, was said to be the first who dissected animals. He wrote, and taught anatomy and physiology, in the school of Crotona. Herodotus was a great teacher and writer; also Herophilus, his pupil. (B. C. 4th century.) There were four physicians named Hippocrates. The second of that name has nearly eclipsed all the others. The period in which he lived was highly favorable to the development of the qualities of the great Hippocrates. He was contemporary with Plato, Herodotus, who was his teacher, Pericles, Socrates, Thucydides, etc.

The most notable works of Hippocrates are 1st and 3d “Books on Epidemics,” “Prognostics,” “Treatise on Air and Water,” “Regime of Acute Diseases,” and “Treatise on Wounds.”

Heraclitus, of Ephesus, is conjectured to be the first who dissected the human body. “The principle of his theory is the recognition of the fire of life and the ethereal element of wisdom as the ground of all visible existence.” Fragments of his writings, only, have been preserved. He imitated Pythagoras.

Theophrastus wrote a book on plants. He lived to be one hundred and seven years old.

Herophilus first made diagnosis by the pulse, upon which he wrote a book.

Celsus was the author of eight works, yet Pliny makes no mention of him. Galen spoke of him as an excellent physician and writer; also Bostock.

Galen was a man of great talent and education. Suidas—11th century—says he wrote no less than five hundred books on medicine, and half as many on other subjects. His native tongue was Greek, but he also wrote in Latin and Persic.

Besides medicine, the above famous physicians wrote on philosophy, history, religion, etc. Poetry in those days was little more than heroic, or epic, prose.

The Duke answered by a Country Miss.

Since I am not writing a medical history, I need not go on to quote the long list of the names of those who from the old Greek days to the present time have been both authors and successful medical practitioners. Their bare names would fill a large volume, and who would care to read them? To the general reader they would be quite unwelcome. The reason why medical authors are so little known is, that their writings have been too wearisome for the general reader. Such English authors as the satirical Wolcot (Peter Pindar), the courteous essayist Drake, the poetical and nature-loving Davy, and the “single-hearted, affectionate” Dr. Moir, are remembered, while greater and deeper thinkers and writers are, with their works, buried in oblivion.

When the Duke of Kent was last in America (1819), he was one day taking observations in the country, when he entered a cosy little farm-house, where he noticed a pretty young girl, reading a book.

“Do you have books here, my dear?” he asked, contemptuously.

“O, yes, sir,” replied the girl naively, “we have the Bible and Peter Pindar.”

That was a model house. The Bible and fun-provoking “Peter Pindar!” Under such a roof you will find no guile. Here you will avoid the extremes of “all work and no play,” for the mind, “that makes Jack a dull boy,” and “all play and no work,” which “makes him a mere toy.”

I have visited some houses in New England where the Bible, and “Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted,” were the only books to be seen; others where nothing was to be found upon the shelves but a vile collection of novels, such as Mrs. Partington has termed “yaller-cupboard literature.” These need no comment, in either case.

The Pilgrims and the Peas.

Our only excuse for copying this from Pindar will be found in reading the poem, slightly abbreviated. The pilgrims were ordered by the priest to do penance by walking fifty miles with peas in their shoes.

“The knaves set off upon the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;
But very different their speed, I wot;
One of the sinners galloped on,
Light as a bullet from a gun,
The other limped as though he’d been shot.
“One saw the Virgin soon, ‘Peccavi!’ cried,
Had his soul whitewashed, all so clever,
When home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit with saints above to live forever!
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way,
Hobbling with outstretched hand and bending knees,
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas!
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
‘How now?’ the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke;
‘You lazy lubber!’
‘You see it,’ cried the other. ‘’Tis no joke.
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as blubber.’
“‘But, brother sinner, do explain
How ’tis that you are not in pain;
How is’t that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye?’
‘Why,’ cried the other, grinning, ‘you must know
That just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas!’”

THE PILGRIM CHEAT.

Little Davy again.

Sir Humphry Davy lived from 1778 to 1829. Coleridge said of him, “Had not Davy been the first chemist, he probably would have been the first poet of the age.” He made some important chemical discoveries, overworked his body and brain, and took the pen “to amuse” and recreate himself, but too late, telling us of “the pleasures and advantages of fishing,” etc.

The following verses are from the poem of Dr. David Macbeth Moir, on the death of his darling little boy, who died at the age of five years:—

“Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth’s undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to Fate’s decree;
Yet had we hoped that time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy![9]

“The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak, thy bonnet, club, and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings, idly scattered there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!
“Yet ’tis a sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,
That heaven is God’s, and thou art there,
With him in joy!
There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty’s stream forever flows,
And pleasure’s day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!”

“The sole purpose of poetry,” says the author of the above beautiful poem, “is to delight and instruct; and no one can be either pleased or profited by what is unintelligible. Mysticism in law is quibbling; mysticism in religion is the jugglery of priestcraft; mysticism in medicine is quackery; and these often serve their crooked purposes well. But mysticism in poetry can have no attainable triumph.” Again he says,—

“The finest poetry is that which is most patent to the general understanding, and hence to the approval or disapproval of the common sense of mankind.”

Dr. Moir enriched the pages of Blackwood’s Magazine for thirty years with his beautiful poems, and occasional prose, which, according to Professor Wilson, “breathed the simplest and purest pathos.” He practised medicine and surgery in his native village, six miles from Edinburgh, till the day of his death, which occurred in consequence of a wound caused by the upsetting of his carriage.

I find four physicians by the name of Abercromby, who were excellent physicians, and authors of no little note. One, Patrick, a Scotchman, and physician to James II., had a library second to few physicians of his day. Lancisi, an Italian physician who lived at the same time, possessed a splendid library consisting of thirty thousand volumes. He discovered a set of lost plates of Eustachius, from which he published tables. Lancisi was physician to several popes, and was a master of polite literature, and an author of great distinction.

More Schoolmasters and Tailors.

Dr. Richard Blackmore (Sir)—our “schoolmaster turned doctor”—was an author of no small note. “A poet of the time of Dryden in better repute as an honest man and a physician,” says a biographer.

He should have been a man of importance, since Swift was pitted against him in “brutal verse.” Steele and Pope scribbled about the pedagogue Blackmore. Dryden, who was unable to answer him, called him “a pedant, an ass, a quack, and a cant preacher,” and he was ridiculed by the whole set of “petty scribblers, professional libellers, coffee-house rakes, and literary amateurs of the Temple who formed the rabble of the vast army against which the doctor had pitted himself in defence of public decency and domestic morality.” We have already referred to the “forty sets of ribald verses taunting him of his early poverty, which caused him to become a schoolmaster.”

Amongst his works were “Alfred,” a poem of twenty books; another of twelve books; “Hymn to Light,” “Satire against Wit,” “The Nature of Man;” “Creation,” in seven books; “Redemption,” in six books, etc.

Dr. Johnson says of Dr. Blackmore, “And let it be remembered for his honor that to have been a schoolmaster is the only reproach which all the perspicacity of malice animated by wit has ever fixed upon his private life.”

Heinrich Stilling, “a pseudonyme adopted by Heinrich Jung, in one of the most remarkable autobiographies ever written,” was born about the year 1740, in Nassau. He was bred a tailor, and with his father followed his occupation until the son, by his own efforts and by the aid of his remarkable natural abilities, raised him to a more exalted position. By great efforts and diligent study he acquired a knowledge of Latin and Greek, and something of medicine, when he proceeded to the University of Strasburg. Here he remained prosecuting his studies with much diligence and zeal until he obtained not only his degree, but succeeded to the appointment of a professorship, and raised himself to eminence both by his ability as a lecturer and as an operator.

He was also an author of considerable renown, not only on medical subjects, but as a miscellaneous writer. His novel named “Theobold” is still read. He wrote a treatise on minerals.

His most remarkable production, however, was his autobiography entitled “Jugend, Junglingjahre, Wanderschaft und Alter Von Heinrich Stilling.”

Cabanis, physician to Napoleon I., was a writer of note, particularly on physiology and philosophy. His complete works were recently published in Paris, and a portion of them have been translated into English.

Bard (Samuel), physician to Washington, was an author, but his writings were principally on medicine. His father was Dr. John Bard, who, with Dr. Middleton, made at Poughkeepsie the first dissection in America.

Dr. Valentine Mott, of New York, was not only the first surgeon in America, but he was an excellent lecturer and a voluminous writer, but, as far as I can learn, having before me a complete list of his writings, almost entirely on medical subjects. Having been to Europe repeatedly, a book of travels ought to have been added to the list.

One day, in Paris, the celebrated surgeon Dr. R. —— asked Dr. Mott to visit his hospital and see him perform his peculiar operation. Dr. Mott assured the surgeon that he accepted with great pleasure.“But,” said the Frenchman, “on reflection I find there is no patient there requiring such an operation. However, that makes no difference, my dear sir. You shall see. There is a poor devil in one of the wards who is of no use to us, himself, or friends; and so come along, and I will operate upon him beautifully, beautifully,” said the famous butcher. Dr. Mott, being a humane man, declined seeing the operation on such barbarous terms.

A Difference of Opinion.

In “Surgeons of New York” Dr. Francis gives the following:—

“On asking Dr. Batchelder (then eighty-one years of age), if he had to live over his eventful life, if he would again be a doctor, he replied,—

“Yes, sir;” most positively.

Dr. Hosack’s favorite branch of practice has been general surgery. On asking him the question if he would again be a surgeon, his reply was condensed into a comprehensive

“Never!”

Dr. Hosack was present as examining physician to Colt, who committed suicide in the city prison. It is believed to this day, in certain circles, that Colt escaped, leaving another body smuggled into prison over night to represent him. The writer was induced once in Hartford to believe this to be true, as persons stated that they had really seen Colt in California. Dr. Hosack’s testimony makes the case clear. Colt did not escape. “It seems that when the prisoner found, at the last moment, that there was neither possibility of escaping nor the least probability of a reprieve, he induced some friend to send him a coffee-pot of hot coffee in which the dagger was concealed, and which he drove into his heart even beyond the handle.”

Dr. Hosack (Alex. Eddy) was also physician to Aaron Burr.

FRANKLIN’S EXPERIMENTS WITH ETHER.“Do you never experience any contrition, at times, for the deed?” (viz., shooting Hamilton), asked Dr. H. of his patient.

“No, sir; I could not regret it. Twice he crossed my path. He brought it upon himself,” was Burr’s reply.

Mrs. H., the doctor’s mother, not unfrequently took tea and played chess of an evening with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin was a funny old gentleman. He used to amuse himself by giving ether to the children of the neighborhood and letting them out under its influence to laugh at their fellow-playmates.

Some Puritanic Epitaphs.

The most ingenious of the Puritan poets was the Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, whose “Day of Doom” is the most remarkable curiosity in American literature. “He was as skilled,” says one of his biographers, “in physic and surgery as in diviner things;” and when he could neither preach nor prescribe for the physical sufferings of his neighbors,—

“In costly verse, and most laborious rhymes,
He dished up truths right worthy our regard.”

He was buried in Malden, near Boston, and his epitaph was written by Mather.

THE EXCELLENT MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH.
Remembered by some good tokens.
“His pen did once meat from the eater fetch;
And now he’s gone beyond the eater’s reach.
His body, once so thin, was next to none;
From hence he’s to unbodied spirits flown.
Once his rare skill did all diseases heal;
And he does nothing now uneasy feel.
He to his Paradise is joyful come,
And waits with joy to see his Day of Doom.”The last epitaph for which we have now space is from the monument of Dr. Clark, a grandson of the celebrated Dr. John Clark, who came to New England in 1630.

“He who among physicians shone so late,
And by his wise prescriptions conquered Fate,
Now lies extended in the silent grave;
Nor him alive would his vast merit save.
But still his fame shall last, his virtues live,
And all sepulchral monuments survive:
Still flourish shall his name: nor shall this stone
Long as his piety and love be known.”

And

“Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined—
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.”

The One-Hoss Shay.

Mr. Mundella, of the British Parliament, recently said,—

“American authors are now among the best writers in the English language. Among the poets were Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Bryant, and Lowell—five men whom no other country in the same generation could surpass, if, indeed, they could match. Never were purer or nobler men than they.” He had the honor of knowing some of the greatest literary men in England, and could say that the American authors could compare with them in every way. O. W. Holmes was the most brilliant conversationalist it was ever his good fortune to meet.

As a poet, “his style is brilliant, sparkling, and terse,” says Hillard.

I can only find space for the following from the pen of Dr. Holmes:—

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way,
To run a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay:
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,—
Snuffy old drone from the German hive!
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake day,
That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot;
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or cross-bar, or floor or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without;
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.
But the deacon swore (as deacons do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)
He would build one shay to beat the taown,
’n’ the keounty, ’n’ all the kentry raoun’;
It should be so built that it couldn’t break down:
“Fur,” said the deacon, “’tis mighty plain
That the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
’n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”
So the deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn’t be split, nor bent, nor broke,—
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The cross-bars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s Ellum,”—
Last of its timber—they couldn’t sell ’em;
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he “put her through.”
“There!” said the deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away;
Children and grandchildren—where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake day!
Eighteen hundred: it came and found
The deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten:
“Hansum kerridge” they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came,—
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then came fifty and fifty-five.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You’re welcome. No extra charge.)
First of November,—the Earthquake day,—
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be,—for the deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back cross-bar as strong as the fore,
And spring, and axle, and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past no doubt,
In another hour it will be worn out.
First of November, fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson. Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday’s text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed,
And what the—Moses—was coming next?
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,—
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet’n’-house clock,—
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,—
All at once and nothing first,—
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

END OF THE WONDERFUL ONE-HORSE SHAY.

Healthful Influence of Music.

The curative power of music is little understood. Our medical men would do well to devote more time and attention to music and its beneficial influences upon themselves and patients. In Paris, music is being introduced at the chief asylum for the benefit of the insane, the hypochondriacs, and such like patients. Its introduction at the “Retreat,” at Hartford, Conn., has been attended with happy results.

The writer attributes the primary step towards recovery of several patients of his, suffering under great mental, nervous, and bodily prostration, to his ordering the piano or melodeon reopened.

Not long since I visited a patient at a distance. She was young and fair, and “supposed to be in consumption,” which is usually a flattering disease, while this patient was laboring under great despondency, bordering on despair. Her parents could not account for her dejection.

Determined not to hurry over the case, and seeing a closed piano in the room, I asked if it was not used.

“No,” replied the mother; “she has not touched it for more than three months; she takes no interest in anything.”

I looked upon the sad, fair face, and thought I had never seen a picture of such utter hopelessness in a young maiden. I approached the piano, and raised its lid. The ivory keys were all dusty. The mother dusted them off, and with a great, deep sigh, whispered to me, “The dust will soon gather on her coffin. She will never touch these keys again.”

“Pooh!” I exclaimed. “You, madam, discourage her. Let me sing something that will awaken her from her lethargy.”

No matter how I played, or what I sang. It was the right key, the sympathetic chord. The first notes aroused her. She lifted her great, dark eyes for the first time. Great tears burst their bonds, thawing out the winter-locked senses, awakening the spring-time flowers of hope, that led to a summer season of health and happiness....

I know this was decidedly unprofessional; but what care I? The young girl was aroused from her despondency, and her precious life saved. Medicine, which before was of no avail, now took effect. O, I pity the poor fool who only has learned to cram drugs by the scruple, dram, and ounce down the unwilling throats of his more pitiful patients because musty books tell him to.

Dr. Mason F. Cogswell, a graduate of Yale, was a man eminent for piety and benevolence, a scholar, and a successful practitioner, which none can gainsay. “In music he was a proficient,” said Professor Knight. While practising medicine in Stamford, Conn., he was said to have instructed the choir in psalm tunes and anthems, and other music, and adapted one to every Sabbath in the year. He possessed a great library, and was for ten years president of the State Medical Society. Dr. Cogswell had a deaf and dumb daughter, and he originated the design of an asylum, which was more fully developed by Mr. Gallaudet, in the Hartford asylum for the deaf and dumb. He died in 1830, at the age of seventy.

I know of a great many excellent physicians who are musicians and lovers of music. Guilmette is a first-class primo basso.

Who does not love to listen to the beautiful heart and home songs of Dr. J. P. Ordway, such as “Home Delights,” “Come to the Spirit Land,” etc.? “The twinkling Stars are laughing, Love,” has been sung in every land, and arranged into band music by all the best leaders of the world. A Boston musician said to the writer recently, “After the audience had been disgusted a whole hour by classic music, the house came down enthusiastically on hearing one of Dr. Ordway’s touching melodies.”

The Germans seldom die of consumption. They are all musicians. There are many authors and poets among the German doctors. The following gem, it is needless to add, is not by one of the best authors:—

“December’s came, and now der breezes
Howls vay up amidst der dreeses;
Now der boy mit ragged drouses
Shivering feeches home der cowses.
His boots vas old, und dorn his gloze is,
Und bless my shdars, how blue his nose is!”

Influence of Music upon Animals.

Some wild animals are easily caught and readily tamed by the assistance, of music. “Whistle the rabbit and he’ll stop,” is as true as trite. The most common exhibition of the influence of music on animals is, perhaps, that witnessed in circuses, and other equestrian entertainments, where the horse is affected in a lively and exhilarating manner by the performances of the band, often waltzing and prancing, and keeping perfect time with the music.

Dogs are affected by music, but it is difficult to determine whether agreeably or otherwise. Many naturalists believe it to be disagreeable to them. Owls have been known to die from the effect of music. On the other hand, it is well known that many kinds of birds are affected in a very agreeable manner, often approaching as near as possible the instruments, or persons, and remaining as long as the music continues, and then flapping their wings, as we should clap our hands, in approbation of the performance.

Many of the wild animals are said to be fond of, and even charmed by, music. The hunters in the Tyrol, and some parts of Germany, often entice stags by singing, and the female deer by playing the flute. Beavers and rats have been taught to dance the rope, keeping time to music.

Among the insects, spiders are found to be very fond of music. As soon as the sounds reach them, they descend along their web to the point nearest to that from which the music originates, and there remain motionless as long as it continues. Prisoners sometimes tame them by singing or whistling, and make companions of them.

“MUSIC, THE SOUL OF LIFE.”

THE MUSICAL MICE.But perhaps the most remarkable instance of the influence of music on animals occurred at a menagerie in Paris a few years ago, when a concert was given, and two elephants were among the auditors. The orchestra being placed out of their sight, they could not perceive whence the harmony came. The first sensation was that of surprise. At one moment they gazed eagerly, at the spectators; the next they ran at their keeper to caress him, and seemed to inquire what these strange sounds meant; but at length, perceiving that nothing was amiss, they gave themselves up to the impression which the music communicated. Each new tune seemed to produce a change of feeling, causing their gestures and cries to assume an expression in accordance with it. But it was still more remarkable that, after a piece had produced an agreeable effect upon them, if it was incorrectly played, they would remain cold and unmoved.

Music among the Mice.

The writer used to amuse himself and friends by attracting a pair of mice into his room by means of a guitar. The following, relating to the same, is from the “American,” 1856:—

“We called upon our friend, and found him alone in his room, ‘touching the guitar lightly.’ He arose, greeted us with his bland smile, and said,—

“‘Perhaps you would like to see my pupils. If you will be seated, and remain very quiet, I will call them out.’

“We did so. He resumed his seat, and, taking his splendid-toned guitar, touched some beautiful chords from an opera, and, in a moment, two or three mice ran out from the corner of the room, pointed on a ‘bee line’ towards the sound of the instrument. They stopped and listened for a moment or two, and, as the music glided up and down, they would move to and fro some inches on the floor, reminding one of a Schottische. In various passages of the music I saw one jump up two or three inches from the floor. Thus they manoeuvred till the music ceased, when they scampered away to their holes again.”

Music and Health.

Let patients amuse themselves by music. It is conducive to health. I cannot select music for you; choose for yourself, only don’t get the “Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound” style. Get church music, if you like, but select a cheering class. O, it is a very mistaken idea that all music and mirth must cease in a house because a member of the household is an invalid. Try my suggestion. Re-open the piano or organ; or, if you haven’t an instrument, re-tune your voices, and let music again “flow joyfully along,” and see if happy results do not follow.

Physicians, I pray you, if you have never investigated this matter personally, do so. It is not adopted by any particular school of physic. It is not secured by letters patent. You will not be accounted outside of the AsclepiadÆ, nor sued for infringement, if you prescribe music for the despondent patient. You need not turn “minstrels,” burnt-cork fellows, etc., nor make comic actors of yourselves by so doing.

Your judgment will suggest the kind of patient who most needs this sort of “soul and spirit” stimulus. It is better than slop porter; better than sulphuric acid brandy, or strychnine whiskey, and you well know the basis of those liquors. Don’t think me officious in these strong suggestions. Try my advice, and you will agree with me.

“Prove all things; hold fast to that which is good.”