MORAL INFLUENCE OF PHYSICIANS.
The relation which the physician sustains to the community is a
peculiar one. No other man has so free access to so many families
among all classes of society. He is admitted into the very bosom
of the families upon which he attends, even of those that receive
other visitors with a distant formality. So much is this the case,
that most persons have the feeling that their physician is a sort of
confidant, and on that ground they are willing that he should see and
hear, in his daily intercourse with them, what would be improper to
be seen and heard without the confidence of intimate friendship. And
when that confidence is abused, as it sometimes is by the tattling
and the unprincipled physician, how gross the abuse, and how keenly
is it felt by those who have, as a matter of necessity, reposed the
confidence! I say as a matter of necessity, for the very nature of
the intercourse of the physician with his patients is such as to make
this confidence necessary. And the necessity is recognised by both
parties. The physician knows that it is expected of him, that he will
pay the most scrupulous regard to the principles of honor which have
relation to this necessity, and that any discovered infraction of
them on his part will materially injure his professional character.
He feels this instinctively; and it is this feeling which is
generally an effectual safeguard against abuse of confidence, when
the patient chances to be under the care of a physician who is devoid
of moral principle.
In the above remarks, I do not refer merely to the secrets which,
either from choice, or necessity, are so often entrusted to the
physician by his patients. But I refer to the confidential character
which marks his _whole_ intercourse with them, extending to all the
little nameless acts which makeup that intercourse. He enters the
dwelling of the sick as if he were one of the family, and the very
office that he is to perform disarms all formality, and pre-supposes
intercourse of the most familiar character. The patient is to speak
to him not of a foreign subject, nor of some one else, but of
himself, of his own body, of its pains and ailments, and that too
with sufficient minuteness to communicate an adequate knowledge of
his case. In doing so, he calls into exercise not only the scientific
acumen of the _physician_, but, mingled with this, the sympathy of
the confidential _friend_. If he has been the physician of the family
for any length of time, and has been with them in many scenes of
suffering, ready to relieve, so far as in him lay the power to do it,
this feeling of affectionate reliance is deep and ardent; so much
so, that it is a severe trial to the sensitive mind to be obliged
to consult a stranger, even though there be nothing in the case to
disturb the most refined and scrupulous delicacy. Especially is this
so when the patient is a female. In her case the confidence reposed
is of the most sacred character. And shame be to the physician who
dares to trifle with it—who dares to offend in any way the delicacy
of a patient, whom necessity has placed in such near relationship to
him. It is principally this relationship, which the physician holds
to the mothers and daughters of the families upon which he attends,
that introduces him, if he be a man of honor and principle, as the
esteemed and loved friend into the very _bosom_ of those families.
One circumstance, that makes the intercourse of the physician with
his patients familiar and intimate, which I have as yet barely hinted
at, merits a more particular notice. I refer to the sympathy which
he has felt with them in their seasons of suffering, anxiety, and
affliction. It has sometimes been said, that the physician, from his
familiarity with scenes of distress, becomes unfeeling, and incapable
of sympathizing with others. This may be true of him, if he from the
first look at the sufferings of his fellow-men only as a source of
emolument to himself. If at the onset he enthrones this perfectly
selfish and therefore hardening principle in his bosom, he will of
course become devoid of sympathy and benevolence. But if he does
not this strange violence to his natural sympathies, but lets them
flow out, as he goes forth on his daily errands of relief and mercy
to high and low, to rich and poor, and especially if he be faithful
to the poor who can give him nothing but their blessing and their
prayers, his sympathy and kindness will be so often drawn out, and
under such a variety of circumstances, that they will become more
tender and active, instead of being blunted and repressed. True, he
will not have that mawkish sensibility which vents itself in tears,
and sighs, and expressions of pity, but stops short of action, or,
if it ever reaches forth its hand, does it but fitfully, and with
none of that steadiness so essential in giving relief and support
to soul or body in its feebleness and suffering. If he ever had any
of such romantic and unpractical sensibility, he has cast it off
in his actual service in the fields of benevolence, into which his
profession has necessarily led him. He has learned over and over,
the lesson of _active_ sympathy. He has learned it often under
circumstances of discouragement, and sometimes without even the show
of gratitude being offered to him. He has learned it, I am glad to
say, (and I say it with some tender recollections,) with signs of
gratitude in his patients, which are not to be mistaken—with the
blessing of those who were ready to perish, but who were saved by
his timely and persevering exertions. He may appear to the casual
observer to have merged the feelings of the man in those of the
physician—to have surrendered his humanity to the cold and stern
demands of science. He may seem to be devoid of sympathy, as he goes
to work midst scenes of suffering, without a tear, or even a sigh,
performing his duties with an unblanched face, a cool and collected
air, and a steady hand, while all around are full of fear, and
trembling, and pity. Yet there _is_ sympathy in his bosom, but it
is _active_. It vents itself in the right way—in doing. There _is_
feeling there. It is not destroyed, but its manifestations are _under
control_. It is from this power of control which he has acquired,
that the physician or surgeon may appear to others to be utterly
without feeling, even when a tide of emotion may be pressing his
heart almost to bursting, because he knows that a valuable life is
hanging upon those very exertions, which he is making with all the
seeming coolness of indifference.
I have said that the feeling of the physician vents itself in action.
Before that action begins, his emotions are often oppressive, more
so than those of the by-standers; for he knows all the difficulties
and dangers of the case, and sees the very points which should
excite anxiety. Watch him while preparing for a serious operation.
Though he may appear to the careless observer perfectly cool and
undisturbed, you may see in his unguarded moments a betrayal of
the strong under-current of feeling, which he endeavors to conceal.
The occasional sigh, followed perhaps by an incidental remark to a
by-stander, as a diversion to his feelings, just as the boy whistles
to destroy his fear, the compressed lips, the slightly trembling
hand, as he busies himself in making his preparations, thus finding
relief to the pressure of the excitement within by external acts,
some of them perhaps needless—these and other signs show it. And
these signs may appear up to the last moment of delay. But the
instant he begins the operation, they are gone. The hand may tremble
till the knife touches the flesh, and the blood begins to gush; and
then it is firm, for his feelings have now found relief in _action_.
Perhaps it will be said that there is conclusive evidence, that the
tendency of the practice of medicine and surgery is to harden and
destroy feeling, in the fact itself, that, when the physician comes
to act, his natural sensibilities give place to the mere excitement
attending the different steps of that action. In reply to this I say,
that it is an error to suppose, that because feeling is relieved
for the moment by diversion of the mind into another channel, it is
of course hardened, or destroyed. Feeling may and does resume its
hold when the action ceases; and, if the action ends in relief, it
manifests itself in a different form—in a joyful and triumphant, in
place of a sad and anxious sympathy. And this change in the character
of the sympathy has a tendency to strengthen rather than lessen
the natural sensibilities of the heart. He who has year after year
sympathized with his patients in their sufferings, and then has
rejoiced with them in their deliverance—a deliverance of which he has
himself been instrumental—must be possessed both of a more deep, and
a more active sympathy, than when he began his career of usefulness.
This result is in consonance with the laws of our nature. While the
mere sight of suffering, without any attempt to relieve it, often
repeated, manifestly blunts the sensibilities, and hardens the heart;
it is, on the other hand, the invariable effect of the effort to
remove the distresses of our fellow men, to make our sensibilities
more deep and more tender. Our interest in the effort, our joy in its
success, our lamentation over its failure, the common cause which we
make with the poor sufferer, tend to produce this effect.
In this connection I will notice an error which is very common.
Persons who are not accustomed to look at wounds, or witness scenes
of sufferings, are apt when they do so to have certain effects
produced upon the physical system, which are so well known, that I
need not describe them. The error consists in supposing them to be
evidences of feeling and sympathy, and the process of overcoming them
to be necessarily a hardening process. They are effects produced in
the nervous system, and have a mere incidental, and not an essential
connection with the moral sensibilities. It is well known that all
are not equally susceptible of these effects, and the degree of
susceptibility is far from being an index of the degree of sympathy
in each individual. I have known many men, who had little of true
tenderness and kindness of feeling, faint away at the sight of blood,
while others with hearts overflowing with tenderness, and a hand
ever extended in active sympathy to the needy and suffering, under
the same circumstances were entirely unaffected. The possession of
this susceptibility has therefore no necessary relation, to the
moral character. They who exhibit it are commonly spoken of as being
‘tender-hearted,’ and yet there is nothing in this quality which is
inconsistent with the most wanton cruelty, or the most abandoned
vice. Neither has this susceptibility any necessary relation to
physical courage; much less to moral courage. Many, who possess it
to a great degree, have nevertheless uncommon physical courage, so
that though they would turn pale at the sight of a cut finger, they
would face the cannon’s mouth without fear, and in the excitement of
battle, the flow of blood and the groans of the wounded, would be
unheeded. While on the contrary, there are many, who are unaffected
by the sight of blood and suffering, in whom the idea of personal
danger would at once blanch the face and make the knees to tremble.
It is the conquest which the physician obtains over this nervous
susceptibility, of which I have been speaking, that has given rise to
the erroneous impression, that the practice of medicine and surgery
necessarily subjects the heart to a hardening process. But you have
seen, that while he is acquiring this self-control, his sympathy
with suffering is becoming all the time deeper and livelier, by the
exercise of that active benevolence to which his profession calls
him. It is only the physician who refuses to yield to this call, and
pursues his profession as a mere trade for self-aggrandizement, that
blunts his sensibilities, and hardens his heart.
Sustaining then, as the physician does, so intimate a relationship
to his patients, and sympathizing so deeply, as they feel that he
does, with them in their trials, and sufferings, and joys, his
opportunities for influencing those around him for good or for ill
must be greater than fall to the lot of most of those who occupy
commanding stations in society. He cannot avoid exerting a wide and
an effectual influence. It can be said emphatically of him, that
every act which he does, every word that he drops, is seed which will
surely produce fruit, and it is seed which he sows with a broad
cast. The advice which he gives, the opinions which he expresses, and
the example which he sets, have a double force from the fact, that
the intimacy and sympathy which exist between him and his patients
unlock the heart, and his influence finds no repulse in entering
there.
Every man has more influence in his own little community at home by
his own fireside, than he has abroad in the great community around
him. Familiarity, mutual confidence, and sympathy, are the obvious
causes of this. But the physician may in a measure, as you have
seen, be said to be at home everywhere, by everybody’s fireside,
in the mansion and in the cottage, in the garnished chamber of the
wealthy, and in the humble and comfortless garret of the poor. It
is a matter of every day’s occurrence, that he should be at home in
all these varied scenes, and he acquires a tact in accommodating
himself to them, and to the endless diversity of character which they
present. Wherever he goes he enters the family circle, as I have
before said, without that formality which attends the reception of
other visitors. He is received ordinarily without any preparation,
and at any hour when necessity calls for it. He sees his patients,
too, in every variety of situation, and in just those circumstances
which are calculated to develope and exhibit character. He sees
them in their unguarded moments, and when sufferings and trials of
every variety, from the great calamity down to the most trivial
disappointment, are acting upon them as tests, searching and sure.
He sees much that glitters before the world become the merest dross
in the sick chamber; and he sees too the gold shining bright in the
crucible of affliction. He sees human passion in every form and
condition; implacable hatred and love stronger than death; fallen
virtue, and virtue tried and proved; mental and moral strength
inconceivable, and childish imbecility in the once mighty and great;
hope beaming bright with heavenly lustre, and ghastly fear and black
despair; unbounded power of endurance, and the crushing of the once
buoyant spirit by even light calamities—every feeling, or passion,
or quality, or condition, that can be imagined, in every possible
variety of phase and degree, is displayed to his view.
No one then has better and more various opportunities for studying
human character than the physician: and he adds every day from this
source to the storehouse of his experience. I need not spend time to
prove, that this knowledge of character thus acquired confers upon
him a means of influence which he otherwise could not have. It not
only gives him a tact in influencing men generally; but in individual
cases, the revelations of thought and feeling which he has witnessed
at the fireside or in the sick room, made in the free and unguarded
moment, under the application of faithful tests, afford him such an
insight into the character, that he knows just what chord to strike,
to produce the effect which he desires. He needs not to feel his way
to the heart. He has already learned it. He knows just what motives
will act with the most certainty, and needs not to make any random
experiments.
What responsibility then rests upon the physician! How careful should
he be in the expression of his opinions! At what high ends should he
aim in his daily example! How important that he should be right upon
the great moral questions which agitate the community, and that his
morality should be strictly that of the Bible!
Too often is it the case, that the physician, who professes to
be governed by principle, exerts no such commanding influence,
as his relations to his fellow men enable him to do; but, as a
matter of policy, avoids committing himself decidedly and openly
upon those subjects which occasion any diversity of opinion in
the community. Those who thus for selfish ends fail to meet the
full responsibilities of their station, do not, indeed, like the
unprincipled, undertake to please everybody (a contemptible course,
and commonly a profitless one) but they at least make it a main
point to displease no one. In so doing, it is true, they make no
direct attack upon principle, and inflict no positive injury upon the
moral interests of society; but they are guilty of a sacrifice of
principle, and they neglect to do the good which it is in their power
to do. Suffice it to say, that while the physician should not court
opposition by any needless attacks upon the opinions and prejudices
of others, for this would impair his usefulness, a dignified and firm
expression of his sentiments, and a decided influence for good upon
every great moral question, we have a right to expect from one who
has so great a share, as the physician necessarily has, in moulding
the character of society.
Take, for example, the great moral question of Temperance, which has
for so many years agitated the community, and upon which there has
been so great a difference of opinion. It is difficult to conceive
that a physician, possessed of the ordinary feelings of humanity,
should fail to be decided on this subject, either in his opinions, or
his influence. No man has had so varied and extensive opportunities
of witnessing the ravages of intemperance. It is not an _occasional_
visit that he has made to the miserable home of the drunkard. It is
not _occasionally_ that he has heard from trembling lips the tale of
woe, and seen its painful and often hideous signs. It has been with
him an almost every day occurrence. Misery on every hand has made its
appeal to him. And if he has allowed his desire for popularity to
hinder him from heeding such touching and frequent appeals, it is not
too much to say to him, that he has been shamefully recreant to the
dictates of humanity, and that he will have to render a large account
of neglected opportunities of doing good.[44]
No one has more frequent opportunities than the physician for acting
as a peace-maker, an office which is very much needed, but which few
are inclined to take. There are always many, who are willing to act
as peace-makers in gross and palpable cases, when an actual quarrel
has burst out, and threatens a great and manifest damage to the
community, who yet may do nothing to repress the petty jealousies
and the slight contentions, which are generally the cause of the
greater commotions that heave up the very foundations of society.
But the true peace-maker is doing his work at the fountain head, at
the very beginnings of strife—not only when urgent occasions call
for it, but from day to day, in every circle, by every fireside
that he visits. Every day he sees the risings of ill-feeling, envy,
jealousy, and discontent; and he calms them down by an influence so
gentle and charm-like, that it is scarcely observed. A small thing, a
word, a look, may often put out the spark which is about to light the
destructive train. How few there are in this world of jealousy and
contention, who are ready to utter that word, or bestow that look,
and how many who will fan the spark of strife into a blaze, or will
at least let it alone, and take no pains to put it out.
The physician in his intercourse with his patients has so much of the
free familiarity of home, that he can see these sparks of contention,
as they kindle up here and there, more quickly than others can.
Thought and feeling are often revealed to him unconsciously, and the
very fountains from which they rise are almost open and naked to his
view, and, I may add, to his influence also. If he then be a man of
peace, he can do much from day to day in repressing those thoughts
and feelings, almost in their nascent state, which, if encouraged,
would distract and divide family circles, neighborhoods, and perhaps
communities. If, on the other hand, he is not a peace-maker, but
has an ear ever open to the tongue of scandal, and is himself a
tattler—if he is ready to secure his own aggrandizement by injuring
his competitors, and is therefore disposed to rejoice in the
misfortunes of others, he scatters the seeds of contention wherever
he goes, and the peculiar relation which he sustains to a large
portion of the community enables him so to scatter them, that they
will be sure to take root, and grow, and produce an abundance of
fruit.
This leads me to say that it is especially true of the physician,
that the most of his influence lies in the little hourly acts, and
in the familiarly, perhaps carelessly, dropped words, which make
up the chief part of his life, and not so much in the opinions
which are formally expressed, or in the acts which obviously follow
deliberate consideration. This is true to a great extent of every
man who mingles in society with the ordinary degree of freedom.
They indeed, who move about among their fellow-men with as little
familiarity or sympathy as a recluse, have but little influence, and
that only when they utter their formal opinions. But the occupation
of a physician necessarily puts him at the very antipodes with the
recluse. Even if he be disposed to shut up his heart against his
fellow men, and to make his intercourse with them of a strictly
scientific character, his bosom will very soon be unlocked, or he
must give up his profession. The fountains of sympathy and feeling
will be unsealed by the potent influence of daily intercourse with
human suffering and joy. He cannot from day to day administer to the
relief of distress without sympathy, and that sympathy cannot always
be suppressed. It will gush forth, and the frigid man of science will
become the kind and familiar friend. Mingling then, as the physician
necessarily does, so freely and intimately with the world around him,
it must be eminently true of him, that it is the spirit of the man,
as it breathes forth in his common every day words and acts, even in
his very manner, that really gives the character to his influence. So
that if he be not forward to speak out his sentiments, or to give his
advice, the sentiments which he has, and the advice which he would
give, are as well known, as if he uttered them. It is in truth this
aggregate influence (as it may be called) of his daily life in the
many homes to which his profession gives him admittance, that imparts
force to his advice, and opinions, and acts.
I have as yet said nothing especially of the influence of the
physician in the _sick room_. Here he treads upon sacred ground,
and has to do with the issues of life and death, both temporal and
eternal. Here he sees man in the weakness of his humanity, ‘crushed
before the moth,’ but often, too, in the strength of his immortality.
Here he is made a witness of the frailty of the tenement, which
the immortal spirit inhabits—he sees that its ‘foundation is in
the dust.’ He has communion with the spirit in its most momentous
hours—while it sees the walls of its habitation crumbling into dust,
and lingers about the ruins before its final flight into a world of
light or darkness, of joy or of woe—or perhaps, while with longing
desire, and occasional hope of its longer continuance here, it
trembles with the fear that it is about to be driven from its home
in this tabernacle, whose frailty is now staring it in the face—and
then too, there are times when he has converse with it as it is
becoming reinstated in the possession of its habitation by gracious
permission of its builder, who alone can repair it and redeem it
from destruction. Communion with the spirit of man in such momentous
seasons, how hallowed should it be! Trifling, selfishness, disregard
of principle, how out of place are they here!
It is not my design to enter fully into a discussion of the moral and
religious duties, which devolve upon the physician in the sick room.
I choose rather to refer the reader for instruction on these points
to the excellent letters of Dr. Burder, an English physician, which I
have introduced in the Appendix. I shall therefore only notice some
of the errors which are prevalent on this subject.
The great object of the physician should be to cure the patient.
This is his vocation, and nothing should be permitted to interfere
with it. And he must be on his guard, lest he give up this object
too readily. For often, very often, especially in acute diseases,
in cases which are apparently hopeless, recovery does occur. The
physician therefore should avoid, even in desperate cases, producing
the impression upon the mind of the patient, that he really believes
the case to be hopeless. Nothing but the most absolute certainty
would warrant his doing this. The cordial influence of hope,
as I have shown in the chapter on the Influence of Hope in the
Treatment of Disease, is often one of the means by which a recovery
is effected, and _the absence of this one means may prove fatal_.
Who then will dare to take the responsibility of withholding this
cordial, often so essential a remedy, with the vain expectation (for
experience shows that it is commonly vain,) that in the midst of all
the turmoil and agitation of the fearful struggle of life and death
for the mastery, the spirit may be led to make its peace with its
God? And yet it is often claimed, that the physician should under
such circumstances declare to the patient the certainty of his death;
and if he decline doing so, he is blamed for what is considered to be
a palpable neglect of duty.
Vain expectation, I say it is, which many indulge, of producing
repentance and reformation at such an hour. The mind is weakened by
the disease, thought and feeling and sensation are all confused,
the dim vision of the eye of flesh is the faithful index of the dim
vision of the mind, and the poor soul, while it sees everything thus
confusedly, is tossed about upon the billows of conflicting passions
and hopes and fears. It is true that there is a power, which can
pluck it from the billows, and plant its feet upon the rock of ages.
It is an almighty power that cannot be limited; but we have reason
to think, that seldom is this signal interposition put forth in this
extremity. A true philosophy declares, that this is no time for
the clearness of view, and definiteness of action, which religion
demands of man, and experience affirms the truth of the declaration.
Clergymen and physicians, who have had ample opportunities of
observation upon this point, have but little confidence in any
apparent change of character at the hour of death. It is their
universal testimony, that those who have made professions of
repentance and reformation, when they supposed themselves to be
near dying, and yet have recovered, have commonly given no evidence
afterward that those professions were well founded.
The above remarks have been made, it will be seen, in regard to acute
diseases only, and they apply to but a very limited extent to cases
of _chronic_ disease. During the lingering days, and weeks, and
sometimes months, of such cases, there are many opportunities for
exerting an influence upon the sick. And while it is true, that the
physician should adhere to the general rule, which I have stated in
regard to the effect of hope, it is his duty, and especially is it
the duty of the friends, to improve the opportunities which present
for the best good of the patient. And here let me say, that it is not
the formal and stately conversation, the professional sermonizing,
so often made use of, which is really the most effectual; but it is
the word dropped from day to day, with a spirit not roused up for
the occasion, but breathing forth naturally and easily—it is the
instruction suggested by events of daily occurrence, or by remarks
which are dropped in common conversation, and accompanied by the
affectionate appeal, when it is seen that the proper chord can be
struck—this is the kind of influence, which is brought to bear most
decidedly upon the moral and religious character of the sick man. It
is this that will enter his heart; while the arrows, which are duly
heralded by the note of preparation, will fall to the ground, warded
off by the shields which he raises against them.
Injudicious attempts are sometimes made to influence the sick, both
with regard to their temporal, and their eternal interests. I will
cite but a single case in illustration. It is a case which was
reported by the late Dr. Hale of Boston, in his work on Spotted
Fever. Although the patient was so sick, that Dr. H. considered it
of the utmost importance that he should be kept quiet, and gave the
most positive and authoritative injunctions to this effect, yet a
friend, to whom the proper adjustment of the sick man’s affairs,
if his sickness was to end in death, was a matter of considerable
interest, persisted in harrassing him on this subject. The result was
an alarming increase of the disease. The symptoms were afterward,
however, so much mitigated, as to give some ground for hope of a
recovery. As his mind was clear and rational when he came out of his
stupor, “his attendant with a very benevolent but mistaken zeal,
thought it more important to improve this opportunity in taking
care of his soul’s health, than in administering the remedies which
had been prescribed; and, instead of giving the medicines with care
and attention, and promoting his rest and quietness, as he ought
to have done, and had been strictly enjoined to do, he spent the
whole time in talking, and exciting him to talk, of his hopes and
prospects beyond the grave.” This conversation was continued for
about two hours, and then the patient sank back into a stupor, a
state of collapse which was caused by the previous excitement, and
he never awoke. If the quietness enjoined by the physician had been
maintained, this case would probably have resulted in recovery.
There are some cases, in which it is clear even to the careless
observer, that it is wrong to excite the mind of the patient on any
subject. Take, for example, a case of typhus fever. Even though it
may not be a severe case, the mental with the physical sensibilities
are so blunted and deranged, that no moral or religious influence
can do any good. If it rouse the patient’s torpid mind to action, it
will only do harm by the disturbance it creates; and if it produces
a mild, quiet effect, which may be gratifying to his friends, it
is worthy of no confidence, and when he recovers he may have no
recollection of the sayings which he uttered, and which would have
been garnered and kept, as a sacred treasure, by friendship and love,
if death had transported him to another world.
In such a case as this, when the mind is in so passive and torpid a
condition, the path of duty is clear. But there are some cases in
which it is difficult to know what our duty is. We must then decide
as well as we can in view of all the circumstances. And let me remark
here, that there should be no inconsiderate and irresponsible action
at such times; but what is done should be the result of a candid
conference between the physician and the friends of the patient. The
clergyman should not be disposed to act independently, and from his
own judgment alone; but, for obvious reasons, he should consult with
the physician in regard to each individual case.
Some are very anxious in regard to the spiritual welfare of the sick,
when they are thought to be nigh unto death; but if death does not
ensue, the moment that convalescence begins their anxiety ceases.
Religion with them is altogether a thing for great occasions, and the
season of death is of course one of them. Anything which is exciting
arouses them to action, and awakens their sympathies for their fellow
men. But they make little account of the every day influence which
is exerted in their common intercourse—an influence vast in amount
in a long life, though it may not be palpable in its results at any
one moment. While they would press upon the sick man the solemn and
faithful appeal, when they saw him to be near the borders of the
grave, and concentrate upon that dread hour all their energies, they
would perhaps, if he should recover, not even visit him at all during
his convalescence, and the first time they met him they would welcome
him back to that worldliness, in which they in common with him so
freely indulge.
And yet it is in convalescence generally that you can exert the
greatest influence upon the sick man. For look at the circumstances
of the case. He has just been released from suffering. The
recollection of those hours, when thought and feeling and sensation
were so confused, and all was dark and dim, is still vivid in his
mind. The world, from which he has been thoroughly secluded for a
little time, now opens fresh upon him again—a new sun shines upon
him, and he looks out upon a new earth. The pure air, as he remembers
the stifled breath and the languor of disease, has an invigorating
buoyancy that it never had before; and he now for the first time
knows the luxury of such common blessings as breathing, and again
and again he expands the chest to the full, to see how beautifully
it does its work. He feels the genial glow of returning health
pervading every part of his system, diffusing elasticity, energy,
I had almost said joy, everywhere. And then as he goes forth, he
meets on all sides the kind greetings of friends, some of whom had
been by his bedside during his sickness. All these circumstances
conspire to make both the sensations of his body and the feelings
of his heart agreeable, and thus open the avenues to moral and
religious influences. And then, too, the cares and selfishness of
the world have not yet resumed their control over him. When, I ask,
could there be a better time to awaken in that man’s heart proper
feelings towards his Maker, and toward all around him. As he comes
out afresh into life, with something of the simplicity of a child,
disencumbered by his sickness of the entanglements which had
gathered around his mind and heart in the midst of temptation and
sin, how easily can he be led to appreciate what is right, and good,
and enduring, in this evil and transitory world. His mind is not
now weakened, nor his sensibilities blunted or deranged by disease.
There is no dim vision now, but he sees things as they are, and his
sensibilities are lively and ready to respond to the touch of the
hand of friendship, like the chords of a newly-attuned instrument
that gives forth its clear and harmonious sounds to delight the ear.
I cannot dismiss the subject of the moral influence of physicians
without adverting to one topic, which I deem to be of no small
importance.
Every man, aside from the influence which he exerts as a citizen in
common with others, exerts also an influence through the business or
profession in which he is engaged, by the manner in which he performs
its duties and maintains its relations. There is a strong disposition
in the community to separate these influences, and to assign to them
for their governance two different sets of moral principles. This
disposition is very marked in regard to politics. But it exists
also in relation to other professions and employments. It has even
extended to medicine. Men often do as _physicians_ what they would be
ashamed to do as _men_. The strict morality of common intercourse is
relaxed in professional intercourse. But the man and the physician
cannot thus be separated. Obedience to principle, no matter in what
it appears, always has its good influence; and the same universality
attaches to the bad influence of disregard of principle. There is a
moral character belonging to every act. Strictly professional acts
and relations have a moral influence. If the physician has a proper
regard for the character and standing of his profession, promotes an
honorable intercourse among its members, upholds its organizations,
resists the encroachments of quackery, and helps to secure a good
standard of medical education, he in all these ways exerts an
indirect but important influence upon the general good order and
well-being of society. But if, on the other hand, he has no true
regard for the honor of his profession, sacrifices its interests to
his own aggrandizement, labors for success by intrigue and manœuvre,
and thus gives a license to quackery, though he may call himself a
strictly moral man, and be so esteemed by the public, he exerts by
his professional course a decidedly bad influence upon the general
tone of morality in the community, and therefore does not merit the
appellation of a good citizen.
FOOTNOTES:
[44] Our profession, to its honor be it spoken, has as a whole, done
much for the cause of temperance. “Dr. Rush,” says Dr. Stevens,
“paved the way to the great TEMPERANCE reform, and that cause, at
a later period, had no advocates more powerful than Dr. Sewall of
Washington, and Dr. Watts of New York, formerly President of the
College of Physicians and Surgeons. Among the living it now reckons
Dr. Warren of Boston, and Dr. Muzzy of Cincinnati, and a host of
other medical men.” It gives me much pleasure to state in this
connection, that at the great entertainment given by the physicians
of Massachusetts to the National Convention, at which there were more
than six hundred present, ‘the feast of reason and the flow of soul’
were ample and rich without the aid of the intoxicating cup.