"What, then! doth Charity fail?
Is Faith of no avail?
Is Hope blown out like a light
By a gust of wind in the night?
The clashing of creeds, and the strife
Of the many beliefs, that in vain
Perplex man's heart and brain,
Are nought but the rustle of leaves,
When the breath of God upheaves
The boughs of the Tree of Life,
And they subside again!
And I remember still
The words, and from whom they came,
Not he that repeateth the name,
But he that doeth the will!"
"Of all men, the physician is most likely to discover the leading traits
of character in his fellow-beings; on no other condition than that of
sickness do they present themselves without those guards upon the
countenance and tongue that an artificial mode of life has rendered almost
indispensable to their existence; in city life, more especially."
"The confiding patient often hangs, as it were, with an oppressive weight
upon the conscientious physician, and if he be afflicted with a generous,
sympathizing soul, farewell to his happiness. His heart will bleed for
distress, both bodily and pecuniary, that he cannot alleviate, and he
gives up in despair a profession which will so severely tax his nervous
system as to render the best medical talent comparatively useless....
"Those who speak of the gratitude of the low Catholic Irish in this (New
York) city, or any other city, as they present their true characters to
the young practitioner, will find but one opinion,--a more improvident,
heartless, and dishonest class of people never defiled the fair face of
the earth. They are indeed a bitter curse to the young and humane
physician."
And this from the pen of one of the most noble and humane physicians of
the great metropolis, whose generosity forbids him ever to refuse a visit,
day or night, to the distressed, even amongst the lowest of the class he
so bitterly condemns. The above is the experience of other physicians
besides Dr. Dixon, and in other cities besides New York.
During my days of extreme poverty in H., an Irish woman, whose child,
suffering with cholera infantum, I snatched from the very jaws of death,
cheated me out of my fees, when I afterwards learned that she owned two
tenements, and had money in the Savings Bank.
While I was practising in H., one cold winter's night, an Irishman came
for me to go to Front Street, as a man had fallen down stairs, and was
"kilt intirely."
"Then it is Mr. Roberts, the undertaker, whom you want," I replied.
"O, no, he isn't kilt intirely, but broke his arrum, doctor."
Therefore I drew on my boots, took my hat and case, and was soon at the
designated number. A drunken row, as usual. It was near midnight, Saturday
night. A big, burly fellow lay on the bed in a large front room,
surrounded by a dozen men and women, nearly all drunk, except the patient.
His arm was dislocated at the shoulder downward. I drew off my coat,
jumped upon the bed, set the man up, raised the limb, clapped my knee
under the limb, raised the arm, and using it for a lever, the bone snapped
into the socket as quickly as I am telling the story.
"Ah, that gives me aise; ah, God bless you, docther. How mooch is the
damage? Get the wallet, woman, and let me pay the good docther," said the
grateful patient. "How mooch? Say it asy, noo."
"Two dollars." A very modest fee for such a job at midnight.
"O, the divil!" cried the woman. "And is it two dollars for the snap of a
job likes to that, noo, ye'll be axin' a poor man?"