=LAWFUL TO ADVERTISE=
Just who put forth the dictum that it is unlawful, unprofessional,
unethical, for a physician to advertise is unknown. It was probably some
old codger of antiquarian ideas. At any rate the rule—and it is a
rule—is so old it reeks with decay. But, among progressive physicians,
it is fast coming to be recognized as a rule which is “more honored in
the breach than in the observance.”
Other professional men who were once held in bonds of the same nature
are breaking away. We find in the public press the cards of attorneys,
architects and civil engineers, all callings which are legitimately
dignified with the name of “professions.” No exception is taken to these
men making their talents known, although at one time—and it is only a
few years ago—they were held in ethical bonds just as strong and binding
as those with which the medical practitioner is now enchained.
But time changes all things. It has changed to a degree the code of
ethics which formerly obtained in the professions of law, architecture,
and civil engineering, and it is slowly, but surely, changing that of
medicine. True the wording of the various codes remain the same, but
there is a growing tendency to wink at, to overlook evasions.
It has become a matter of convenience to the public to know where to
find a competent lawyer, or architect, or civil engineer. Hence the
appearance of their business cards in newspapers. On the same grounds
publicity by physicians is justifiable. It is more than justifiable.
Mankind can, in a pinch, get along without attorneys or architects or
engineers. That is to say it is rarely imperative their services should
be requisitioned in a hurry. The trial of a law case, the plans for a
building, or the construction of a bridge can generally be put off for a
few days at least without serious injury or inconvenience to any body.
When a doctor is needed he is generally needed badly. It may not always
be an emergency case, but almost invariably when the services of a
physician are required, even in chronic ailments, delay only aggravates
the patient’s condition.
If a medical man has, by special study, equipped himself to handle a
certain class of diseases more intelligently and satisfactorily than the
general practitioner it becomes his duty to let the public know about
it. If we accept the dictum of the censors of medical propriety as they
present it—that the obligation taken by the physician binds him to serve
the public to the best of his ability—then surely we can not get away
from the proposition that men of unusual ability are in duty bound to
make the public acquainted with that ability. The successful physician
does not live up to his obligation if he “hides his light under a
bushel.”
Medical societies, the watchdogs of ethics, do not accept this doctrine.
Not only this; they try to drive out of practice, to brand with infamy,
to make an outcast and wanderer of the man who indulges in it. The “it”
in this instance refers to publicity fairly bought and honestly paid for
over the newspaper counter. But they do not always succeed.
For years Dr. McCoy had been a surgeon at Bellevue hospital, New York, a
man of rare skill and of high standing in his profession. He was a
member of various medical societies, respected and honored. After a
long, weary experience he made up his mind that he was entitled to a
better financial reward than it was possible for him to obtain in
hospital or private practice. He came to Chicago, obtained a certificate
from the State authorities, and began advertising in the daily
newspapers as a specialist. His medical brethren were horrified.
Remonstrance being of no avail, they promptly ousted Dr. McCoy from
membership in the professional societies.
Not content with this they went further and filed complaint with the
state authorities with the purpose of having his certificate, or license
to practice, revoked. That they would have succeeded in this if Dr.
McCoy had not taken the matter into the courts, is a certainty, as the
members of the State Board of Health who would pass upon the question
were all physicians and prominent in the societies which were seeking to
deprive McCoy of his certificate.
A long, hard-fought battle in the courts was won by McCoy. In handing
down its verdict the final court said in effect:
“We fail to see wherein this appellant has committed any offense against
the laws of the State. If he was competent to practice medicine at the
time he received his license he is competent to practice now. Nothing
that has been alleged against him has affected in any way his ability,
fitness, or competency as a medical practitioner. Neither has he
committed any penal offense. True he has advertised, but advertising is
not a felony; not even a misdemeanor.
“The fact that the medical societies to which he belonged have revoked
his membership has no bearing on the case. These societies have no
official powers so far as the State is concerned. They may very properly
say who may, or who may not, hold membership with them, but they have no
authority to say who may, or who may not practice medicine. Societies of
this kind are purely social and professional; they are not endowed with
executive, administrative, or legislative power to act for the State.”
This finding established in a forceful, indisputable manner the legal
right of a physician to advertise his skill as a healer of mankind
without affecting his ability. It was not to the liking of the sticklers
for ethics who control the medical organizations. They would have the
young medics believe—and up to the time the McCoy case was decided they
had succeeded—that they were all powerful; that their word was law, not
only as regards membership in the societies, but also as to who might,
or might not, practice medicine. They succeeded because they controlled
the State Board of Health. But the ruling of the court put an end to
this impudent assumption of authority. It laid down and made clear the
important fact that, in passing upon the competency of applicants for
licenses, medical ability and good moral character were the sole and
only points to be considered.
There is advertising and advertising, one kind respectable and
dignified; the other outrageously bad. The author would not for a moment
countenance the use of flamboyant “ads” like those with which the “weak
men” and other quacks bombard the public through the daily press. Such
advertising as a general thing is positively indecent and dishonest. The
men who place it and the newspaper publishers who print it should be
prosecuted into the penitentiary. It is a queer thing that so-called
high-class newspapers which decline to accept lottery and get-rich-quick
“ads” on the ground of morality (we’ll say nothing of their illegality)
will openly solicit and publish the disgusting business advertisements
of medical charlatans and fakirs.
No man who respects himself or his profession will “guarantee a cure or
money refunded,” no matter how apparently simple or mild the ailment he
undertakes to treat may be. Neither will he offer to take cases on the
“no money until you are cured” plan. These are methods which belong
exclusively in the realm of quackdom. They deceive only the ignorant,
and are used with success only among that class of people. But baits of
this kind stare one in the face from nearly every Sunday newspaper, and
from many fences.
Then there is the fakir who calls upon you in loud type to “See Old
Doctor Squeeze-em. He’ll do you good!” It’s a safe bet he will “do” you
good if he ever gets you into his clutches; “do” you so good that you
will be lucky to have carfare left to get home with.
These are not the methods employed by smart men who, through publicity,
obtain a good practice, and put themselves in position to command large
fees; men to whom patients will pay $100 for an hour’s consultation and
advice without hesitation, while they would begrudge $5 to a physician
of equally as much or more medical skill, but not so well versed in the
art of self publicity.
How do these men get before the public? They pave the way according to
well-laid plans. Their every move is part of a previously laid-out
program. We are writing now of those who have not progressed to the
stage of employing regular press agents, or have not become well-known
enough to warrant regular advertising. They join some fashionable church
and mix in its affairs; take prominent part in the sociables and other
doings, and when the ladies come around with a grab bag, or “take a
chance on a nice piano,” dig down deep into their jeans. They may have
to get along on short rations for a day or two, but the money has been
invested to better advantage than if it were expended for pork and
beans. A short course of this kind gets all the women talking about what
a charming man Dr. Swell is, and so liberal. Pretty soon they begin to
boost him into prominence by insisting upon his taking charge of some of
their social affairs, and then his name gets into the papers. This is
the beginning. The oftener he is mentioned the more impressed the
newspaper men become with the belief that he must be a man of
importance, and the first thing Dr. Swell knows he is getting the most
valuable kind of publicity by the column.
And the male part of the community? Well, it’s just as easy to “con”
them as it is the women. Dr. Swell joins lodge after lodge, society
after society, just as fast as he can raise money for the dues. He
attends the sessions faithfully, and, so far as outward appearances go,
takes a deep interest in the proceedings. He has a good word, and a
warm, hearty hand shake for all the brothers. While modest, he always
manages to have a word to say “right out in meeting” at the proper time,
even if it is no more than to voice approval of something that has been
done. Then, in time, it comes quite natural for the presiding
Squeejicks, or whatever his title may be, to frequently say, “We would
like to hear from Dr. Swell on this matter.”
Dr. Swell is coming on. If he keeps his head down to a normal size,
treats everybody courteously, and goes along making friends at every
opportunity, the first thing he knows is that he is nominated for the
office of Worthy High Jinks. Of course he protests that there are others
better fitted, etc., but he doesn’t mean it. He is elected, and again
there is legitimate excuse for getting more publicity. All the papers
announce that:
“At its annual meeting last night Cockalorum Lodge No. 37840,
O.B.O.A.B., elected Dr. What A. Swell as Worthy High Jinks.
Under his regime Cockalorum Lodge will make many advancements
during the coming year. When Dr. Swell was asked to outline his
program last night he said:”
And here follows a lengthy interview which Dr. Swell, knowing he was
sure to be elected, had prepared in advance. From then on it is easy
sailing—if he is a smart man. He manages to keep Cockalorum Lodge doing
something all the time; not that he is so desperately in love with the
lodge, but because it means more and more publicity to Dr. Swell. As
with Cockalorum, so with the other lodges, or churches, or societies to
which he may belong.
From being at first a mere atom of news, Dr. Swell finally becomes an
actual necessity to the newspaper fraternity. Its members have acquired
the habit of turning to him involuntarily whenever a news problem
presents itself. If the cable brings information that Emperor William
has a sore throat reporters besiege Dr. Swell. He talks learnedly (or he
should) of the nature of the trouble, and outlines the proper course of
treatment, etc. Again it is heralded to the community that:
“On being asked concerning the nature of Emperor William’s ailment, Dr.
Swell, the eminent authority on diseases of the throat, said——”
Is Dr. Swell coming on? Not at all. He has arrived—landed on both feet
as it were. He is There and It. From then on it is only a matter of
taking advantage of his opportunities. He may remove to a larger city
where the services of a shrewd press agent will be necessary to secure
the desired publicity, or he may stay in the smaller place where he has
gotten a good start, and keep up the good work by a judicious
distribution of coin among the newspaper boys. Not as a bribe, dear me
no. That would be too raw. It would give the doctor dead away, and kill
the game.
There are physicians in every large city who seem to be vital to the
existence of the prominent newspapers. “See Dr. Blank,” is the order
that goes forth from the city editors on every possible occasion,
important or unimportant. Let the government chemist declare that ice
cream is impure and deleterious to health, and a hundred Dr. Blanks in
as many different cities will be interviewed at length and their views,
often worthless, spread before the public adorned with glaring
headlines.
Let the Ahkoond of Swat sneeze and at once we are regaled with the views
of the favored doctors as to the evils of hay fever and the best means
of counteracting them.
It is a poor schemer of a physician who can not in some manner, through
lodge, society, or other connections, make the acquaintance of at least
one city editor and, without obtrusion, make himself so valuable to the
scribe that he becomes, as it were, an unsalaried member of the staff,
ready at all times to help his dear friend the city editor out whenever
the latter wants anything in the line of medical information.
Blame these doctors? Not at all. On the other hand I feel like patting
them on the back and saying: “Go it, boys. I admire your fine work.
You’ve got Bunko Bill beaten to a frazzle.”
There is one doctor now famous because he is quoted almost daily in the
newspapers, who ten years ago was in hard luck financially. One day he
was introduced, or rather introduced himself, to a city editor by
calling at the latter’s office on an apparently innocuous errand. It
happened just at the time (accidentally, of course) when public interest
was aroused over the prevalence of infantile paralysis. After the doctor
had concluded the business on which he called, the editor, finding him
an intelligent, well-informed man, asked his opinion on the medical
sensation of the day. This was the doctor’s opportunity, and he took
full advantage of it.
“That is an important matter,” he replied, “and no professional man
should discuss it hurriedly or carelessly. I have some pressing calls to
make (this was a whopper) and haven’t the time to spare just now, but
I’ll be delighted to give you my views within a few hours.”
This was acceptable, so the doctor went to a friend’s library, read up
on the subject as thoroughly as he could in such a short time, and a few
hours later was back in the editorial sanctum. Here he talked so well
that the editor said:
“By Jove, doctor. That’s the kind of stuff I want. Can’t you write it
out for me? I’m afraid to trust a reporter, as there would be a risk of
getting it muddled. I’ll give you a good stenographer to dictate to.”
Barkis, which in this case was the doctor, was willing. He dictated the
matter, and the next morning was paraded on the first page in big type
as “the eminent Dr. ——”
His fortune dated from that day. Patients came in by the score. His
newspaper friend had occasion to call on him frequently for information
on current medical topics, and he was in print so much that his name was
on everybody’s tongue. That was fame, and a kind of fame that brought
wealth.
This particular medic had the gift of a real bunko artist. He knew how
to keep the good thing moving, and to “con” the city editor who thought
he was above being caught.
“Really, my dear Mr. ——,” the doctor would say when asked by phone for a
statement, “really I’m too busy to do the subject justice, but I can’t
refuse you. Send a stenographer over and I’ll dictate something. By the
way, the _World_ and the _Express_ both wanted something but I had to
turn them down.”
Did the city editor appreciate this favoritism? He certainly did, and
saw to it that the doctor got all there was coming in the way of double
leads, scare heads, and top of column positions.
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