him might have made in their attitude towards prohibition at the present time, the perusal of this pamphlet is instructive as showing the opinion of men of the highest character fifty years ago.

With these brief allusions to important features of my father's medical career, I now come to my more intimate recollections of events in his life connected with his professional work.

In developing my subject, I have a certain hesitation which I can but feel is natural, as to how far one is justified in giving to the public the record of intimate personal knowledge of another, especially when the relationship has been very close. There must always exist a certain amount of doubt as to how far personal feeling may influence one's judgment of character. There come times, however, in which one may hold the subject of one's survey "at arm's length," as it wereviewing it with the perspective of those less intimately connected. When, moreover, one's position is strengthened by the knowledge that others heartily agree with his point of view, he may feel confident that his own judgment is unbiased by mere intimate relationship.

In touching, therefore, upon anything of personal family history, I am content to take the position held by my father, as expressed by him in an address which I shall touch upon more fully later, when he says: "To some sensitive minds, it (the subject of his father's illness) may seem to be of too private and personal a character to be placed thus freely before any public assembly. I have no such feelings when questions of human health and happiness are involved."

One of the very earliest impressions which I had of my father as a physician must have been when I was five or six years of age, and we were living in Boston at 8 Otis Place, once a quiet, retired spot, now called Winthrop Square, formed by the junction of Devonshire and Otis Streets, the heart of the business section of the city. The room, the window, even the carpet on the floor with its curious rectangular red figures on a gray ground, are stamped indelibly on my mind. How I came to be in that room (my father's office) has faded from my mind, but the fact that a strange man was with him (it must have been, I think, a medical student), and that my father held in his hand a somewhat grotesque-looking object resembling an animal with a black head and two long tentacles, filled my childish mind with a vague foreboding, which increased to a sort of wild terror as he approached me with the instrument in his hand and proceeded to unbutton my collar and shirt, to do I knew not what. In a moment, with a howl of fright and in a flood of tears, I flew from the room and scampered upstairs to the seclusion of the nursery and into the arms of a motherly old nurse, who soon succeeded in soothing my fears. That was my first view of the Camman binaural stethoscope, invented about that time by Dr. Camman, of

New York, for which my father discarded the monaural stethoscope, the use of which he had learned in the early thirties from his eminent teacher in Paris, the great Louis. That instrument was destined in later years to become a very close bond between my father and myself, through the early instruction he gave me in its use and the knowledge I imbibed from his teachings embodied in his little book called "The Young Stethoscopist," published in 1848, and even now referred to as containing in concise form the most important elements in the science of auscultation and percussion.

Associated with it are the visits which I can recall when, as a little boy, I went with him to some poor sufferer in the throes of consumption. With that memory always comes the keen recollection of his tender thoughtfulness for those for whom there was little to be done other than to give words of cheer and courage combined with alleviation of symp

Thoughtfulness in word and action for those under his care was one of his very marked characteristics. He never would tolerate for a moment the free discussion of the patient's condition at the bedside. His sensitiveness extended even to the point of dislike of whatever he considered inappropriate adjectives used in conjunction with pathological studies. An ardent student of pathology and with a knowledge of its great importance, he would nevertheless correct some enthusiastic pupil who, in discussion over some pathological specimen, might use the term "beautiful." "Interesting it is. 'Beautiful' it is not," he would emphatically say.

His character, however, was not always one of gentleness. Possessed of a quick, impulsive temper, he could often blaze with righteous wrath if he was stirred by some speech or act of which he disapproved. He was equally ready, however, to acknowledge himself in error upon proof, and eager to atone for any possible injustice to another.

An ardent Abolitionist from the earliest years of his manhood, he worked heart and soul in behalf of the slave. For this he suffered social ostracism from several of the old families in Boston, especially after the wellknown episode of his walk through the streets with Frederick Douglass,-a black man, afterwards minister to Hayti-and act which at that time, strange as it may seem to us now, required courage not often met with under similar conditions. His joy when Lincoln sent forth the Proclamation of Emancipation was something never to be forgotten. Doubtless in order to make a deep impression upon me as a young boy, he took me to hear the proclamation read in the old Boston Music Hall in January, 1863. The picture of my father, standing erect beside me, hurrahing at the top of his voice, swinging his hat and overcoat above his head, is one of the indelible pictures of a lifetime never to be effaced. Seventeen years before he had done a similar thing with his oldest son, then a little lad of seven. In order to impress him with a hatred of slavery, he took him to Tremont Temple to view the face of the martyr Torrey, whose body lay in state after his death in a southern prison. Three months after the reading of Lincoln's proclamation, this same son made the great sacrifice and fell fighting for the cause they both had striven for. That this great sorrow tinged my father's life ever after could not be doubted. At the same time,

he seemed imbued with a spirit of gratitude that he had been privileged to give up his son in the endeavor to right a great wrong.

Of a deeply religious nature, evinced in many ways to all who knew him intimately, he felt himself bound to no special creed, although usually speaking of himself as a Unitarian. Tolerant of the honest beliefs of others, he never scoffed at nor criticized harshly those from whom he differed. His memory is still cherished in several Roman Catholic institutions in and about Boston, to

which he gave unstinted and devoted service in the early years of his medical life.

His keen sense of the ludicrous was very marked, a fortunate attribute in one so engrossed in matters of a deeply serious nature. I recall the infinite relish with which he used to tell of an episode that occurred during his connection with the State Board of Health. The board had been requested to visit a fertilizer factory which had been complained of as a nuisance in a certain neighborhood. The intolerable stench had apparently remained very noticeably in their clothes after their departure, a fact, however, of which they themselves were apparently unconscious. Having boarded a horsecar, the fellow passengers made it very evident that their nostrils were offended, and, when leaving the car, my father overheard the query of a passenger to the conductor, "Who are those men?" and his reply with very evident emphasis, "That's the State Board of Health, sir!"

I well remember his amusement coupled with disgust in his account of the behavior of a member of his own profession who attempted to excuse the disgraceful condition of the old slaughter houses in Brighton in the late sixties. I quote the words of his own record of a visit to that region not long before the establishment of the Massachusetts Board of Health:

"As I quietly jogged around with my companion in his 'one-hoss shay,' I gently re

marked (for I knew he was a 'rough diamond,' a plain, often abrupt, outspoken man) that such a universally bad-smelling atmosphere must be disagreeable and perhaps unhealthy. But he instantly replied, 'Oh, no, Doctor, you are wholly mistaken; these are healthy animal odors only. Sniff them up, Doctor!' I talked not a word more upon the subject. As well, thought I, argue with a hog to keep himself clean as to talk longer on sanitary work with such a physician, whose influence, unfortunately, reaches more or less closely every house in town."

The result of that visit appeared not many years afterwards, by the construction, at the instigation of the State Board of Health, of proper abattoirs in the Brighton district, thereby abolishing a horrible nuisance.

This saving sense of humor doubtless helped him to meet with complacency at least, the astounding effrontery of a notorious quack with whom he was brought in contact at one time in the course of his practice. He had been called to see a man whom he found in the last stages of consumption, for whom there was no possibility of cure and little to be done. In a subsequent interview with the patient's brother, my father gave a very grave prognosis and spoke of the impossibility of doing anything more than to attempt to alleviate the distressing symptoms. Not long afterwards, upon meeting the brother in the street, he inquired for the patient and was told that he was rapidly recovering; that they had placed him under the care of someone (a well-known quack) who had told them that the trouble was not with the lungs but with the liver. My father said nothing other than to express his gratification at hearing of the patient's improvement. A few days later, he read in the paper a notice of the patient's death. He visited the brother and asked if, in the interests of science, he would allow an autopsy to be made. The brother demurred, but finally assented on the condition that the quack should be present. My father made no objection, and soon gave ocular proof of far advanced disease in the patient's lungs and an apparently normal condition of the liver. Calling the attention of the quack to what was perfectly evident, he was dumbfounded by the comment, after a short pause, "Well, all I can say is, if you had done as well by the lungs as I did by the liver, that man would be alive now!" Such cleverness in brazen impudence is worthy of amusement, almost of respect; a thought which I doubt not flashed through the hearer's mind as he listened and felt that any rejoinder other than silence would be useless.

Among many personal reminiscences of his medical career, one stands out quite prominently in my mind: a meeting in 1885 at the Boston Medical Library, then situated in Boylston Place. Years before,-in 1848,-a friend had presented to the library through the agency of Dr. Henry J. Bigelow, the famous surgeon, - contemporary and friend of my father, the portrait of a French surgeon of

I

the olden time and thought to be one of Ambrose Paré. For years my father had looked at the painting, which represented a man of very different aspect from that which he conceived to be a true one of the noble Paré. The sense of dissatisfaction at having the name of one for whom he felt great reverence placed beneath the portrait of a man of inferior aspect, culminated several years later in a public questioning as to the correctness of the portrait. With his usual indefatigable zeal, my father searched in every possible place here and abroad for some authentic likenesses of Paré, and was rewarded by receiving various prints and photographs of portraits of the great surgeon. All differed markedly from that under discussion. After collecting his proofs, my father proceeded to place them, January 10, 1887,-before the Society for Medical Improvement, which had been called to decide the matter. Meanwhile, Dr. Bigelow had also been diligently searching for proofs to substantiate his claim, and the facts were placed before the society. Among the younger members of the profession a good deal of excitement prevailed in anticipation of the expected discussion. well remember the delight expressed by some of the younger medical men because they were to witness a trial of strength, as it were, between two Nestors of the profession. The meeting opened and the facts were produced. A perfectly good-natured but firm discussion ensued between the two participants. The weight of evidence soon disclosed the fact that there was no substantial proof that the portrait in question was one of Ambrose Paré, and it was the almost unanimous opinion of the society that his name should be removed and that the title "Portrait of an Unknown Surgeon" should replace it, and for several years it remained thus changed. The meeting was an instance of the strenuous zeal of two eminent men. It spurred Dr. Bigelow to further investigations, finally to be rewarded by the discovery of an old print of the portrait with the name of the subject below, viz., "Francois Herade," a famous surgeon of Paris, painted by F. LeSicre in the seventeenth century. The portrait, properly named, now hangs in the new Medical Library in the Fenway as a memento of that famous meeting, an inspiring incident to those who were present at the time.

Memories of interesting incidents which I shared with my father crowd upon me, but to recite all would make me trespass beyond the limits of this article.. I shall allude, therefore, to but one other, viz., his presentation of the last paper and, if I may say so, one of the most brilliant he ever wrote, at the age of eighty, about two years before his death. It was read at the meeting of the American Climatological Association in Boston in 1889. The subject itself, his treatment of it, and the picturesque style of narration all combined to make the paper a classic, for it offered a concrete instance of a great truth vividly pic

tured, giving delight to his audience, the memory of which never fades. The subject was "Open Air Travel as a Curer and Preventer of Consumption." Although the paper is to be found in the Transactions of the American Climatological Association of that date, it has been long out of print, and, as it may never have been seen by many, I venture to bring up again certain salient points of the article which are of universal interest.

In it he cites the case of his father, who at the age of thirty-five was seized with severe hemorrhages and with other symptoms of beginning tubercular disease of the lungs. I have already alluded to his prefatory remarks about his belief that by giving personal facts relating to his family he should be absolved from anything that would seem like undue publicity of private affairs because the knowledge of these facts may act as guides to others towards health and happiness.

He then proceeded to give in detail the journey which his father took with a friend after the first active symptoms of his trouble had subsided, and much sooner than we should now think wise under such conditions. Starting from Salem-his home from birth— in the early part of the last century, over one hundred years ago, his father drove in a buggy through Boston to Milton, a distance of about twenty-five or thirty miles, and made his first stop at the old inn in the latter town. With a unique method of illustrating his paper, my father had prepared a large map, and on it he had marked the course of this long journey throughout New England, quaintly indicating the points at which the journey was broken, by different colored dots, to indicate the patient's condition in mind and body as he proceeded. Beginning at Salem, a disc of deepest black marked great depression of body and spirit! At the first stop, Milton, the same color persisted coincident with the fact that at the inn he was again seized with a hemorrhage. The host, evidently impressed by what may have been the blanched appearance of the patient, advised the friend to take the sufferer home as soon as possible on account of his deathly aspect. Nothing daunted, however, the two proceeded on their way after a rest. At the next stop, a somewhat more cheerful color of dark blue appeared on the map, as representing improvement in mind and body. The ensuing journey was taken by easy stages down through Rhode Island, Connecticut, eastern New York, through the Berkshires to Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, and back to Salem,-a distance of about 748 miles. Each resting-place was carefully marked by lighter and brighter colors as health of body and mind improved, the climax, as the patient approached his home, being indicated by a bright roseate pink disc, signifying an apparent return to health!

In his description of this journey, taken from his father's notes many years before, it was something never to be forgotten to see the zest and pleasure my father displayed in

developing his subject. Still more delightful to watch was the effect upon his audience, whose expression of pleasure and gratification at the unique character of the paper were constantly seen and heard. Concluding the account of the journey, the subsequent part of the paper was devoted to the description of his father's methods of life after his return home. He described how, by marvelous good fortune, no abnormal symptoms returned; having led a very studious and sedentary life before, his father proceeded to take more outof-door exercise every day, and inculcated in his children the absolute necessity of a temperate, hygienic life. Humorous allusions

were made to the strict rules that the children were given for taking daily morning walks down to a certain well-known divine's meeting-house, about three-quarters of a mile from their home, and of sundry prickings of conscience at the thought that they sometimes decided that the sight of the weathercock on Dr. Bentley's steeple, though more than a quarter of a mile from their proper destination, was near enough to their father's directions!

He spoke of his father's removal to Boston; of his living up to the age of sixty-five years of his death from cancer of the stomach; and of the of the discovery after death of the old healed lesion in his lung which had been active thirty years before.

Having given the main facts of his father's illness, his apparent recovery, and his death from another cause, my father proceeded to give the interesting data that in spite of the fact that his father had developed tubercular disease, and that his mother (his father's cousin) had died of fibroid phthisis ("oldfashioned consumption"), yet not one of their descendants-93 in number at the time of writing (1889)-had shown the least sign of tuberculosis in any form.* Basing his conclusions on these facts, my father proceeded to emphasize his belief that these favorable results were largely due to the healthful methods of life which his father had taught his children to follow, and urged upon his hearers the importance of preaching this doctrine to their patients, believing that oftentimes by comparatively simple methods, much in the way of prevention, even cure, of tuberculosis can be brought about without sending patients far away to distant "health resorts.'

This paper, given thirty years ago, was another proof of what many of my father's associates have alluded to in times past, viz., a sort of prophetic vision-intuitive, instinctive, -by whatever name it be called, that seemed to make him point the way to others, at times even in directions that he himself did not take as his own. As an example of this, let us recall the fact that although having no talent for surgery and naturally shrinking from it, yet he persisted in urging and finally persuaded surgeons to use paracentesis in spite

*In 1919 it may be recorded that in a large and ever-increasing number of descendants there has appeared no case of tuberculosis.-V. Y. B.

of long-continued opposition on their part, with one or two notable exceptions.

In after years, before the operation of laparotomy was fully recognized as legitimate, this same quality of mind showed itself when on several occasions he urged the surgeons to open the abdomen, only to be told more than once that he was venturing out of his own domain and was advocating questionable and dangerous methods.

In recent years, moreover, twenty-five years after his death, I have had a concrete instance of this intuitive quality. In 1917, an old man of 92 wrote me that sixty years before that date he had consulted my father, who found incipient tuberculosis in his lungs. His advice to the young man was diametrically opposed to the usually accepted formulae of treatment at that time. He urged him to leave home, "plastered walls and hot-air stoves," and to take his wife and young child with him to the wilds of Minnesota; to abjure the usual forms of treatment; to live "in the open," and-to quote the writer's words-"Never shall I forget his heartening words as he clapped me on the shoulder, saying, 'Have pluck and patience. Don't be afraid of the cold open air. It is the coming treatment."" The result of following this advice was a complete restoration to health in a year and the patient wrote his tribute of gratitude sixty years afterwards.

Such were some of the characteristic traits of one who felt the deepest reverence for his

THE T. B. DOCTOR

Oh you poor T. B. doctor, you smile as you go, But inwardly I know you groan,

For we patients test your patience so,

Till you think your wits have flown.

It's to question you this and question that, We study from day to day;

One asks why his "temp" doesn't stay pat And in the bed he'll have to stay. Another wonders what you mean by "soon," When you promise so glibly to give her "chair rest";

She may query again by to-morrow noon, But finds that it's weeks and weeks at best.

After "chair rest," the next coveted goal

Is "exercise," blessed thought we're almost well,

We impatiently wait for this time to roll,

And then our "job is waiting," you hear us tell.

Weeks and months go by and sometimes

years,

Before we conquer the "bugs,"

But you cheer us on and allay our fears, While hope and doubt at our heartstrings tug.

So smile on you brave T. B. M.D.'s,
Nor let your courage cease,
Nor mind that we may fuss and tease,
For in our hearts we wish you peace.
ELLA J. STINSON.

profession and who ever held the standard high. No one who approached him ever failed to feel this keenly, and his influence over the younger men of the profession was such as always to draw them closely to him for counsel and sympathy.

No record of my father would be complete without allusion, however brief, to his latter years of enforced rest from work. His life had been one of consistent activity to the last. In spite of a malady which appeared a few years before his death, his vigor of mind even to the time of the delivery of his last paper before the Climatological Association, was unimpaired. Not many months afterward, however, the crushing sorrow felt in the death of her with whom he had led an ideally happy life for over fifty years was the first stroke that brought enfeeblement of mind and body, both borne with marvelous patience and sweetness.

Even through his clouded mental condition occasional flashes of his enthusiasm for his profession would burst forth as instanced one day when a medical friend entered his room during the great excitement caused by Koch's announcement of the therapeutic value of tuberculin. Clapping his friend upon the shoulder, he cried, "Doctor, aren't we going to do something about this tuberculin business?"

The end came not long afterwards. He died in January, 1892.

PRAYER OF A T. B.
This thing do I pray by night, by day
As I lie on my bed and "cure"-
Some ask for courage and strength to endure,
Some for relief from pain;

But grant this one little thing to me,
Just keep me from talking of my T. B.

This thing do I pray as night and day
I lie on my bed and hear
The Veteran ask the Raw Recruit,

"Have you much trouble, my dear?" Oh Lord, do grant one thing to me,

Keep me from talking of other's T. B,

This thing do I pray as I hear the reply, "There's just a small spot on my lung.

I haven't tuberculosis, you know."

(How many times has that song been sung.) But grant, O Veteran, this earnest pleaLet the doctor tell her that spot's plain T. B.!

This thing do I pray by night, by day

When my sense of values gets twisted, And T. B. assumes such proportions vast In my life 'tis the biggest thing listed, Grant this one plea-O Powers that be, Keep me from talking of my T. B.!

EDITH TERRY NELSON.