The Patient Observer | Page 6

buoyant, insinuating, sympathetic tone that is very
restful to the invalid nerves. Harrington tells me that the small suburban
house in which he lives, the paint and roofing with which he protects it
against the weather, the lawn-mower which he has secured in
anticipation of a good crop of grass, and the small stock of poultry he
experiments with, were all acquired through advertisements read in

doctors' waiting-rooms. Some physicians take in the illustrated
weeklies as well as the monthly magazines. In one of the former I
found the other day an excellent panoramic view of the second
inauguration of President McKinley.
But I am afraid I have wandered somewhat from what I set out to say. I
meant to show how different from your clean-shaven doctor is the
physician of the conventional beard. There is no trifling with him. He
takes himself seriously, and he takes you seriously. His examination is
as thorough as the stethoscope can make it; in fact, he listens to your
heart-action long enough to make you fear the worst. This is in marked
contrast with the smooth-faced doctor, who, as a rule, asks you to show
your tongue, and when you obey he does not look at it, but begins to go
through his mail, whistling cheerfully. He puts such vital questions as,
how far up is your bedroom window at night, and do you ever have a
sense of eye-strain after reading too long, and when you reply, he pays
no attention. His entire attitude expresses the conviction that either you
are not ill at all, or that if you are, you are not in a position to give an
intelligent account of yourself. That is not the case with the other
physician. He asks precise questions and insists on detailed replies.
Nothing escapes him. While you are describing the sensations in the
vicinity of your left lung, he will ask quietly whether you have always
had the habit of biting your nails.
Under such sympathetic attention the patient's spirits rise. From an
apologetic state of mind he passes to a sense of his own importance.
Instead of being ashamed of his ailments he tries to describe as many as
he can think of. His specific complaint may be a touch of sciatica, but
he takes pleasure in recalling a bad habit of breathing through the
mouth in moments of excitement, and a tricky memory which often
leads him to carry about his wife's letters an entire week before mailing
them. The need for a certain amount of self-castigation is implanted in
all of us, and it is satisfied in the form of confession. Many people do it
as part of their religious beliefs. Others belabour themselves in the
physician's office. Men who in the bosom of the family will deny that
they read too late at night and smoke too many cigars will call such
transgressions to the doctor's attention if he should happen to overlook

them. I know of one man suffering from neuralgia of the arm who
insisted on telling his doctor that it made him ill to read the
advertisements in the subway cars. But the doctor who wears no beard
does not invite such confidences.

IV
INTERROGATION
One day a census enumerator in the employ of the United States
government knocked at my door and left a printed list of questions for
me to answer. The United States government wished me to state how
many sons and daughters I had and whether my sons were males and
my daughters females. I was further required to state that not only was I
of white descent and that my wife (if I had one) was of white descent,
but that our children (if we had any) were also of white descent. I was
also called upon to state whether any of my sons under the age of five
(if I had any) had ever been in the military or naval service of the
United States, and whether my grandfather (if I had one) was attending
school on September 30 last. There were other questions of a like
nature, but these are all I can recall at present.
Halfway through the schedule I was in a high state of irritation. The
census enumerator's visit in itself I do not consider a nuisance. Like
most Americans who sniff at the privileges of citizenship, I secretly
delight in them. I speak cynically of boss-rule and demagogues, but I
cast my vote on Election Day in a state of solemn and somewhat
nervous exaltation that frequently interferes with my folding the ballot
in the prescribed way. I have never been summoned for jury duty, but if
I ever should be, I shall accept with pride and in the hope that I shall
not be peremptorily