For both there are always the little ailments of childhood,--the hurts, the accidents, and the disorders or the diseases of youthful years. All come in for a share. Let us be careful how we deal with them. I have often watched with interest a mother beside the girl or boy in temporary pain. As a rule, she a.s.sumes from the beginning that the hurt boy is to be taught silent, patient endurance. What! you, a boy, to cry! Be a man!

Among his comrades he is a "cry-baby" if he whimpers, "a regular girl,"

"a girl-boy." He is taught early that from him endurance is expected; the self-conquest of restrained emotion is his constant lesson.

If it be a girl who suffers, she is a.s.sumed to be weak, and it is felt that for her tears are natural and not to be sternly repressed; nor are her little aches and complaints dismissed as lightly as are her brother's. She is trained to expect sympathy, and learns that to weep is her prerogative. The first gush of tears after a hurt of body or mind is in some mysterious way a relief, and not rudely to be chidden; but, on the whole, it is wise and right to teach patience and unemotional endurance to the s.e.x which in life is sure to have the larger share of suffering. To be of use, this education must begin reasonably early, and we may leave to the mother to make sure that it is not too severe.

As a girl grows older, we ask and expect some measure of restraint in emotional expression as regards any of the physical or moral troubles which call out tears in the child; for the woman who is wise understands that unrestrained emotion and outward expressions of pain or distress are the beginnings of that loss of self-rule which leads to habitual unrestraint, and this to more and more enfeeblement of endurance, and this, again, to worse things, of which more in the future.

We are dealing now with pain. My simple practical thesis is that pain comes to all soon or late, that the indirect consequences are most to be feared, and that endurance in the adult, rational endurance, must be won by a gradual education, which can hardly begin too early. But of what use are these stern lessonings in the bearing of what none can quite escape? Do they enable us to diminish pain or to feel it less?

Indirectly, yes. One woman cries out for instant eas.e.m.e.nt if in pain or distress, unschooled to endure. She claims immediate relief. Another, more resolute, submits with patience, does not give way, as we put it, tries to distract her attention, knowing that even as distinct suffering as toothache may be less felt in the presence of something which interests the mind and secures the attention. Nothing, indeed, is more instructive than to watch how women bear pain,--the tremendous calamity it is to one, the far slighter thing in life it is to another. I speak now of transient torments. When we come to consider those years of torture which cruel nature holds in store for some, no one blames the sight of the moral wreck it is apt to make of the sufferer. On the other hand, there is nothing I ever see in my profession so splendid as the way in which a few, a rare few, triumph over pain, which we know must often rise to the grade of anguish, and from which scarce a day is ever free.

I recall well one woman who for years, under my eyes, was the subject of what, with due sense of the force of the word, I call torture. At times she shut herself up in her room, and, as she said, "wrestled with it."

This happened every day or two for an hour or more. The rest of the time she was out, or busy with her duties, but always in some pain.

Meanwhile, although failing slowly, she was the life and joy of many, the true and gentle counsellor, the sure support of all who leaned on her for aid. At her dinner-table, in chat with friends, or over a book, no one who did not know her well could have dreamed that she was in such pain as consigns lower natures to disability. Her safeguard from utter wreck was a clear and resolute faith, a profound and unfailing interest in men and things and books, which gave strange vigor to her whole range of intellectual activities. But above all she possessed that happiest of gifts, the keen, undying sense of the humorous, the absurd, the witty.

As she once said, "All life laughs for me." It followed her to death, as it has certain others as n.o.ble. When dying, she said some gay thing which disturbed a dear friend. The sufferer, well knowing her own state, looked up. "I must laugh, dear," she said; "I would not feel that the other world was the good place I think it if I did not believe I could laugh there too." She once said to me, in the midst of a storm of acute suffering, that pain seemed to her a strange sort of a joke. I hardly knew what she meant, but it shows the reigning mood of one who used to better ends a life half pain than most of us use the untroubled health of existence. Very irritable in youth, her clear brain and strong sense of duty overcame it in proportion to the growth of what in others creates it. All opiates she disliked, and could rarely be induced to take them. "If my mind gets weaker, I shall go to pieces----;" and, laughing always, "the bits would be worthless as the scattered bricks of a sound house." Surely such a life is a fruitful lesson in the uses of endurance, for be sure that both she and all around her were the better and happier, yes, and she the less a sufferer, for her mode of dealing with a life of pain.

The ill.u.s.tration I have given saves me from dwelling at great length on the values of all the means within a woman's control for lessening the evil consequences of suffering, and if to few is given the largest moral and mental outfit for such a struggle, none are without the power to cultivate what they have, and, in the lesser ills of life, to make use of the lesson we may hope and know few will be called on to apply to an existence such as hers.

Pain of body, hurt of mind, all the sad gamut from discomfort to anguish, depend for their influence on her life upon how nature and training enable the woman to meet them.

To endure without excess of emotion saves her from consequent nervousness, and from that feebleness of mind and body which craves at all cost instant relief. It is the spoiled child, untaught to endure, who becomes the self-pampered woman. Endurance of pain has also its side-values, and is the handmaid of courage and of a large range of duties. Tranquil endurance enables the sufferer to seek and to use all the means of distraction which this woman I have described did use. It leaves the mind free, as it never can be otherwise in the storm of unrestraint, to reason on her troubles, and to decide whether or not her pain justifies the use of drugs, for on her the physician must measurably rely for this knowledge, and as she is morally strong or weak the decision will be.

There are those, indeed, who suffer and grow strong; there are those who suffer and grow weak.

This mystery of pain is still for me the saddest of earth's disabilities. After all is said that can be said on its values as a safeguard, an indicator of the locality of disease, after the moralist has considered it from the disciplinary view, and the theologian cracked his teeth on this bitter nut, and the evolutionist accounted for its existence, it comes at last to the doctor to say what shall be done with it. I wish it came to him alone. Civilized man has ceased to torture, but nature, relentless still, has in store possibilities of utmost anguish, which seem to fall alike on the guilty and the innocent, the poor and the rich, and in largest proportion on the gentler s.e.x. But while pain is still here with its ever-ready presence, the direct means of lessening it have multiplied so that hardly a month goes by without some new method being added of destroying for a time the power to suffer. For, bear in mind that it is not usually the cause which can be at once destroyed by drugs, but only the bodily capacity to react to it in the fashion we call pain. Ether, chloroform, cocaine, and many other drugs enable us to-day to feel sure that the ma.s.s of real pain in the world is vastly less than it was. It is, indeed, possible to prevent all pain, and pain has no real value which we need respect and desire to preserve; at least this is so from the physician's stand-point.

The temptation which comes to us out of the acc.u.mulation of anaesthetic agents is one which every tender-hearted man can understand. The temptations which it presents to the suffering they only know who have suffered. To this all that I have said leads up. To most women, even to strong women, there comes a time when pain is a grim presence in their lives. If brief, the wise physician calls upon them for that endurance, of the value of which I have spoken. On some he calls in vain. Even if it recur at intervals, as in the shape of neuralgic headaches, in the name of reason let him be the sole judge of your need to be relieved by drugs. He well knows, as you cannot know, that the frequent use of morphia seems in the end to increase, not to lessen, the whole amount of probable future pain, and that what eases for a time is a devil in angelic disguise. If you are urgent, weak of will, unable through unrestraint to comprehend him, the fault will be only half his, if you plead too eagerly for help and too constantly claim the relief he holds.

But suppose that the woman I address is a long and true sufferer, and that the physician desires to use such help often, then comes her time of peril and his day of largest responsibility. If he be weak, or too tender, or too p.r.o.ne to escape trouble by the easy help of some pain-lulling agent, she is soon on the evil path of the opium, chloral, or chloroform habit. Nor is prevention easy. With constant or inconstant suffering comes weakness of mind as well as body, and none but the strongest natures pa.s.s through this ordeal of character unhurt. If the woman be unenduring and unthoughtful, if the doctor fail to command her faith, and be too sympathetic, at last she gets possession herself of the drug, or the drug and the hypodermatic needle. Then there is before her one of the saddest of the many downward paths which lead to destruction of body and soul.

More often, in my experience, the opium habit is learned during an illness of limited duration, and for the consequences of which there is always some one to be blamed.

As I remember these patients, and I have seen them by the score, far on in their evil ways, such women are most often those who lack the power, even in health, to endure pain. Some defect of training or of nature has made pain, or even distress or insomnia, ills to be relieved at once regardless of cost. Let them but feel that relief for the time is possible, and self-restraint is over. They will have the thing they crave. You cure them of the vile opium habit at awful cost of suffering, and they relapse on the first new trial of endurance, and men of their type more surely than women.

I see a good many cases of opium, morphia, or chloral habit, and I am sure that these forms of intoxication are becoming more prevalent than they were a generation ago. Is this due to an increase in the disorders which are eased by such drugs? Is it not rather due to the softening influence of luxury, and the fact that we are all being constantly trained to feel that it is both easy and our right to escape pain, however brief?

I am sure, too, that a part of it lies in the readiness with which many physicians give sedatives, and their failure to feel the vast moral responsibilities of their position. But, whatever be the cause or causes, it is well in the hour of ease to learn beforehand the risks which come of too easy and too frequent appeals to agents which benumb the nerves.

When people are first given opium, it is apt to be the friend of the night and the foe of the morrow. Repeated often enough, it loses power to constipate and distress. It still soothes pain. It still gives sleep.

At last it seems to be in a measure a tonic for those who take it. But after a while it does some other things less agreeable. The mind and memory suffer, but far more surely the moral nature is altered. The woman becomes indifferent, her affections dull, her sense of duty hopelessly weakened. Watchful, cunning, suspicious, deceitful,--a thief, if need be, to get the valued opiate,--she stops at nothing. It would seem as if it were a drug which directly affected the conscience. At last, before this one craving, all ties in life are slight and bind her not. Insensible to shame and dead to affection, she is happy if the alcohol habit be not added to her disorder, for if she cannot get the one drug she longs for, the other will serve her at need.

There is a popular idea that opium gives pleasant dreams, and that it takes us away into the land of poetry, to which it is supposed to have conducted Coleridge and De Quincey. As a matter of fact, there are but few persons who get more out of opium than relief of pain, sense of comfort, and next day's remorses. The opium dream is not for all. I have known only four or five cases of habitual and distinct opium dreamers.

There was more of Coleridge than of opium in "Kubla Khan," and more of De Quincey than of the juice of poppies in the "Vision of Sudden Death."

When it came to the telling of these immortal dreams, we may well suspect that the narrative gained in the literary appeal from the poet opium-drunk to the poet sober.

It is, I fancy, well known to physicians that opium may act on an individual differently at different times. In the case of one well known to me it usually causes sleep, and no longer gives rise to nausea the next day, as it once did. Although it leaves him sufficiently wretched, and he has taken it but rarely, the drug occasionally keeps him wide awake and delightfully indifferent to the pa.s.sage of time. The striking hours are heard, and that is all. There is none of the ennui of insomnia. This effect of morphia is rare with him. He may have taken morphia a dozen times in his life to ease acute pain, but only twice has it made him thus wakeful. On these nights he saw an endless succession of visions, which he did not forget, as one does common dreams. Nearly all of the hallucinations were of the most amusing character, and were often long and connected series of ludicrous situations, over which he wondered, as he lay next day, a victim to the secondary miseries due to the soothing dose of the night before. This is one of the tricks which drugs play, and is not a thing to be antic.i.p.ated. The drug is the same; the man varies, and with his variations arise peculiarities in the effects of remedies.

The excess sometimes attained in the use of opiates is almost past belief. I have seen a mere girl of seventeen years take at one dose thirty grains of morphia, and I know of a woman who took for years ninety grains a day, and ruined a weak husband, a man of small means, by the costliness of her habit.

The causes of the torment, which the cessation of the use of morphia brings about, are interesting. Agonizing pains show that the nerves, long m.u.f.fled, have become more acutely sensitive than they were before the fatal drug was first employed. A host of lesser troubles--insomnia, pain, and indigestion--attend the cure. I know nothing more pitiful than such an ordeal, and, despite the most watchful care, I have seen it end more than once in suicide. When one has watched a woman from whom opium has been taken away, even with skilful tenderness, roll in agony on the floor, rend her garments, tear out her hair, or pa.s.s into a state of hysterical mania, the physician is made to feel that no suffering for which she took the drug can have been as bad as the results to which it leads. The capacity to suffer, which comes on as we remove the poison, is almost inconceivable. It lasts long, and is the true difficulty in the way of forming anew habits of wholesome endurance. The physician who imagines that his case is well, because he has enabled an opium-taker to eat, sleep, and be comfortable without use of the sedative, can have seen little of the future of such people. The oversensitiveness to pain persists for months, and is a constant temptation. The moral and mental habits formed under opium--the irresolution, the recklessness, the want of shame, in a word, the general failure of all that is womanly--need something more than time to cure. But I am not preaching to the woman just set free from this bondage to sin, and speak of her only to emphasize the horror with which I would wish to inspire the well, who yet may come some day to be the suffering.

If there be one set of women more liable than another to become victims of morphia or chloral, it is the wives of physicians. Every winter I see four or five, and always it is true that the habit has arisen out of the effort of the husband to attend medically on his wife. Physicians make good husbands, and this is in part due to the fact that their knowledge of the difficulties of feminine life causes them to be more thoughtfully tender, and more charitable as concerns the effects upon women of certain inevitable conditions as to which the layman is ignorant or indifferent. But the very fulness of the husband's appreciation of a woman's drawbacks and little moral ailments, the outcome of her womanhood, becomes dangerous when he ventures to be her medical caretaker. What he coolly decides in another's case, he cannot in hers.

How can he see her suffer and not give her of the abundance of relief in his hands? She is quick to know and to profit by this, and so the worst comes of it.

"It is easy for you to sit by in your strength and see me suffer," said a woman once to me. She was on the verge of the morphia habit, and I was trying to break it off abruptly. I felt, as any gentle-hearted man must feel, the sting and hurt of her words. Next day she said to me, "Of course you were right. I used to talk that way to B----, and he never could stand it." He was her husband and a physician. She got well easily.

I do not believe that most women who sin in this way slip into it either quite so ignorantly and so unwarned as they would have you to suppose.

Nearly always there is a time when some one--the physician, a friend, or their own reason--bids them pause, reflect, and choose.

"Alas I for thee, if thou from thine own soul dost turn and flee.

Better the house and company of pain; Better distress; Better the stones of strife, the bread with tears; Humiliation and despair and fears; All, all the heart can suffer, the soul know, Rather than with the b.e.s.t.i.a.l train to go, With base rejoicings, ignorant of woe."[3]

[Footnote 3: "Sylvian, and Other Poems," by Philip Varley.]

THE MORAL MANAGEMENT OF SICK OR INVALID CHILDREN.

Not long ago a pretty little girl of ten was brought to me from a long distance to get my advice as to a slight paralysis of one leg. The trouble had existed for several years. I soon saw that the child was irritable, sensitive, and positive, and I was, therefore, careful to approach her gently. The moment it was proposed to show me the leg, she broke into a fury of rage, and no inducement I could offer enabled me to effect my purpose. An appeal to the parents, and from them to force, ended in a distressing battle. She bit, scratched, kicked, and at last won a victory, and was left sullen and sobbing on the floor. Next day the same scene was repeated. It is true that at length they were able to undress her, but neither threats nor persuasion would keep her quiet long enough to enable me to apply the simplest tests. The case was obscure, and demanded the most careful study. Their time was limited, so that at length they were obliged to take her home in despair, without any guiding opinion from me, and with no advice, except as to her moral education, concerning which I was sufficiently explicit. I have seen many such ill.u.s.trations of a common evil, and have watched the growth to adult life of some of these cases of wrecked character, and observed the unpleasant results which came as they grew older. I have used an extreme case as a text, because I desire to fix attention on the error which parents and some doctors are apt to commit in cases of chronic ailments in children.

As to the miserable sufferers who pa.s.s through long illness to death I have little to say. We naturally yield to their whims, pet and indulge them, moved by pitiful desire to give them all they want of the little which life affords them. In acute illness, with long convalescence, I am pretty sure that the tender mother does no real good by over-indulgence; but the subject is difficult, and hard to handle with justice and charity without calling down upon me the indignation of the unthoughtful. It is so easy and pleasant to yield to the caprices of those we love, when they are in pain or helpless from illness,--so doubly hard at such times to say no. Yet, if in the case of a long convalescence, such as follows, perhaps, a typhoid or scarlet fever, we balance for the little one the too-easily yielded joy of to-day against the inevitable stringency of discipline, which, with recovered health, must teach the then doubly difficult lesson of self-restraint, we shall see, I think, that, on the whole, we do not add to the sum of happiness to which the child is ent.i.tled.

The mother at the sick-bed of her young child is, however, a being quite often as difficult to manage as her child. All her instinctive maternity is up in arms. Deep in the heart of many mothers there is an unconfessed and half-smothered sense of wrath at the attack which sickness has made on her dear one. Then nothing is too much to give; no sacrifice of herself or others too great to grant or demand. The irritability and feebleness of convalescence makes claims upon her love of self-sacrifice, and her prodigality of tenderness as positive and yet more baneful. That in most cases she may and does go too far, and loses for her child what it is hard to recover in health, is a thing likely enough, yet to talk to her at such times of the wrong she does the child is almost to insult her. Nevertheless the unwisdom of a course of reckless yielding to all a child's whims is plain enough, for if the little one be long ill or weak, it learns with sad swiftness to exact more and more, and to yield less and less, so that it becomes increasingly hard to do for it the many little unpleasant things which sickness demands. Character comes strongly out in the maladies of the child, as it does even less distinctly in the sickness of the adult. The spoiled, over-indulged child is a doubly unmanageable invalid, and when in illness the foolish petting of the mother continues, the doctor, at least, is to be pitied.

The ductility of childhood has its dangerous side. This is seen very well in cases which, fortunately, are rather rare, and, for some reason, are less frequent in girls than in boys. These little ones observe sharply the faces and obvious motives of those about their sick-beds, and more readily than adults are led to humor the doubts they hear expressed by the doctor or their elders as to their capacity to do this or that. Too frequent queries as to their feelings are perilously suggestive, and out of it all arises, in children of nervous or imaginative temperaments, an inexplicable tendency to fulfil the predictions they have heard, or actively to humor the ideas they acquire as to their own ailments and disabilities.

There is something profoundly human in this. With careless, unthoughtful people, who have trained a child to know that illness means absolute indulgence, and who pour out unguardedly their own fears and expectations at the bedside, the result for the child is in some cases past belief. The little one gets worse and worse. It accepts automatically the situation, with all the bribes to do so made larger by feebleness, and at last gains that extreme belief in its own inability to rise or move about which absolute convictions of this nature impose on child or man.

There is a further and worse stage possible. The child's claims increase. Its complaints gather force, and alarm those about it.

Gratified in all its whims, it develops perverted tastes, or refuses all food but what it fancies. At last it becomes violent if opposed, and rules at will a scared circle of over-affectionate relatives. When all else fails, it exaggerates or invents symptoms, and so goes on, until some resolute physician sees the truth and opens the eyes of an amazed family.

Certain physicians explain these cases as due to hysteria, and in a small number of instances there are signs which justify such an explanation. But in the larger proportion the mode of origin is complex, and depends on the coincidence of a variety of evils, none of which are of hysterical character. I am not here concerned so much with the exact nature of these troubles as I am with the avoidable errors in the management of sick childhood. If I can make the mother more thoughtfully alert, less disposed to terror and exaggeration, less liable to be led by her emotions, I shall have fulfilled my purpose without such discussion as is out of place in essays like these.

To make clear, however, the possibility of the disasters I have briefly described, an ill.u.s.tration may answer better than any length of generalized statements. A little fellow of nine once came under my care, and was said to have inflammation of the coverings of the brain. There was a long story, which I may sum up in a few sentences. An only child; feeble in youth; indulgence to almost any degree; at the age of eight, a fall, not at all grave, but followed by some days of headache; long rest in bed, by order of a physician; much pity; many questions; half-whispered, anxious discussions at the bedside; yet more excessive indulgence, because every denial seemed to increase or cause headache.

At last the slightest annoyance became cause for tears, and finally for blame, all of which a gentle, fearful mother bore as if it were part of the natural trials of disease. It took but a few months of complete non-restraint to make of a shrewd, bright, half-educated, spoiled boy a little brute, as to whose sanity there seemed to be some doubt. He was easily made well, and has lived to thank the sternness which won back the health of mind and body his parents had so foolishly helped to lose for him.

A single example may suffice, nor have I any fear that it may lead any one, least of all nature's gentlest creation, a mother, to be more severe than is reasonable. She it is who is really most responsible. She is ever beside the child when the little actor is off guard. She may have the cleverness to see through the deceit or she may not. The physician comes and goes, and must take for granted much that he has no chance to see, and for which he has to trust the more constant attendant. Moreover, the rarity of these cases is apt to help to deceive him quite as much as does the mother's affectionate trust. Nevertheless, it is his fault if soon or late he fail to see the truth; but he may well be careful how he states his doubt. The mother at the sick-bed but too often resents as a wrong any hint at the true state of the case.

Children are singularly imitative, and more or less p.r.o.ne to suffer from this tendency. Hence the curious cases in which a child simulates, I do not say dissimulates, the malady it sees constantly before it, as when one child has attacks of false epilepsy, owing to having seen the real attack in a sister or brother, or when St. Vitus's dance runs through a school or an asylum.

To sum up, we credit these little ones with a simplicity of moral organization which forbids us to believe that the causes which are active for mischief in their elders are not as potent for evil in them.

The popular and reasonable creed of moral education, which teaches us to ask from a well child self-control, self-restraint, truth of statement, reasonable endurance of the unavoidable, good temper, is not too lightly or too entirely to be laid aside when sickness softens the rule of health and all our hearts go out in pity to the little sufferer.

Certain of the nervous and other maladies of children sometimes keep them a long while under treatments which are annoying, painful, or disabling. They often end by leaving them as strong as their fellows, but crippled, lame, disfigured, or with troubles that attract remark, or, at least, notice. Thus, a child may have hip-disease, and, after years of treatment, get well, and although vigorous enough to do all that is required in life, be more or less lame. In another case, there is disease of the bones of the spine. After a wearying treatment, it is well, but the little one has a distorted spine,--is humpbacked. Again, we have the common malady, palsy of childhood, and here, too, most probably, there is left a residue of disability, or, at all events, some loss of power.

In each case there are years of troublesome treatment, all sorts of unpleasant limitations, pain it may be, and certainly, at the best, a variety of discomforts. The joy and little pleasures of youth are gone.

It makes one sorrowful to think of such cases, even when all that competent means can do to help them is at their disposal, and still more to reflect on those who have to battle for health with no more resource than is left to the needy. What shall we not do for them! The woman's whole tendency is to give them all of herself and all else that she can control. Indulgence becomes inevitable, or seems to become so, and the mother is rare who does not insist that they shall have what they desire, and that her other children shall yield to them in all things.

Her answer to herself and others is, "They have so little; let them at least have what they can." As rare as the reasonable mother is the sick child who can stand this treatment and survive with those traits of character which it above all others requires to make its crippled life happy, not to say useful. The child thus unrestrained and foolishly indulged must needs become ill-tempered. It loses self-control, and yet no one will need it more. It learns to expect no disappointments, and life is to hold for it less than for others. Disease has crippled its body and the mother has crippled its character.