HUNTER HOLMES MCGUIRE, M. D., LL.D., President of the American Medical and of the American Surgical Associations. Founder of the University College of Medicine; Medical Director, Jackson's Corps, Army of Northern Virginia. An eminent civil and military surgeon and beloved physician. An able teacher and vigorous writer. A useful citizen and broad humanitarian. Gifted in mind and generous in heart. This monument is erected by his many friends. THE OLD DOCTOR'S "LAST CALL" HE old doctor had gone to bed completely worn out. Of late he had noticed that he tired more easily and could stand less and less the cruel blasts of the wind, or the fierce onslaughts of winter. His limbs were getting stiff, his hands were beginning to tremble, and there were times when his eyes became dim, very dim. But he held on to his work like some old war horse who hears the bugle in the midst of the fight, sounding the final retreat, but is bound to stay while the battle is on. Tonight he had gone early to his bed, half undressed, as was his wont. Ere his head had touched the pillow he was dreaming. Happy, indeed, was the dream, for he was back again to his younger days, when with light heart, though lighter purse, he had started out to his life work. Brave as a lion, all the trials of life seemed behind him, all the joys and triumphs before him. And in his dream he could see himself driving in rain or shine, over the hills, the beautiful hills so intimately connected with his boyhood days. Ah, how the people loved him, for he not only came into their homes as a physician, but as a friend. He studied their lives and became mysteriously united to them in both weal and woe, sharing alike their sorrows and their joys. And as his dream unfolded, myriad forms and faces flitted before his gaze. Faces of men whose lives he had saved, of women whose pains he had softened or relieved, and of little ones he had introduced into the great, cold world. All were there, each and every one representing some unforgettable moment, some living episode in his life; but gradually they faded back into the shadows, leaving one face, one form behind. Ah, that face, how well it was pictured on his heart. She had been a patient of his once in the earlier days, and to him had been given. the good fortune of having saved her life. Day after day he had watched by her side, fighting her fever inch by inch, hoping for what he dared not expect; the odds had been great, but finally he conquered. How happy he was the day the danger line was passed, when he knew beyond all doubt or question that once again he had cheated death of a victim. And he wondered why he was so glad! But when the roses began to steal back into her cheeks again, and her eyes grew bright once more, then he knew, and humbly but gratefully he thanked his God, for having given her back to the world—and to him. Then the scene swiftly changed to the day when he stood by her side in the little country church, while the old grayheaded parson solemnly pronounced them man and wife. How his heart had throbbed and his voice had trembled as he promised to take her to be his forever. And as they passed down the aisle, her little hand on his arm, with a great joy filling his being, the whole world seemed sweet and beautiful. Then followed their homelife with her to greet him whenever he returned from his rides, tired and out of sorts. How she had softened the rough places, and made his life worth living! And when their little girl came-but there is a harsh pull at the bell, and the old doctor springs unsteadily to his feet. A call three miles up the road. Mechanically he dresses, makes his preparations, and when his old horse and still older chaise are brought around to the door he is ready to start. It is a rainy night, and the old horse with low hanging head seems to dread the journey, but a few moments see him jogging along at the same old gait he had been permitted to use for years The old doctor is only half asleep but his dream still goes on. Memory is rampant again, and all through the ride he is oblivious to everything but the scenes of the past. His arrival at his destination, however, abruptly brings him to himself, and as he enters the house his memories are roughly brushed aside. by the urgent needs of his patient. Again the old spirit manifests itself, the spirit of meeting all difficulties face to face, squarely and bravely. His limbs grow strong, the hand that trembled is as steady as it was forty years ago, and his eye is bright again with the fire of youth. Nobly he does his duty, with the same old fountain of sympathy and pity overflowing at the sight of suffering, and when he leaves the sick chamber, there is a happy mother lying fast asleep with a little babe by her side. Softly he tip-toes out of the house, and climbing up into his chaise, is soon on the road home. The rain has ceased, the clouds have broken away, and the beautiful silvery light of the moon has changed the whole surrounding country into a glorious picture. The lights and shadows meet and blend together, the hills and valleys grow strangely beautiful in the moon's pale light and over all is Nature's canopy, the great unfathomable sky with its thousands of twinkling eyes. But the doctor sees naught of the splendors around him. His thoughts are with his dreams and while he lives the past again, though he knows it not, the end of the chapter is drawing near. The old horse passes slowly down the hill, picking his way, for the reins have fallen to the dash board. Those hands which have guided his course so many days and nights have, alas, lost their power for guiding forever. At the foot of the hill the old horse stops at the familiar watering trough, takes his usual drink and goes on. The noisy gurgle of the water running into the trough half rouses the doctor from his stupor. Feebly he tries to shake off the lethargic sleep that is folding him in its arms-but the effort is futile. And then, though he knows it not, that numbness, that sensation of a mist rising around him on every side and enveloping him like a cloud means that the sands are run. It is his last call. And as the old horse plods along the doctor looks out once more at the old familiar scenes. Every tree, every stone, every fence-post he knows as he knows his name. Every house contains those whose lives have been mixed with his while the years have come and gone. But they are fading, fading away into the distance, and his eyes are growing dim. The mists are gathering fast, and even now everything is dark before him. His head falls forward onto his chest, his eyelids begin to close he is dreaming again. Suddenly he gives a start, a beautiful face is before him, the face of her he loved. As he looks closely, seeking to catch her every glance, he almost sees her beckon for him to come. A final nod, a smile of inexpressible joy, and he is gone. The old doctor has answered "his last call!" New York City. H. EDWIN LEWIS, M. D. THE DOCTOR AND THE MAN HE outstanding figure of the Medical Faculty of "Stenton" was Judson Henry Potter. When one referred to Stenton, one also thought of Potter and vice versa. Professor Potter had no office. Consultations, hospital wards and teaching occupied his time fully. No subject in the entire realm of Internal Medicine was so dry but that he could make it interesting. As a result, his lectures were always fully attended, and universal attention was the order of the hour. Nature has not often put the full breath of life into a man of physical and mental mould like his. Tall and of a commanding personality, the very essence of reserve and dignity, a cool calculating keen observer; the presence of the grace of scholarship, litterateur. To a great many he was known purely in the capacity of a consultant. To these he appeared as the unsympathetic, cold and impersonal thinking machine. A man lacking and almost devoid of all those finer emotions that go to make up the human family. Pain and suffering drew no word of sympathy from him. At least so it appeared to them; though it was oft noted that his interest seemed to increase in direct proportion to the severity and extent these were present. Only the few that knew him intimately realized how easily his sympathy and interest were aroused in the presence of suffering and how hard it was for him to suppress his feelings that he might be all the more useful. Again there were those who differed with him professionally, and the bete noire of these contentions was usually some subject in therapeutics. Judson Potter did not have much faith in drugs. He felt that there were very few drugs that per se influenced a pathologic process. He would contend that disease should be managed and the patient's resistance kept at the optimum by such means as rest, fresh air, sunshine, and diet. To him a still greater responsibility rested upon the physician than the mere giving of drugs-a responsibility frequently too lightly assumed, less often thought of and, many times, he felt, not even cared for. Unto Judson Potter like in Hamlet's play, The Diagnosis was the Thing. It was one of those early wintry days when the air has in it a snap that brings a flush to the cheeks, and makes men and children seek the warmth of the fireside. Overhead the clouds hung low. It looked and felt as though it were going to snow. Fires were stirred and lights were turned on, though the hour was not late. Professor Potter had finished his lectures and had made his rounds. He was now engaged in examining some slides, the results of which were to be incorporated in the next revision of his book. He had left word that he was not to be disturbed and as a result, no sound penetrated the inside of his study save the melancholy strain of the north wind outside. There was something sad about that wind. In its constant drone intermingled with its screech there was a vague omnipotent note. A something that seemed to threaten, to overwhelm and destroy. To all this, however, Professor Potter was oblivious. For the moment he was completely occupied. His eye held close to the eye-piece of a microscope, he was the personification of a man completely absorbed in a single object. Of a sudden the quiet atmosphere of the study was rent by three sharp staccato rings of a bell. For a moment he raised his head wondering. He recalled having left distinct orders that he was not to be disturbed. Thinking, therefore, that an error had been made, he resumed his studies. However, he was to be disappointed, for ere the last sounds of the bells had died out, they again rang; this time perhaps with greater volume and more persistence as though demanding an answer. The look upon Professor Potter's face, as he reached over for the instrument, was not a pleasant one. "Well, well, what is it?" he asked, rather harshly. Then his face became a study. A forehead wrinkled with frowns, eyes half closed and jaws set; there now set in a gradual relaxation. "Is that you, Judson?" came the voice of Mrs. Potter over the wire. It was strained, and in it one could detect a note of fear and apprehension. "Yes, Agnes, what is it?" "I called you up about Curtis. He has just come home from school and is ill. I do wish you would come right out, Judson. I'm afraid he is quite ill. For a moment neither spoke. While outside the north wind's singsong increased with even greater fury. “Very well, Agnes, I'll be right out." This time his voice was much softer. For a moment as he leaned back in his chair his mind was blank. He caught himself repeating, "Curtis is ill." |