Over the Teacups

O >> Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. >> Over the Teacups


"The specialist is much like other people engaged in lucrative business.
He is apt to magnify his calling, to make much of any symptom which will
bring a patient within range of his battery of remedies. I found a case
in one of our medical journals, a couple of years ago, which illustrates
what I mean. Dr. __________ of Philadelphia, had a female patient with
a crooked nose,--deviated septum, if our young scholars like that better.
She was suffering from what the doctor called reflex headache. She had
been to an oculist, who found that the trouble was in her eyes. She went
from him to a gynecologist, who considered her headache as owing to
causes for which his specialty had the remedies. How many more
specialists would have appropriated her, if she had gone the rounds of
them all, I dare not guess; but you remember the old story of the siege,
in which each artisan proposed means of defence which he himself was
ready to furnish. Then a shoemaker said, 'Hang your walls with new
boots.'

"Human nature is the same with medical specialists as it was with ancient
cordwainers, and it is too possible that a hungry practitioner may be
warped by his interest in fastening on a patient who, as he persuades
himself, comes under his medical jurisdiction. The specialist has but one
fang with which to seize and bold his prey, but that fang is a fearfully
long and sharp canine. Being confined to a narrow field of observation
and practice, he is apt to give much of his time to curious study, which
may be magnifique, but is not exactly la guerre against the patient's
malady. He divides and subdivides, and gets many varieties of diseases,
in most respects similar. These he equips with new names, and thus we
have those terrific nomenclatures which are enough to frighten the
medical student, to say nothing of the sufferers staggering under this
long catalogue of local infirmities. The 'old-fogy' doctor, who knows
the family tendencies of his patient, who 'understands his constitution,'
will often treat him better than the famous specialist, who sees him for
the first time, and has to guess at many things 'the old doctor' knows
from his previous experience with the same patient and the family to
which he belongs.

"It is a great luxury to practise as a specialist in almost any class of
diseases. The special practitioner has his own hours, hardly needs a
night-bell, can have his residence out of the town in which he exercises
his calling, in short, lives like a gentleman; while the hard-worked
general practitioner submits to a servitude more exacting than that of
the man who is employed in his stable or in his kitchen. That is the kind
of life I have made up my mind to."

The teaspoons tinkled all round the table. This was the usual sign of
approbation, instead of the clapping of hands.

The young Doctor paused, and looked round among The Teacups. "I beg your
pardon," he said, "for taking up so much of your time with medicine. It
is a subject that a good many persons, especially ladies, take an
interest in and have a curiosity about, but I have no right to turn this
tea-table into a lecture platform."

"We should like to hear you talk longer about it," said the English
Annex. "One of us has thought of devoting herself to the practice of
medicine. Would you lecture to us; if you were a professor in one of the
great medical schools?"

"Lecture to students of your sex? Why not, I should like to know? I
don't think it is the calling for which the average woman is especially
adapted, but my teacher got a part of his medical education from a lady,
Madame Lachapelle; and I don't see why, if one can learn from a woman, he
may not teach a woman, if he knows enough."

"We all like a little medical talk now and then," said Number Five, "and
we are much obliged to you for your discourse. You are specialist enough
to take care of a sprained ankle, I suppose, are you not?"

"I hope I should be equal to that emergency," answered the young Doctor;
"but I trust you are not suffering from any such accident?"

"No," said Number Five, "but there is no telling what may happen. I
might slip, and get a sprain or break a sinew, or something, and I should
like to know that there is a practitioner at hand to take care of my
injury. I think I would risk myself in your bands, although you are not
a specialist. Would you venture to take charge of the case?"

"Ah, my dear lady," he answered gallantly, "the risk would be in the
other direction. I am afraid it would be safer for your doctor if he
were an older man than I am."

This is the first clearly, indisputably sentimental outbreak which has
happened in conversation at our table. I tremble to think what will come
of it; for we have several inflammable elements in our circle, and a
spark like this is liable to light on any one or two of them.

I was not sorry that this medical episode came in to vary the usual
course of talk at our table. I like to have one--of an intelligent
company, who knows anything thoroughly, hold the floor for a time, and
discourse upon the subject which chiefly engages his daily thoughts and
furnishes his habitual occupation. It is a privilege to meet such a
person now and then, and let him have his full swing. But because there
are "professionals" to whom we are willing to listen as oracles, I do not
want to see everybody who is not a "professional" silenced or snubbed, if
he ventures into any field of knowledge which he has not made especially
his own. I like to read Montaigne's remarks about doctors, though he
never took a medical degree. I can even enjoy the truth in the sharp
satire of Voltaire on the medical profession. I frequently prefer the
remarks I hear from the pew after the sermon to those I have just been
hearing from the pulpit. There are a great many things which I never
expect to comprehend, but which I desire very much to apprehend. Suppose
that our circle of Teacups were made up of specialists,--experts in
various departments. I should be very willing that each one should have
his innings at the proper time, when the company were ready for him. But
the time is coming when everybody will know something about every thing.
How can one have the illustrated magazines, the "Popular Science
Monthly," the Psychological journals, the theological periodicals, books
on all subjects, forced on his attention, in their own persons, so to
speak, or in the reviews which analyze and pass judgment upon them,
without getting some ideas which belong to many provinces of human
intelligence? The air we breathe is made up of four elements, at least:
oxygen, nitrogen, carbonic acid gas, and knowledge. There is something
quite delightful to witness in the absorption and devotion of a genuine
specialist. There is a certain sublimity in that picture of the dying
scholar in Browning's "A Grammarian's Funeral:"--

"So with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;
Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife;
While he could stammer
He settled Hoti's business--let it be--
Properly based Oun
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,
Dead from the waist down."

A genuine enthusiasm, which will never be satisfied until it has pumped
the well dry at the bottom of which truth is lying, always excites our
interest, if not our admiration.

One of the pleasantest of our American writers, whom we all remember as
Ik Marvel, and greet in his more recent appearance as Donald Grant
Mitchell, speaks of the awkwardness which he feels in offering to the
public a "panoramic view of British writers in these days of
specialists,--when students devote half a lifetime to the analysis of the
works of a single author, and to the proper study of a single period."

He need not have feared that his connected sketches of "English Lands,
Letters and Kings" would be any less welcome because they do not pretend
to fill up all the details or cover all the incidents they hint in vivid
outline. How many of us ever read or ever will read Drayton's
"Poly-Olbion?" Twenty thousand long Alexandrines are filled with
admirable descriptions of scenery, natural productions, and historical
events, but how many of us in these days have time to read and inwardly
digest twenty thousand Alexandrine verses? I fear that the specialist is
apt to hold his intelligent reader or hearer too cheap. So far as I have
observed in medical specialties, what he knows in addition to the
knowledge of the well-taught general practitioner is very largely curious
rather than important. Having exhausted all that is practical, the
specialist is naturally tempted to amuse himself with the natural history
of the organ or function he deals with; to feel as a writing-master does
when he sets a copy,--not content to shape the letters properly, but he
must add flourishes and fancy figures, to let off his spare energy.

I am beginning to be frightened. When I began these papers, my idea was
a very simple and innocent one. Here was a mixed company, of various
conditions, as I have already told my readers, who came together
regularly, and before they were aware of it formed something like a club
or association. As I was the patriarch among them, they gave me the name
some of you may need to be reminded of; for as these reports are
published at intervals, you may not remember the fact that I am what The
Teacups have seen fit to call The Dictator.

Now, what did I expect when I began these papers, and what is it that has
begun to frighten me?

I expected to report grave conversations and light colloquial passages of
arms among the members of the circle. I expected to hear, perhaps to
read, a paper now and then. I expected to have, from time to time, a
poem from some one of The Teacups, for I felt sure there must be among
them one or more poets,--Teacups of the finer and rarer translucent kind
of porcelain, to speak metaphorically.

Out of these conversations and written contributions I thought I might
make up a readable series of papers; a not wholly unwelcome string of
recollections, anticipations, suggestions, too often perhaps repetitions,
that would be to the twilight what my earlier series had been to the
morning.

I hoped also that I should come into personal relations with my old
constituency, if I may call my nearer friends, and those more distant
ones who belong to my reading parish, by that name. It is time that I
should. I received this blessed morning--I am telling the literal
truth--a highly flattering obituary of myself in the shape of an extract
from "Le National" of the 10th of February last. This is a bi-weekly
newspaper, published in French, in the city of Plattsburg, Clinton
County, New York. I am occasionally reminded by my unknown friends that
I must hurry up their autograph, or make haste to copy that poem they
wish to have in the author's own handwriting, or it will be too late; but
I have never before been huddled out of the world in this way. I take
this rather premature obituary as a hint that, unless I come to some
arrangement with my well-meaning but insatiable correspondents, it would
be as well to leave it in type, for I cannot bear much longer the load
they lay upon me. I will explain myself on this point after I have told
my readers what has frightened me.

I am beginning to think this room where we take our tea is more like a
tinder-box than a quiet and safe place for "a party in a parlor." It is
true that there are at least two or three incombustibles at our table,
but it looks to me as if the company might pair off before the season is
over, like the crew of Her Majesty's ship the Mantelpiece,--three or four
weddings clear our whole table of all but one or two of the impregnables.
The poem we found in the sugar-bowl last week first opened my eyes to the
probable state of things. Now, the idea of having to tell a
love-story,--perhaps two or three love-stories,--when I set out with the
intention of repeating instructive, useful, or entertaining discussions,
naturally alarms me. It is quite true that many things which look to me
suspicious may be simply playful. Young people (and we have several such
among The Teacups) are fond of make-believe courting when they cannot
have the real thing,--"flirting," as it used to be practised in the days
of Arcadian innocence, not the more modern and more questionable
recreation which has reached us from the home of the cicisbeo. Whatever
comes of it, I shall tell what I see, and take the consequences.

But I am at this moment going to talk in my own proper person to my own
particular public, which, as I find by my correspondence, is a very
considerable one, and with which I consider myself in exceptionally
pleasant relations.

I have read recently that Mr. Gladstone receives six hundred letters a
day. Perhaps he does not receive six hundred letters every day, but if
he gets anything like half that number daily, what can he do with them?
There was a time when he was said to answer all his correspondents. It
is understood, I think, that he has given up doing so in these later
days.

I do not pretend that I receive six hundred or even sixty letters a day,
but I do receive a good many, and have told the public of the fact from
time to time, under the pressure of their constantly increasing
exertions. As it is extremely onerous, and is soon going to be
impossible, for me to keep up the wide range of correspondence which has
become a large part of my occupation, and tends to absorb all the vital
force which is left me, I wish to enter into a final explanation with the
well-meaning but merciless taskmasters who have now for many years been
levying their daily tax upon me. I have preserved thousands of their
letters, and destroyed a very large number, after answering most of them.
A few interesting chapters might be made out of the letters I have
kept,--not only such as are signed by the names of well-known personages,
but many from unknown friends, of whom I had never heard before and have
never heard since. A great deal of the best writing the languages of the
world have ever known has been committed to leaves that withered out of
sight before a second sunlight had fallen upon them. I have had many
letters I should have liked to give the public, had their nature admitted
of their being offered to the world. What straggles of young ambition,
finding no place for its energies, or feeling its incapacity to reach the
ideal towards which it was striving! What longings of disappointed,
defeated fellow-mortals, trying to find a new home for themselves in the
heart of one whom they have amiably idealized! And oh, what hopeless
efforts of mediocrities and inferiorities, believing in themselves as
superiorities, and stumbling on through limping disappointments to
prostrate failure! Poverty comes pleading, not for charity, for the most
part, but imploring us to find a purchaser for its unmarketable wares.
The unreadable author particularly requests us to make a critical
examination of his book, and report to him whatever may be our
verdict,--as if he wanted anything but our praise, and that very often to
be used in his publisher's advertisements.

But what does not one have to submit to who has become the martyr--the
Saint Sebastian--of a literary correspondence! I will not dwell on the
possible impression produced on a sensitive nature by reading one's own
premature obituary, as I have told you has been my recent experience. I
will not stop to think whether the urgent request for an autograph by
return post, in view of the possible contingencies which might render it
the last one was ever to write, is pleasing or not. At threescore and
twenty one must expect such hints of what is like to happen before long.
I suppose, if some near friend were to watch one who was looking over
such a pressing letter, he might possibly see a slight shadow flit over
the reader's features, and some such dialogue might follow as that
between Othello and Iago, after "this honest creature" has been giving
breath to his suspicions about Desdemona:

"I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits.
Not a jot, not a jot.
.............
"My lord, I see you're moved."

And a little later the reader might, like Othello, complain,

"I have a pain upon my forehead here."

Nothing more likely. But, for myself, I have grown callous to all such
allusions. The repetition of the Scriptural phrase for the natural term
of life is so frequent that it wears out one's sensibilities.

But how many charming and refreshing letters I have received! How often
I have felt their encouragement in moments of doubt and depression, such
as the happiest temperaments must sometimes experience!

If the time comes when to answer all my kind unknown friends, even by
dictation, is impossible, or more than I feel equal to, I wish to refer
any of those who may feel disappointed at not receiving an answer to the
following general acknowledgments:

I. I am always grateful for any attention which shows me that I am
kindly remembered.--II. Your pleasant message has been read to me, and
has been thankfully listened to.--III. Your book (your essay) (your
poem) has reached me safely, and has received all the respectful
attention to which it seemed entitled. It would take more than all the
time I have at my disposal to read all the printed matter and all the
manuscripts which are sent to me, and you would not ask me to attempt the
impossible. You will not, therefore, expect me to express a critical
opinion of your work.--IV. I am deeply sensible to your expressions of
personal attachment to me as the author of certain writings which have
brought me very near to you, in virtue of some affinity in our ways of
thought and moods of feeling. Although I cannot keep up correspondences
with many of my readers who seem to be thoroughly congenial with myself,
let them be assured that their letters have been read or heard with
peculiar gratification, and are preserved as precious treasures.

I trust that after this notice no correspondent will be surprised to find
his or her letter thus answered by anticipation; and that if one of the
above formulae is the only answer he receives, the unknown friend will
remember that he or she is one of a great many whose incessant demands
have entirely outrun my power of answering them as fully as the
applicants might wish and perhaps expect.

I could make a very interesting volume of the letters I have received
from correspondents unknown to the world of authorship, but writing from
an instinctive impulse, which many of them say they have long felt and
resisted. One must not allow himself to be flattered into an
overestimate of his powers because he gets many letters expressing a
peculiar attraction towards his books, and a preference of them to those
with which he would not have dared to compare his own. Still, if the
homo unius libri--the man of one book--choose to select one of our own
writing as his favorite volume, it means something,--not much, perhaps;
but if one has unlocked the door to the secret entrance of one heart, it
is not unlikely that his key may fit the locks of others. What if nature
has lent him a master key? He has found the wards and slid back the bolt
of one lock; perhaps he may have learned the secret of others. One
success is an encouragement to try again. Let the writer of a truly
loving letter, such as greets one from time to time, remember that,
though he never hears a word from it, it may prove one of the best
rewards of an anxious and laborious past, and the stimulus of a still
aspiring future.

Among the letters I have recently received, none is more interesting than
the following. The story of Helen Keller, who wrote it, is told in the
well-known illustrated magazine called "The Wide Awake," in the number
for July, 1888. For the account of this little girl, now between nine
and ten years old, and other letters of her writing, I must refer to the
article I have mentioned. It is enough to say that she is deaf and dumb
and totally blind. She was seven years old when her teacher, Miss
Sullivan, under the direction of Mr. Anagnos, at the Blind Asylum at
South Boston, began her education. A child fuller of life and happiness
it would be hard to find. It seems as if her soul was flooded with light
and filled with music that had found entrance to it through avenues
closed to other mortals. It is hard to understand how she has learned to
deal with abstract ideas, and so far to supplement the blanks left by the
senses of sight and hearing that one would hardly think of her as wanting
in any human faculty. Remember Milton's pathetic picture of himself,
suffering from only one of poor little Helen's deprivations:

"Not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank
Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out."

Surely for this loving and lovely child does

"the celestial Light
Shine inward."

Anthropologist, metaphysician, most of all theologian, here is a lesson
which can teach you much that you will not find in your primers and
catechisms. Why should I call her "poor little Helen"? Where can you
find a happier child?

SOUTH BOSTON, MASS., March 1, 1890.

DEAR KIND POET,--I have thought of you many times since that bright
Sunday when I bade you goodbye, and I am going to write you a letter
because I love you. I am sorry that you have no little children to play
with sometimes, but I think you are very happy with your books, and your
many, many friends. On Washington's Birthday a great many people came
here to see the little blind children, and I read for them from your
poems, and showed them some beautiful shells which came from a little
island near Palos. I am reading a very sad story called "Little Jakey."
Jakey was the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and
blind. I used to think, when I was small and before I could read, that
everybody was always happy, and at first it made me very sad to know
about pain and great sorrow; but now I know that we could never learn to
be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world. I am studying
about insects in Zoology, and I have learned many things about
butterflies. They do not make honey for us, like the bees, but many of
them are as beautiful as the flowers they light upon, and they always
delight the hearts of little children. They live a gay life, flitting
from flower to flower, sipping the drops of honey-dew, without a thought
for the morrow. They are just like little boys and girls when they
forget books and studies, and run away to the woods and the fields to
gather wild-flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in
the bright sunshine. If my little sister comes to Boston next June, will
you let me bring her to see you? She is a lovely baby and I am sure you
will love [her]. Now I must tell my gentle poet good-bye, for I have a
letter to write home before I go to bed. From your loving little friend,
HELEN A. KELLER.

The reading of this letter made many eyes glisten, and a dead silence
hushed the whole circle. All at once Delilah, our pretty table-maid,
forgot her place,--what business had she to be listening to our
conversation and reading?--and began sobbing, just as if she had been a
lady. She could n't help it, she explained afterwards,--she had a little
blind sister at the asylum, who had told her about Helen's reading to the
children.

It was very awkward, this breaking-down of our pretty Delilah, for one
girl crying will sometimes set off a whole row of others,--it is as
hazardous as lighting one cracker in a bunch. The two Annexes hurried
out their pocket-handkerchiefs, and I almost expected a semi-hysteric
cataclysm. At this critical moment Number Five called Delilah to her,
looked into her face with those calm eyes of hers, and spoke a few soft
words. Was Number Five forgetful, too? Did she not remember the
difference of their position? I suppose so. But she quieted the poor
handmaiden as simply and easily as a nursing mother quiets her unweaned
baby. Why are we not all in love with Number Five? Perhaps we are. At
any rate, I suspect the Professor. When we all get quiet, I will touch
him up about that visit she promised to make to his laboratory.

I got a chance at last to speak privately with him.

"Did Number Five go to meet you in your laboratory, as she talked of
doing?"

"Oh, yes, of course she did,--why, she said she would!"

"Oh, to be sure. Do tell me what she wanted in your laboratory."

"She wanted me to burn a diamond for her."

"Burn a diamond! What was that for? Because Cleopatra swallowed a
pearl?"

"No, nothing of that kind. It was a small stone, and had a flaw in it.
Number Five said she did n't want a diamond with a flaw in it, and that
she did want to see how a diamond would burn."