The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
I felt now that I had done my fair share towards attaining a virtuous
subsistence, and so I waited tranquilly, and without undue enthusiasm, to
see the rest of the world do its part in the matter. Meanwhile I read up on
all sorts of imaginable cases, stayed at home all through my office hours,
and at intervals explored the strange section of the town which lay to the
south of my office. I do not suppose there is anything like it elsewhere.
It was then, and still is, a nest of endless grog-shops, brothels,
slop-shops, and low lodging-houses. You may dine here for a penny off of
soup made from the refuse meats of the rich, gathered at back gates by a
horde of half-naked children, who all tell varieties of one woful tale.
Here, too, you may be drunk at five cents, and lodge for three, with men,
women, and children of all colors lying about you. It is this hideous
mixture of black and white and yellow wretchedness which makes the place so
peculiar. The blacks predominate, and have mostly that swollen, reddish,
dark skin, the sign in this race of habitual drunkenness. Of course only
the lowest whites are here,--rag-pickers, pawnbrokers, old-clothes-men,
thieves, and the like. All of this, as it came before me, I viewed with
mingled disgust and philosophy. I hated filth, but I understood that
society has to stand on somebody, and I was only glad that I was not one of
the undermost and worst-squeezed bricks.
You will hardly believe me, but I had waited a month without having been
called upon by a single patient. At last the policeman on the beat brought
me a fancy man, with a dog bite. This patient recommended me to his
brother, the keeper of a small pawnbroking shop, and by very slow degrees I
began to get stray patients who were too poor to indulge in uptown doctors.
I found the police very useful acquaintances; and, by a drink or a cigar
now and then, I got most of the cases of cut heads and the like at the next
station-house. These, however, were the aristocrats of my practice; the
bulk of my patients were soap-fat-men, rag-pickers, oystermen, hose-house
bummers, and worse, with other and nameless trades, men and women, white,
black, or mulatto. How they got the levies and quarters with which I was
reluctantly paid, I do not know; that indeed was none of my business. They
expected to pay, and they came to me in preference to the dispensary doctor
two or three squares away, who seemed to me to live in the lanes and alleys
about us. Of course he received no pay except experience, since the
dispensaries in the Quaker City, as a rule, do not give salaries to their
doctors; and the vilest of the poor will prefer a pay doctor, if he can get
one, to one of these disinterested gentlemen who are at everybody's call
and beck. I am told that most young doctors do a large amount of poor
practice, as it is called; but, for my own part, I think it better for both
parties when the doctor insists upon some compensation being made to him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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