Sir Thomas Browne, in his Religio Medici, observes: “he forgets that he can dye who complains of misery; we are in the power of no calamity while death is in our own”; which is not a helpful saying, and one against which the entire medical profession would rise in protest.
“That a man should strive and agonise
And taste a veriest hell on earth”
may result in suicide. It is hardly necessary to point out that the cases of which we read have their origin, almost always, in some trouble of mind, real or imaginary, and are not to be ascribed to a desire to escape from physical pain or misery. Human beings, with rare exceptions, are tenacious of life, and are most unwilling to die. Doctors, on their side, live with the single purpose of postponing death: not one of them will compromise the matter for a moment. It can never be a question with him whether a life is worth preserving, or whether there is reluctance to let it go. So long as there remains one animating spark, the doctor will fight and struggle to preserve it, accepting cheerfully the sacrifices of comfort and convenience which Mr. Kipling describes. He may not even claim the exciting rewards, such as they are, of the politician or the artist, nor the more showy compensations due to the soldier’s peril. He cannot boast of diplomatic victories and forensic triumphs: he does not hear the thunders of a crowded audience: he may not display a row of decorations to an admiring world. It is enough for him to probe deeper and deeper into the problems that confront him every day, and be prepared for that meagre recognition which was indicated as the destined lot of the students of the Medical School.
Lord Salisbury once wrote: “a war minister must find his reward in his conscience or his salary: he must not look for fame.” Every doctor is entitled to dream of fame; some may eventually have a “salary” to rejoice in; meanwhile, it is the badge of all their tribe to find reward in conscience; and Mr. Kipling’s handsome tribute need not be ascribed either to formal compliment or mere literary elegance.
By request of the Board of Management of the Middlesex Hospital, so much has been written to introduce Mr. Kipling’s address at large. The writer cannot doubt that it is a form of grace before meat which will be impatiently endured or abruptly discarded. It will probably be condemned as a superfluous dotting of i’s and crossing of t’s. It will not even be given the merit of originality.
In order that all these disadvantages may be frankly admitted, yet stubbornly defended, the transition shall be covered by a third version of the same, or an allied, theme: Oliver Wendell Holmes with his “Two Armies” shall be called in to blunt the edge of so much criticism and mitigate the shock of contrast.
Reginald Lucas,
Member of the Board of Management.
THE TWO ARMIES
As life’s unending column pours,
Two marshalled hosts are seen,—
Two armies on the trampled shores
That Death flows black between.
One marches to the drum-beat’s roll,
The wide-mouthed clarion’s bray,
And bears upon a crimson scroll,
“Our glory is to slay.”