My first surgical case of any magnitude, was that of a wounded foot. For, though I had been required to bleed patients many times,—and bleeding is properly a surgical operation,—yet it had become so common in those days, and was performed with so little science or skill, that it was seldom recognized as belonging to the department of surgery.
One of my neighbors had struck his axe into the upper part of his foot, and cut it nearly through. Happening to be at home when the accident occurred, which was in my own immediate neighborhood, I was soon on the spot, and ready to afford assistance; and, as good luck would have it, the man was not at all weakened by loss of blood, at my arrival.
My lesson from an old surgeon[D] was not yet forgotten. I still knew, as well as any one could have told me, that to put together the divided edges of the wound and keep them there, was half the cure. But how was this to be done? Slips of adhesion plaster would bring the divided edges of the wounded surface into their place, but would the deeper-seated and more tendinous parts unite while left without touching each other? Or should a few stitches be taken?
The wound was lengthwise of the foot, and no tendons were divided. I made up my mind to dress it without any sewing, and acted accordingly. The bleeding soon ceased. When all was secured, the patient inquired what he should put on it, to cure it. Had he not raised the question, I might, perhaps, have followed out my own ultra tendencies, and left it without any application at all; but as it was, I concluded to order something on which he might fasten his faith,—something which, though it should do no good, would do no harm.
"Nothing is better for a fresh wound," I said, "than the 'Balsam of Life.' Just send Thomas over to Mr. Ludlow's, and get a couple of ounces of his 'Balsam of Life.'" It was soon brought, and the surface of the wound and its bandages moistened with it. "Now," said I, "keep your foot as still as you can till I see you again. I will be in again before I go to bed."
I called again at nine o'clock in the evening. All appeared well, only the patient had some doubts whether the Balsam of Life was just the right thing. Several of the neighbors had been in, as he said, and, though they admitted that the Balsam might be very good, they knew, or thought they knew, of something better. However, I succeeded in quieting most of his rising fears for the present, by assuring him that nothing in the wide world was equal, for its healing virtues, to the "Balsam." My voice here was law, for I gave no reasons!
On making inquiry, afterward, with a view chiefly to gratify curiosity,[E] I found that the first individual who came in after I had left the house, assured them there was nothing so good for a fresh wound as a peach leaf. The next, however, insisted that the best way was to bind up the part in molasses. The third said the best way was to take just three stitches to the wound, and bind it up in the blood. The fourth said the most sovereign thing in the world, for a fresh cut, was tobacco juice!
Now I could have told these various representatives of as many various public opinions, that all these things and many more which might have been named, are, in a certain sense, good, since any mere flesh wound, in the ordinary circumstances of ordinary life, will heal in a reasonable time, in spite of them. I could have told them, still further, that the Balsam of Life was probably little, if any, better than the other things proposed, any farther than as it secured more faith and confidence, and prevented the application of something which was worse. I could have assured them that all the external applications in the world are of no possible service, except to defend from cold air, and prevent external injuries, or reduce inflammation; and that the last-mentioned symptom, should it occur, would be best relieved by cold water. But what good would it have done? Just none at all, according to my own experience. Positive assurance—mere dogmatism—was much better.
The wound did well as it was, though it might have done much better, could the patient's faith have been just as firmly fixed on nothing at all but Nature, as it was on medicaments. However, the tincture I proposed, which somebody had dignified with the name of Balsam of life, had done very little harm, if any, to the parts to which it had been applied, while it had done a great deal of good to the patient's mind, and the minds of his friends. It was nothing, I believe, but a compound tincture of benzoin. I have used it a great number of times, and with the same wonderful results. The patient always gets well, either on account of it, or in spite of it! Does it make much practical difference which?