(By Our Special Co-respondent.)
Shades of Boccaccio, R.G.M., and Rabelais! — a wean reporter, cowed by the pitiless eye and dauntless grim, won't- be-flouted demeanour of a rapacious Editor, thoughtfully fi n•
"Thoughtfully drained the Sub-Editor's fluid nourishment." iii ij
IShed the Sub-editor's fluid nourishment, and pondered deeply and long on the demand—"Interview Julian! !"
"How ; but how—corpo de Baccho !—how ! ! !"
It was a lovely spring afternoon.
like the trees, butterflies, snails, pomegranates, and such-
Ike paraphernalia of the spring poet, were disporting them- selves in Elizabeth-street in perfect harmony with their sur-
roundings.
Outside the cable cars clattered—inside the gargle gurgled:
We gazed in abject helplessness at the "Speculum" Com- mittee : all drunk except the Editor—he was very drunk.
Our eyes were wild, our hair was rumpled, our brow gas seamed with anxious lines, our dress was careless, our lingers tightened and untightened—"How !—but how !"
Echo answered—How !
We had tried and tried and tried, determined to do our duty to our readers, and to present to them this illustrious Julian Augustus Romayne Smith, M.D., M.S.
a, We had corrupted the morals of the dapper young thing the Collins-street mansion, and tempted her with honeyed but and had almost persuaded her to secrete us in his den;
our very fascination proved our undoing (and her's) and
defeated our own ends, for by the time she had recovered, and had returned, and we had, perforce, fled precipitately,
;Id were compelled to make for the back door under forced 'aught with hot bearings.
tb We sent violent messages, but he evidently did not possess e essential property of response to stimuli.
windWowe. broke in through the window, but it was the wrong by Our imagination had been stirred to most amazing deps
Weird sounds, which we had heard emanating from his sounds of ragtime floating gaily through the Window
"Every one knows Juli-an, Juli-an, Juli-an, Every one knows Juli-an, Juli-an, Juli-an,
See this ragtime surgeon over here, See him cutting capers in the air,
See him spitting blood and bones and hair, It's a bear ! It's a bear ! It's a—f3
as is chante joyeuse had been interrupted by a loud crash, hough Julian, following his natural inclination to operate 111)sid th
e down, had migrated into the saline, and we fled once more.
We took our courage in both hands, and decided to attend his Klinische Operatiken at S.V.H., and arrived outside the theatre door:—
"Patience, Paul, Patience is what a good surgeon needs, above all What the * * ! ! — * Get out ! !" he suddenly roared. "Hideous ! Perfectly hideous — everything against us— * * * ! ! Rotten assistant—rotten light—instruments made for elephants—! ! Woman . . . thirteen children . . . expect something decent— .. . ! ! ! Only one finger . Tuppeny—ha' penny, Os. !... (Crash! Bang' !!!)
We fled.
We had heard that he was fond of cycling, but no trace of him could we find, though we stopped every cyclist we saw, in the hope that we might feast our eyes on his form.
We paced gloomily into Elizabeth-street—then, with a
cry of Archimedean ecstasy, we halted melodramatically, smote our brow (in approved style), and
we cried. "The telephone! Urethra !"
* * * *
We decided to ring Julian up at eventide (early Victorian), when, navigating under easy steam after a gastric crisis, at once simple and nourishing, he would be positively oozing with the juices of good fellowship.
Having bandied coy nothings with the sweet young thing at the Exchange, by way of sapping the flowers of speech, which are stored in a latent form in our body-cavity, up into our cranial orifices, where they would be available for imme - diate use, connection was established.
"Hullo !" At last came a voice, which resembled nothing so much as the sound of a mellow beetroot welcoming the harvest moon.
At last! ! !
Our carburettor was flooded, our antricuspid and mitral valves began to flap at a speed not provided for in the regu - lations.
"Is that Dr. Smith, of St. Vincent's ?" we cooed sweetly but with just a touch of professional gravity.
He hesitated two periods—afraid, perhaps, to commit him- self—then the lazy droning of the electrons playing round the wires was intercepted by a firm and decisive, yet withal cauti- ous, "Yes !"
Then, as an afterthought, in a dreamy voice—"Who are you ?"
Thinking to awaken paternal interest in his bosom, we said we were a resident.
V1 5ceroK.,..sks •
"A burst of melody floated over the wire."
The statement was received with a roar which shook the wall directly ventral to us, to such an extent that we Promptly developed cardiac spasm, and a sense of impending dissolution, occasioning a further momentary adjournment to the—er—soda fountain.
With difficulty we ataxically returned and assured him of nur absolute mildness and docility, and in a somewhat modified tone he requested us to despatch our mission.
We informed him that we represented "The Speculum,"
and would like to give his views on things in general as a guid- ance to medical students through their thorny paths of exams.
and attendances.
This apparently threw him again into a towering passion, and we took advantage of a quarter of an hour's respite to have ar, interlude with the exchange damsel.
, When we were again connected—i.e., on the 'phone—we heard the repeatedly reiterated statement that_
you * * medical students are crimson purple * ! ! ! * fools, going to the Savoy and such places without rubber acces- sories!!!!"
Unable to follow his train of thought, we fervidly agreed, and, with much gusto—with a glucosic anticipation of some- thing good to follow—assured him of our invariable custom.
"Well, Sir," he spluttered, "what do you mean by dis- turbing me at this hour—eh ? It's the principle of the
** thing that I object to ! Can't you get somebody else?"
We explained, and with difficulty and much of our natural oiliness we calmed him, and he restricted his vaporings to mumbles, which reached us in gradually rising and falling monotones, and we nervously broached the subject of his career, the hopes, the fears, the insouciances, the pleasures, the plans, etc., thereof, with a mild suggestion that perhaps he might sing it to us in ragtime.
Immediately following our suggestion, and just as we were preparing to undergo symptomatic treatment for pharyngitis sicca, a burst of melody floated over the wires such as those inanimate objects had never heard before, and the sweet, soul- ful strains, like those of a discarded Jew's harp, floated through our tympanic membrances, tickled our ossicles with a subtle allurement, and sent warm, luscious quivers through our brain into our spinal cord, and thence, like the glow of an electric battery, over our whole cadavers, leaving a sensation as of a frozen vinegar bath on a cold morning:—
"I'll sing a song—it won't be long, so listen unto me, And I'll tell you all the troubles of an overworked M.D., In Hospitals and out of them, there's nought but care and strife, I am so very overworked I'm worn out of my life !
The 5th-year student has his load, it's nothing you will see, Compared with all the worries of a popular M.D.
My labours they are infinite—I have so much to do,
Though I could find time for Residents and even students, too!
I get up very early, and at dawn I mow the lawn, And fifty patients every day my surgery adorn,
I diagnose a case of mumps from piles or cataract, I'm excellent at surgery and coruscate with facts!
At clinics and at lectures I am eloquent and spry,
I win the plaudits of the nurse and catch the student's eye, And if at some rare intervals I get a little rest,
Drive slowly! Beware Corners! is of all my rules the best!
iu
The residents all worry me and students are as bad,
And all complaints are nuisances, and blue cows drive me mad!
All patients are a pestilence, and men who "want to know"
With nasty constitutions who will come and never go!
At clinics and at lectures, you will very quickly see, The most persistent heckler gets but little out of me.
And that is just the sort of way you'll find I always act, 0, if you would be popular—you'll need a lot of tact!
(Con violen.cw spasmodo.)
This slavery's unbearable, for all the seasons through I'll pop off very shortly, if I've any more to do, , For if you've listened to my lay—I think you will agree, The hardest worked of workingmen is Juli—an M.D. !"
The thrills suddenly ceased, and just as suddenly Julian barked—"Well!!!"
When our B.P.'s had subsided to a modest zoom.m., and our dazed senses re-collected themselves into something re- sembling those of a normal person, we politely reiterated our thirst for knowledge, and our overwhelming desire to see him in the person and to dwell on any pearls he might deign to cast.
The ennobling effect of music was evidenced by the calm, dispassionate tone in which he suggested that perhaps we'd better come round to his house, and, following our suggestion, he promised to send his car along.
We thanked him with beers in our voice, and withdrew to the kerb, when within a few minutes the car rolled up.
We drove to Julian's house, noting with approval the text in front of the steering wheel:—
DRIVE SLOWLY! BEWARE CORNERS!
, We alighted at the gate (in sections), and there in modest letters we saw—
SMITH, No. 36.
„ Like Don Caesar de Bazan, well might we exclaim — 1. °Yons ceci Pair d' une bibliotheque!" and being a man of discernment we decided to approve our surmise.
There was, as the poets would put it, a solemn stillness in the air like unto that of carrots in a soup tureen.
We approached nervously to the gate, which admitted the venturesome visitor to Julian's demesne. At last !!!
, Our hearts stampeded wildly—our faces paled with trerriu- -"is' anxiety—we listened cautiously and —hark !
V
iscertfavi"We drove to Julian's Home."
A weird concatenation of sounds rose in the evening air like a combination of an M.S.S. meeting at the W.H., a roar of artillery, rales, rhonchi, and to allay our anxiety we peeped in, the now familiar voice reaching our ears, rising and falling in glorious, never-to-be-forgotten cadences :—
"No poet I to lo the morn, I'd much prefer to mow the lawn, So open the gate and come right in, Grass and the weeds up to your chin, Sing a rake and a hoe and a fantail plow, Would suit me better than a wife just now !"
We beheld the object of our quest !!!
Imagine a tall, spare youth, almost entirely clean-shaven , except for a pair of large moustachios, tastefully
opposed to
his ears, and kept in that position by a pair of artery forceps—
a pointed beard fungating downward, and clothing a spare neck
—which was stretched forward as though following a scent!—a gaze so sphinx-like in its intensity, and impenetrability that one might almost call it sphincteric!
Imagine all this—and more—attached to the end of a lawn mower, the grass hurtling in all directions—Julian's legs spread
"We bounded forward."
Out far to the rear, and you'll not wonder why we bounded for- ward and softly ejaculated those well-known lines-
Ah, Mercy, save me ! Ah—good biz ! Be still my rising bile !
Ah, yes ! but no! ah yes! it is ! Why, dear old Julian's dial!
Julian stopped, and after spanking a couple of youngsters—
remarking malevolently "a couple of damn little neurasthenics meself — greeted us in his own inimitably effusive
manner, and, having offered us some cut grass, which we politely but firmly declined, proceeded to adorn the lawn with refreshments—which, being done, we made ourselves com- fortable, and attacked the libated joys of which Julian himself had aperiently partaken liberally, judging by the sparkle in his eye and the healthy flush 'neath his whiskers.
"Drink your fill," he said, "and if yer can't take it inwardly spill it on yer wrist and rub it in !" he spat out, glowering at us as if in challenge.
As we preferred the orthodox method, the suggested method was postponed sine die.
"What, Sir, is your opinion of strong drink?" we inquired, feeling now at home.
Julian flung himself on to the grass, and gazed ecstatically at nothing in particular.
"Well, sang the Psalmist," he began, "Bonum viz iujtl laetificat cor ho minis," and well sang Pagan Horace, of the proffered vintage—you remember ?—Quid non designat ad Torquatusn, he writes, in praise of his tipple, "Aperta recludet sees jubet esse ratas
What will not my wine perform—it brings to light The secret soul—gives being to our hopes.
I am a respectable married man, otherwise . . ."
Judgment on the matter after such excellent company was, we admitted, a serious affair. We took it seriously.
A meditative silence filled the garden, emphasised occa- sionally by a sigh from a moribund earthworm or a discreetly merry gurgle in the decanter's throat, as at regular intervals it was called on to reinforce the tones of our argument—
"I sometimes think that never glows so red The nose as his who many a Foster sped, So turn in horror from the brimming glass, And stick to good old counter-lunch instead.
We unconsciously repeated those quotations.
Julian still seemed buried in thought, having wrapped him - self in a huge fur-lined coat, looking like nothing so much as a Russian Nihilist..
We questioned him further re his Bacchantic ideals, and asked him whether he preferred it draught or bottled.
He glared at us contemptuously.
"Bottled, of course," he snapped, and thereupon-
"Let wowsers ramp and rage and roar, And tear the world to bits,
To bar-rooms on a singing shore, The mind for revel flits.
Though every pub. the wowser throttles, Thank God, the world is full of bottles ! There still are sands near laughing surf,
Widespread beneath the stars, With couches made of soft, fresh turf,
And there shall be our bars.
Where never barmaid interposing, Will hint that it is time for closing.
The revel still shall live, and when The wowser wakes at dawn, And full of anger now and then
Finds bottles on his lawn.
As if of his, own reckless drinking, Methinks 'twill set the beggar thinking.
Our laughter as we play the jest While cheerfully we roam,
Our joyous songs shall break his rest Before we wander home.
And we shall sing with well-wet throttles, A hymn of thankfulness for bottles !
We applauded vociferously, and begged for some more, but Julian was tired—he wanted to think—to sleep—"Talk to me about anything but patients !" he rapped out.
"Well, Sir," we inquired, "what is your opinion of the Re- sident—if so, why not—also' say when and give examples of each."
dents7—he resident !" he yelled, "don't talk to me about Resi- They may be very brilliant,
But they haven't any mind, They wander through the Hospitals,
With their headlights on behind !
,,,, We perceived that Julian needed humoring, so we quelled ,e rising flood of argument in re "Residents and their Sala- 1
and contented ourselves with a modest request for his
opinion of The Nurse. (We had heard of his fondness for the tribe, and we had hovered round the prettiest specimen we could see—without luck.)
Julian's eyes gleamed, and with a shout of joy he began—
"Why sing of such damsels as Phyllis, And Corinna of classical rhymes, When Modernity offers to thrill us
With something in tune with the times.
Yes, something petite, She's as rare,as she's sweet From her top to her — (just As you wish ; if I must Here it is).to her feet.
She's the product of art Corybantic, Elate with a gay laisser-faire,
Who delights in some mischievous antic, Or a maddening challenge to dare.
Up to snuff, full of tact, Quite elusive, in fact, Till a fattening purse Is content to disburse What it purposely lacked.
She possesses a wit that perhaps is Notwithstanding decolletage and dress, Well intended to stir the synapses,
With an ideo-motor excess, As neat as it's terse,
Sometimes propre, sometimes worse, Ah ! A dainty coquette,
For the gay amourette Is—a—dear—little—nurse !"
The effort was apparently overmuch, and Julian collapsed in a heap.
The regular tug-tug of his motor, which was preparing for our departure and the condition of Julian brooked no in- quiry into his operations. We had been inside, as it were, looking into his retinal fundus, and endeavouring to detect evidence of selerosis in his reasoning.
We came, we saw, we succumbed—peripheral asphyxia and consequent syncope were not in it—Lister himself would have laid down his very length, and Addison would have experienced tremor of his suprarenals.
Coma, of a uraemic type, awoke! and behold it was a Julian was purely subjective.
But 'twas enough to stir every fibroblast in our liver, mysteries of life.
threatened to supervene—but we dream, and our interview with our inmost hearts, and to touch and we pondered long over the Strange are the Decalogue, the spleen, the sun,
Murray's jokes and clinics in the rain, Cat's whiskers, kerosene, the cobwebs spun
Beneath most honoured hats ; gall stones and brain, Soap, sausages, the tales of ancient Greece,
Lungs, tadpoles, Johnny Nihill, bone, Prosectors, red whiskers, cold pertaters, Peace,
And every blanky thing that we have known.
Let them all pass! but reason reels and sways, At dear old Julian's jactitating ways !!
OS FULLY (Hic).
M.H. Murmurs.
(other than Cardiac).
The Melbourne Hospital, with its wealth of clinical material, its equipment and its staff, should form an ideal cul- ture bed for the production of a strain of medical graduates competent to rank with the world's best. And although in the past it has generally succeeded in doing so, we, in our present hopeless condition of mind, cannot help attributing this more to the high resistant powers of the organisms concerned than to the, beneficent influences of the culture medium.
Since a consideration of the matter in hand involves many
• variables we propose—still following our bacteriological simile
—to eliminate one factor by classing ourselves, in all humilityi as delicate, non-resistant organisms, prone to perish in the presence of anything but the most salutary cultural conditions.
Having thus fixed a constant by suppcoing our capabilities for actively acquiring knowledge to be a negligible quantity, we are now in a position to turn and regard, with coldly critical eye, the medium from which we draw our sustenance; the several ingredients constituting the medium comprising, as above referred to, the clinical material, the equipment, and, what we are mainly concerned with, the staff. As to the first mentioned, we have no complaints to offer—our diet in that re- spect being all sufficient and varied, and we can blame no one but ourselves if we refuse to ingest what is placed before us.
Regarding equipment, it would perhaps be necessary to define the term before enlarging on it, so we will confine our- selves to remarking, by way of illustrating with what ease scientific apparatus is procurable, that, if one desires to do (or shall we say "attempt" ?), a blood count, it necessitates not the slightest expenditure of energy, beyond the systematic ran- sacking of the whole block of hosptial buildings from roof to basement. It is perhaps owing to this that the doing of blood- counts has come tp be regarded as a mild form of lunacy.
We now reach the main issue—that is, the staff, and in order to approach the subject in a systematic manner, we will sub-divide it in the following manner—(a) The Honorary Staff, (b) the Resident Staff, and, lest it be offended if we ignore it, (c) the Nursing Staff.
To our primitive minds two main duties seem to devolve on an Honorary Physician or Surgeon, to a clinical school like the M.H. Firstly, his duty towards his patients, and this we do not presume to criticise; secondly, that which he owes to the rising generation of graduates, or, to put it more concretely,