THE BLIND CHILD:

A SKETCH FROM THE NOTES OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN.

AMONG all the learned professions there is none so well adapted to correct observation on the frailties of human life, and the evanescence of earthly hopes and prospects, as that of medicine. How necessary soever it may be that the medical practitioner should, in the discharge of his arduous and responsible duties, display at all times an indomitable fortitude, there are few of the profession who have not, on some occasions, been constrained to respond to the calls of sympathy, and "weep with them that weep." Lessons of mortality appear in almost every case for which he is called to minister, and in it does he behold that hand from the stroke of which he himself can claim no exemption. With what painful anxiety does he behold the wasting progress of disease, setting at defiance all his solicitude and skill; and when nature has proclaimed the scale of destiny against him that a higher than an earthly power has rendered the combination of all his resources futile and unavailing-few can estimate the unexpressed sorrow that wrings his heart.

It was one morning between nine and ten o'clock, just as I was preparing to visit the wards, that I was waited on by a poor woman, whose eldest child had, but a few months before, been successfully treated under my care for an affection of the spine. She was a widow, and appeared to have seen better days. She brought with her a child, about four years of age, laboring under a severe attack of inflammation of the eyes. I told her of the Eye Infirmary, and that to admit her child as an hospital patient would be outstepping the line of my duty. This did not settle the

matter, however. She pleaded for her admission; but I was determined not to move a jot beyond the rules of the institution. I proposed to give her a note to the surgeon of the Eye Infirmary, recommending her child to his special atten tion; but it was vain. I was assailed with a flood of tears, and told over and over again of the skill I had displayed in the cure of her eldest child; so that, moved by the poor woman's distress, and doubtless a little by her flattery, I resolved to stretch a point for once, and place her on my list.

On examining the eyes, I found that too much time had already been lost. The eyeballs and membranous linings of the eyelids were of a dusky red color; the vessels of the eyes were turgid and prominent; the whole of the cornea was of a dusky color, and appeared interspersed all over with small white specks; and there was an immense discharge of thin pus. Every now and then a vivid pain shot through the eyeballs, which caused the poor little sufferer to wince in agony. To the question, "Can you see me, my dear?" she replied, "A little, sir." To the mother I said, "How long is it, madam, since her eyes became ill?" "Upward of six weeks, sir." "And why did you not apply sooner ?" "Oh, your honor, I was told to poultice them with loaf bread and buttermilk, and they would soon be well; but now, sir. I fear they will never get well." A few such questions and observations passed, while the poor woman, unable to repress the emotions of a mother's heart, wept bitterly for her "lovely Lucy," as she endearingly called her and she was really a lovely, sweet child. Her hair was a deep yellow, and hung in loose tresses over her broad shoulders; her chest and neck would have been a worthy subject for the pencil of a Raphael. In short, her whole figure was one of exquisite symmetry and proportion: and then her countenance, marred as it was by a green bandage across her eyes, wore the deepest expression of childish innocence and intelligence. Seeing that if a cure was to be attempted at all, a speedy application was necessary, I ordered leeches and blisters behind the ears; prescribed an astringent wash to be used frequently, together with some cooling medicine; and as she was to remain under

the care of her mother, I gave directions that she should be brought to me every morning and evening, so that I might with my own hands apply an injection containing a weak solution of nitrate of silver.

These active measures seemed to have an excellent effect, and for several days kept the disease at bay, so that I began to entertain some hope of ultimately effecting a cure. I soon became deeply interested in my little patient. She was really a sweet child; so tractable, so patient, and withal so fond of me, that, do what I would, a murmur or complaint never would escape her. And often, when about to strip off the bandage, she would say to me, "Now, doctor, if you hurt me, I won't cry." The influence which the innocence and artlessness of infancy can wield over the affections of maturer years, is not a little remarkable. For my own part, I confess the fate of poor little Lucy became to me an object of deep solicitude, and I would have given the world to be able to cure her. It is true, the withering hand of misfortune had never blunted the susceptibilities and sympathies of my heart. But what of that, supposing the evil days had come, and the storms of subsequent years had ravaged my bosom, still, a chord remained which would have vibrated to every pang of my little patient. Her mother told me that she looked forward with joyfulness to her coming to have her eyes dressed; and if fretful, it was always sufficient to quiet her, to tell her that her doctor would not love her if she cried or was naughty. With the most tranquil submission she would sit, with her little hands clasped together in her lap, whilst I cleared away the discharge from her eyes, and threw in the injection, which, although it gave her a momentary pain, was soon followed by relief; and then she would gently raise up the eyelids with her little fingers, and with an engaging smile say, "I see you, doctor." It would not be easy to describe the delight with which I heard this simple announcement for several days. And although the opinion of the visiting physicians was, from the beginning, highly discouraging, still I hoped against hope. But the baselessness of my hopes was soon to appear. One morning, on fetching her

to me, her mother said she feared her dear Lucy had got cold in her eyes, for she had passed a very restless night, and had often screamed out with the pain that shot through them. This looked ominous; I felt as if electrified: but fortunately at this moment the visiting surgeon made his call, and I felt my mind in some measure relieved; but my suspicions werc confirmed by his opinion. With a careful hand he stripped off the bandage containing a small cold poultice, and on his gently pressing the eyelids with his fingers, I saw, with inexpressible sorrow, that all my anxiety and care had failed. Rapid ulceration had taken place; the crystalline lenses of both eyes escaped with the gush of matter, and the dear little child was blind. The injured organs sunk in, and she was in a measure freed from pain, but for ever denied the blessing and pleasure of looking on the fair scenery of nature again. My throat swelled, and I think I dropped a tear. A sterner disposition might have condemned it-called it weakness; but I could not help it. In melancholy silence and with a trembling hand I proceeded to dress her, and with painful regret waited to hear what the poor child would say. Like a ray of sunbeam did the accustomed smile pass over her sweet features; her fingers were applied to the eyelids; she turned toward me, and paused for a moment. The artless smile vanished; and, in a subdued and plaintive tone, she said, "I can't see you, doctor;" but instantly resuming her wonted cheerfulness, she rejoined, "but I shall see you to-morrow." The poor mother was standing by, and though she comprehended the worst, she spoke not a word; still the quivering lip and flushed countenance showed the complainings of a heart filled with bitterness. The visiting surgeon turned to her, endeavored to explain the circumstance, and having offered her a few words of consolation, made his bow. A few more visits rendered medical aid unnecessary to poor Lucy's eyes, as they healed up in a short time. She still appeared very happy and cheerful, and the last words I ever heard her speak I may not soon forget. Her mother, taking her up in her arms to carry her home from the hospital for the last time, sobbed out, "You can't see the

doctor now, my dear:" to which the sweet child replied, "But I shall see him to-morrow, ma'am." Then turning toward me, she continued, "Won't I, sir?-won't I see you to-morrow?"

THE HOME OF MY FATHERS.

SWEET home of my fathers, I remember thee yet,
Though in far-distant climes my weary feet roam;
The joys and the pleasure I ne'er can forget,

That clustered around my own honored home.

I remember the forest where the wild flowers grow,
And the streamlet whose waters did gurgle and foam,

As with murmuring music they gracefully threw
A charm and a spell round my dear native home.

I think of the elm-tree that stood by the door,
That elm-tree so aged, majestic, and lone;
'Neath its wide-spreading branches I've gambolled of yore,
When a gladsome young child at my own happy home.

That simple, plain cottage, returns to my mind

When gazing on temple, and palace, and dome;

And memory reverts to years far behind

To the scenes of that humble but dear cottage home.

But now the rank grass grows over the graves

Of friends and companions whose loss I bemoan;
And the clear gushing streams their burial-place laves;
Oh, changed is the scene around my own loved home!

A CLEAR stream reflects all objects that are upon its shore, but is unsullied by them; so it should be with our hearts they should show the effect of all objects, and yet remain unharmed by any.