the answer to
this question some among you may find a key that shall unlock the gate
opening on that fair field of the future of which all dream but which
not all will ever reach.

First of all, he truly loved his profession. He had no intellectual
ambitions outside of it, literary, scientific or political. To him it
was occupation enough to apply at the bedside the best of all that he
knew for the good of his patient; to protect the community against the
inroads of pestilence; to teach the young all that he himself had been
taught, with all that his own experience had added; to leave on record
some of the most important results of his long observation.

With his patients he was so perfect at all points that it is hard to
overpraise him. I have seen many noted British and French and American
practitioners, but I never saw the man so altogether admirable at the
bedside of the sick as Dr. James Jackson. His smile was itself a remedy
better than the potable gold and the dissolved pearls that comforted the
praecordia of mediaeval monarchs. Did a patient, alarmed without cause,
need encouragement, it carried the sunshine of hope into his heart and
put all his whims to flight, as David's harp cleared the haunted chamber
of the sullen king. Had the hour come, not for encouragement, but for
sympathy, his face, his voice, his manner all showed it, because his
heart felt it. So gentle was he, so thoughtful, so calm, so absorbed
in the case before him, not to turn round and look for a tribute to his
sagacity, not to bolster himself in a favorite theory, but to find out
all he could, and to weigh gravely and cautiously all that he found,
that to follow him in his morning visit was not only to take a lesson in
the healing art, it was learning how to learn, how to move, how to look,
how to feel, if that can be learned. To visit with Dr. Jackson was a
medical education.

He was very firm, with all his kindness. He would have the truth about
his patients. The nurses found it out; and the shrewder ones never
ventured to tell him anything but a straight story. A clinical dialogue
between Dr. Jackson and Miss Rebecca Taylor, sometime nurse in the
Massachusetts General Hospital, a mistress in her calling, was as good
questioning and answering as one would be like to hear outside of the
court-room.

Of his practice you can form an opinion from his book called "Letters to
a Young Physician." Like all sensible men from the days of Hippocr