Part 21

On the stage are several bright lads; they smoke cigarettes. One comes to me and says, “Mr. Santanelli, will you cure me of smoking cigarettes?”

“Certainly,” I reply, and in four or five days he is cured.

The mother of another comes to me and says, “Mr. Santanelli, will you cure of smoking cigarettes, my boy Jack, who is on your stage?”

“Does he wish to be cured, madam?”

“No.”

“Then I cannot cure him.”

How is this, reader? It is impossible to bring out of the mind what is not there. The first lad, desirous of being cured, has the thought there to be put in action. I induce hypnosis and say to him, “After you open your eyes, every time you think of smoking a cigarette, a nasty taste will come into your mouth; and every time you put a cigarette in your mouth you will vomit.” Now, the moment the lad thinks of a cigarette the nasty taste aroused causes him to think, “Mr. Santanelli’s inspiration is working.” If he puts a cigarette in his mouth and vomits, he says, “Good, Mr. Santanelli has succeeded both with the nasty taste and the vomiting.” But the boy who does not want to be cured of the habit thinks of the cigarette and the nasty taste comes in his mouth and he says, “I will fool Mr. Santanelli, I will be able to smoke soon,” and then he puts the cigarette in his mouth and if he does throw up, he says, “Well, never mind, by and by I will fool Mr. Santanelli;” and in an hour or so he again thinks of it and smokes one; the result is that my inspiration has aroused and forced into action the positive against me, and I have only succeeded in effecting a temporary substitution.

A good minister once came to me and said, “Mr. Santanelli, many members of my congregation are hard drinkers, and I have preached and preached and preached to them of the sin of drinking, yet they drink just the same. What other suggestion (?) can I give them? What can I do for them?”

I replied, “My good father, you make two mistakes. First, your sermons are such as fail to arouse comprehensive thoughts in the minds of your hearers; secondly, you try to put in through one sense (hearing) that which the economy of man intended to be received through another. Thoughts not in existence cannot be brought out. You fail to put into the “minds” of your hearers the thought of the ill of drinking. No thought can be formed through affecting less than two senses, and it requires three to obtain an effective result. Now, you quote me Pat Murphy, and say Pat has taken the pledge and you have lectured and lectured to him, yet he continues to drink. If I were you, and desired to cure Pat Murphy, I would do as follows: I would meet Pat Murphy some evening after work, talk with him pleasantly and walk or drive by Mike O’Hara’s house. Mike works along with Pat. I would pass comments as to Mike having his house paid for; of the neatness of the yard; as to the appearance of his children. In fact, I would cause Pat to see the condition of Mike’s house. I would then enter Pat’s home, ask him what rental he was paying; if the landlord would not fix the house up if he was asked; ask Mrs. Pat what cloth for the dressing of her children was worth a yard. I should then say something about Pat getting the same wages as Mike, and there would be no need of saying anything whatever about drinking, as every question asked would arouse a positive against it, in pictures of Mike’s prosperous condition, resulting from abstaining from drink; and I will promise you that the next time Pat went into a saloon there would be a picture aroused in his mind which would cause him to bring home a little of his money; or, in other words, by putting them in through the proper senses, I would have established a series of ideas positive against drinking, and the suggestion that formerly aroused the thought of drinking, would with a little careful nursing, be forced to respond positive against it.”

If a man should meet an Indian who had seen nothing of civilization, how could he describe to him comprehensively the strength and power of a locomotive? It would be necessary to associate an idea common to the Indian with an idea common to the locomotive, thus: as the Indian is thoroughly familiar with the horse and its strength, associate in that Indian’s mind an idea that the pale-face had a horse twenty times larger than his, a thousand times stronger; that it ate coal; that breath came in clouds from its nostrils; that it traveled in a carefully arranged pathway, that it drew twenty large tepees, and although you would not have formed in the Indian’s mind a correct picture of a locomotive, he would have a conception of a locomotive’s power and strength. A drawing made of a locomotive would produce an impression through the eye, which, with the Indian’s comprehension of its power and strength (association of ideas), would enable the Indian, when he first saw a locomotive, to deduce what it was. First, by its form, or the “suggestion” produced by seeing the escape of steam and smoke, or the drawing of the cars. Or, if he had never seen the form, seeing it move on the pathway or track would suggest to the Indian the story of the big horse as told by the pale-face. Note that two senses, feeling and sight, have been affected.

In Tennessee, a couple of winters ago, I met the doctors of a city, who, being good, true Southern gentlemen, proved themselves to be good fellows. They all laughed about one doctor in the city, a man who knew nothing of “bugology,” who had one of the largest practices, in fact, the largest practice in the city, tired out two horses every day, owned a great deal of property, and was a very busy man.

After making a number of inquiries concerning this man, I concluded I would like to meet him and asked one of his friends to take me over and introduce me. I went over in the afternoon; the doctor had just finished with a little surgical case and was washing his hands. He was over six feet tall, had on a suit of clothes that was made for somebody; or, if they had been made for him, he had changed his shape; the material was of the best, but the fit was quite English. Upon being introduced, the doctor looked at my feet, my legs, my abdomen, my chest, my face, put out his hand and said “Hello, Santanelli, I like you,” and asked me to go out to his home and take dinner. I informed the doctor that I could not, that I was too busy, but would dine with him some other time. He said he would be glad to have me, and I left.

I was in the city several weeks, becoming quite friendly with the doctor, being in his office one day when a lady came in with a little boy, the lady badly frightened, the lad likewise. The boy had been bitten by a dog and the mother had heard of Pasteur and his wonderful discovery (which he failed to make), and was afraid the boy was going to shun water, foam at the mouth and do a lot of very disagreeable things that dogs are popularly supposed to do and men do not, and asked the doctor to “do something,” which he did, and the little boy was awfully scared and cried. He sent the boy home all wrapped up, smelling very strongly of iodoform. I turned to the doctor and said, “Doctor, what do you think of hydrophobia?”

He replied, “I think it’s all rot, but they wanted something done, and I did it.”

“Why,” said I, “I have a better cure than yours for hydrophobia.” He wanted to know what it was, and I told him if any of my children (provided I had any) should claim they had been bitten by a dog, I would take them across my knee and spank them.

“Why would you do that?” he asked.

“I am one of those foolish people who believe in suggestion. A little boy is bitten by a dog, he tells his mother what has happened and the look on her face forces on him the thought that something awful has happened, perhaps to himself; he feels nothing but a little smarting, and his mother goes to the doctor; she is frightened all the time, tells the neighbors about it and they become frightened and the little boy is more scared; when he gets to the doctor’s office and watches him treat the wound, he is still more scared, and when it is all bandaged up he is most scared; he has about him the odor of iodoform and it is constantly reminding him that he has been bitten by a dog; then he has to have the wound redressed several times, and the result is that he does nothing but ‘think, think, THINK’ of being bitten by the dog, and by and by somebody tells him what to do—to shun water and foam at the mouth and have hydrophobia—and seventy times out of a hundred he does so. Very strange, isn’t it? A child bitten by a dog when five years of age, sometimes dies of hydrophobia when he is fifty, but still the scientists (?) tell us that a bug did it. What a procrastinator that bug must have been.”

It so happened in a few days that another lady came in, with her little boy who had been bitten by a dog. The doctor said to the mother, “Madam, I would spank that young man.” The mother wanted to know why, and he said, “I would spank him for fooling with the dog.” The mother did so. The result was that the boy who had his wound dressed had quite a sore hand before he got through, and the boy who got the spanking, and hadn’t been bitten on the place he was spanked, stopped thinking of being bitten by the dog, and failed to have an irritated wound.

One afternoon I went riding with the doctor, and he told me that he was a farmer’s son, that he had wanted to study medicine because he thought it was easier than ploughing, so went to work for a doctor, took care of his horse, studied medicine, went to college, and at last graduated; when he came back with his diploma he had eight dollars, knew a real nice girl, got married and started in. To-day he owns one of the largest factories in the city, a great deal of real estate, and is trying to make a few hundred thousand for his last child. He informed me that he was not much of a doctor, wasn’t even a good enough doctor to kill his patients; that he kept them alive and got his pay; that there were lots of good young doctors in town, who, when they came down the street, kept doffing their hats to the germs they met, inasmuch as they were familiar with all, and knew each and every one by name; that he had his hands full caring for his patients, without being bothered by germs, inasmuch as he didn’t know a germ when he saw one; he had heard about them, but they didn’t bother him.

Becoming very much interested in the doctor, I asked him if he would take me out calling with him some afternoon, and he said he would. If you have never gone driving with a physician, it is an experience worth undertaking, inasmuch as the doctor generally drives you to the outskirts of the town and lets you hold the reins while he goes in and gets warm and visits his patient. The doctor gets warm, comes out feeling comfortable, takes the reins from you and goes on a piece; while you are shivering with the cold, he talks to you, visits some more patients, and, after you have ridden with him for an hour or two, you wish you were home.

But with this doctor it was different; he drove up close to one house, and said to me as he was getting out of the buggy, “You don’t want to go in here; they have got a little typhoid fever, it don’t amount to much,” and went in. He stopped a few moments then came to the door followed by some young ladies and they were all laughing and joking. I asked how he found the patient. “I think he is better,” said the doctor; and he got in and drove to another place, letting me hold the reins again. The next place he drove to was a little cottage; when we got in front of it, the doctor hollered, “Whoa,” to the horse (you would think he was the butcher or milkman), gave me the lines, went to the front door, and pulled the bell in a manner which led one to think he was going to pull the knob clear off, when some one came to the door and let him in. Pretty soon he came to the door and hollered, “Santanelli, tie up the horse and come in, I want to introduce you to these people.”

I went into the house, a nice little cottage where everything was neat and trim. There a young mechanic was sick abed, and his young wife, together with two nice little children, were in the room. The doctor said, “This is Santanelli; they say he can hypnotize. I don’t know whether he can or not. I like him, he’s a pretty good fellow. This fellow in bed here thinks he is sick, but I don’t think so. Santanelli, are you hungry?” I said I was not. “Well,” said the doctor, “this woman makes the best pies and cakes in the country,” and with that he went into the kitchen, and in a few minutes came back with the measure of his mouth in a pie, and likewise in a cake in his hand. He offered me some, but I refused. After eating what he wanted, he placed the rest on the mantelpiece, and pretty soon said, “Come on, Santanelli, let’s go.” The sick man said, “Doctor, hold on. Ain’t you going to do something for me?” The doctor stopped, scratched his head, and said, “The best thing you can do is to go to work in the morning,” and started. The man said, “Ain’t you going to give me some medicine?” The doctor found a mutilated prescription blank in one of his pockets, wrote on it, dropped it on the floor and said, “If you don’t get better, you might get up and go down to the drug store, and have this filled. I think the best thing you can do is to go to sleep now, and go to work in the morning.”

I visited several other places with the doctor and he treated them all the same way. And you, good reader, wonder how such a man had any practice. Well, I thought over it a few minutes, but it is readily understood. The doctor looked health, acted health, and when they heard his merry voice at the front door, a suggestion of health entered the house, and when the patient heard his vigorous ring, there was a suggestion of strength in it, and by the time the doctor had entered the sick-room the several suggestions of health had already preceded him. The doctor talked in a cheery voice; he was hungry, he looked hungry; all these suggestions had their effect upon the sick man. He went into the kitchen and got something to eat, came back, ate it and enjoyed eating it, and the sick man received these suggestions. Then he started to go away, which had its effect on the sick man who said, “Give me something for my money,” the doctor writing a prescription which he dropped on the floor, saying, “If you are not better, get up and go down and get it filled; good-night. Come along, Santanelli.” His tone was healthy and this doctor gave forth every suggestion of health.

But that is not what the “world” wants. When the “world” is sick, it responds to the Law of Suggestion, and wants to be surrounded with sickness; and the doctors who are wise (?) do this, charge big fees and have a small and select practice, culled from the few they fail to kill.

A doctor should look the doctor (?); he should carry the sign of his profession on his face; should be dignified looking, having the look that is always associated with doctors or sickness; he should have a medicine case (the larger the better) in his hand, and should have a carriage that everybody knows is the doctor’s; in other words, every suggestion of sickness must surround him, then he is surely a dignified doctor. He drives cautiously to the front of the house; quietly times his step; gently rings the bell, and goes into the sick-room still giving forth every suggestion of sickness as he takes off his gloves. If he is an up-to-date doctor, he will immediately disinfect them; he takes off his coat and disinfects that; then he disinfects his hair and hands, so that all will be free and clear of bugs. In the meantime the patient responds to the suggestion of sickness through a sick man coming to him; that is, a man carrying the thought of sickness. The doctor then goes to the patient and pounds him all over the chest, puts his ear down to hear the heart beat, and then puts a thermometer in the patient’s mouth to find out if he has a fever—sorry a doctor who cannot tell a fever without a thermometer,—and the patient, while holding this in his mouth, has a suggestion of sickness forced on him through feeling, a suggestion of sickness forced on him through his eye by the person of the doctor, and the expression he sees steal over the doctor’s face intimates that the thermometer is going to register more than “normal.” The family is about him in the room, magnifying in their’s the expression which they reflect from the doctor’s face; and the doctor goes to the window with the thermometer and frowns—ninety-nine times out of a hundred because he cannot read the thermometer, but the frown and expression on his face is magnified by those around the bedside, the man accepting the suggestion beyond all question, thinking “I am very sick.”

Then the doctor wants all the usual environment banished, noise must be stopped, the bed must be changed, the blinds pulled down, and everything that will force the thought of sickness must be arranged. The doctor then writes out three or four prescriptions, and does so writing at a table beside the sick man—because it is a magnificent suggestion to convince him that he is sick—the doctor then handing the prescriptions to one of the family, leaving behind a most encouraging thought by saying, “If he is not better in two hours, send for me.” This doctor brought the thought of sickness into the house and magnified that thought while there; when he left, he implanted in the “mind” of the patient, “Be worse in two hours.” (Isn’t the day at hand to change this?)

Suggestion is anything that arouses an action. Modern medicine loses much of its effectiveness if it possesses any, through our doctors making the medicine “nice” to take, by using syrups, capsules, et cetera. As it requires two senses to put a thought in action, and the sense of taste is practically unaffected, a great factor in the result desired is thereby lost. “Nasty” medicine is far more effective than “nice” medicine.

How many children are there who, when mamma promises or threatens to send for the doctor, begin to cry? To cry when offered the services of the one who should do them the most good. Why has this child such ideas positive against the doctor? If he be what is claimed, the child should smile at the thought of doctor. How many among the laymen of to-day “smile” when they think of a doctor? The ideas associated with the word “doctor” are abhorrent.