My Eyeglasses

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Better Eyesight
A Monthly Magazine Devoted to the Prevention and Cure of Imperfect
Sight Without Glasses
Copyright, 1921, by the Central Fixation Publishing Company
Editor, W. H. Bates, M. D.
Publisher, Central Fixation Publishing Company
Vol. VIII. - July, 1923 - No. 1

The following poem was taken from a current magazine, but its
discrepancies were so apparent that I could not pass it unchallenged.
E. A. M.

My Eyeglasses

Little helpmates yoked together,
Twin-born servants of mine,
How your presence helps and cheers me,
You barriers of time.

Glistening eyes and dainty rims,
Exquisite mountings, too,
What dreary days of solitude
Had I not met with you.

And then I pause to wonder how
You ever could be here,
What genius burned the midnight oil
To make your portals clear.

Many days have laboring men
In mines across the sea
Spent searching for the components
To solve your mystery.

Sometimes I lay you out of place,
A place I cannot see,
And then it seems part of myself
Has gone away from me.

I have no means to show the depth
Of my gratitude to you.
My eyes will flood with burning tears
When your services are thru.

I herewith seal this solemn vow
That henceforth you will be
Kept clean from fingerprints
While you are serving me.

——
My Eyeglasses
——
By Emily A. Meder
—
The sentimental poem given above evidently required a good deal of
forethought and concentrated effort to devise. We wonder, however, if
this anonymous genius had spent the time taken to create this gem, by
reading Dr. Bates' book, and practicing the method as outlined by him,
whether he would not have written a masterpiece. He would have
discarded his "twin-born servants," attained better eyesight, and we
know, would have been benefited physically.
With apologies to the author, I am going to dissect this "child of
his brain" to see what it is made of. As the surgeons say, this might
be painful and uncomfortable, but it is for the patient's eventual
good.
Like a great majority of people this man believes that glasses
have to be put on when one has attained a certain set age. I suppose
that we must be grateful that theorists have not ordained that we
place splints on our arms and legs to prevent old age attacking them
prematurely. However, as all know, who have read Dr. Bates' book, and
who have been treated by him, the eyes are no more delicate than any
other part of the anatomy. When we read the sentence, "You barriers
of time," it seems as ludicrous to us as the opinion people held in
the olden days when they ridiculed Columbus for thinking the earth
round. We might fittingly change that sentence to read "You hasteners
of time."
The author continues to relate the labor men were put to, "to make
these portals clear." We admit that a great deal of time was spent to
make the glasses ornate. But this did not in any material way add to
their usefulness and value. We know that when people purchase glasses
they spend a good deal of time making sure that they look well in
them. There is always a heated and lengthy debate as to whether
tortoise shell or gold is more studious looking, or whether rimless
glasses add to one's dignity. Men may have exhausted their energy in
"mines across the sea," and I have a mental picture of them using
their life forces to attain—nothing. It makes me think of the
squirrel on a revolving wheel. The faster he works, the more energy
he uses, and he is eventually exhausted, getting nowhere. The trouble
with the old oculists is that they were started on the wrong track,
and stayed there, without looking for an avenue of escape. Like the
labyrinth in mythology, they walked and walked and went back and
forward, in a ceaseless round, with no one to show them the one way
out. To follow the metaphor you may remember the story of the cruel
giant who put all the fair young maidens in the labyrinth and left
them to die. But one maiden obtained a ball of twine and fastened it
to the entrance of the cavern. As she was lead deeper and deeper into
the intricate passages, she let out the cord. Upon being left alone,
she called all the unfortunate prisoners to her, and they followed the
right path back, as indicated by the ball of twine. This story always
occurs to me when I think of Dr. Bates' work. As all the others are
lost in a maze of theories, his wonderful truth is the string of hope
to cling to when escaping the awful giant—bad sight and glasses.

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