Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Mulhall, and the author’s father—Interesting
particulars of a medical consultation—Family recollections—Counsellor,
afterward Judge Fletcher—First meeting between him and the
author—Catching a Tartar—Sam Doxy of the Derrys—Breaks his neck in
riding to a Turnpike-Board dinner—Pronounced dead by Mr. Knaggs, the
apothecary—That eminent practitioner’s judgment disputed by Lieut.
Jerry Palmer—The apothecary proceeds to show that the patient
_must_, or at least _ought_ to be, dead—An incision, and its
consequences—Lieut. Palmer’s successful mode of treatment—Recovery of
the corpse.
In addition to my preceding illustrations of the former state of
medicine and surgery in Ireland, I cannot omit a couple of convincing
proofs of the _intuitive knowledge_ possessed by Irish practitioners in
my early days. They present scenes at which I was myself present, and
one of which was the most distressing I had witnessed, while the other
was more amusing at its conclusion than any operation I ever saw
performed by any, either of the farriers or colloughs of Ireland.
Doctor Knaggs, the hero of the second incident, was a tall, raw-boned,
rough, dirty apothecary; but he suited the neighbours, as they said he
had “the skill in him,” and was “mighty successful.” Sam Doxy, his
patient, was, on the contrary, a broad, strong, plethoric, half-mounted
gentleman. He had his lodge, as he called it, in the midst of a _derry_
(a bog), drank his gallon of hot punch to keep out the damp, and
devoured numerous cock turkeys, and cows that were past _child-bearing_,
to keep down the potsheen. Every neighbour that could get to him was
welcome, and _the road_ was seldom _in a fit state_ to permit their
going away again quickly.
The first of these anecdotes I still relate with some pain, though
forty-five years and more have of course blunted the feeling I
experienced on its occurrence; and as I shall soon be in the same
situation myself as the parties now are, I can, comparatively speaking,
look lightly on an event which, in youth, health, and high blood, was
quite chilling to my contemplation.
The father of the late Judge Fletcher of the Common Pleas was an
_actual_ physician at Mount Melec, about seven miles from my father’s.
He was a smart, intelligent, and very humorous, but remarkably
diminutive doctor. He attended my father in his last moments, in
conjunction with the family practitioner, Doctor Dennis Mulhall, whose
appearance exactly corresponded with that of Doctor Slop, save that his
paunch was doubly capacious, and his legs, in true symmetry with his
carcase, helped to _waddle_ him into a room. He was a matter-of-fact
doctor, and despised _anatomy_. His features had been so confused and
entangled together by that unbeautifying disorder, the smallpox, (which
I have so often alluded to,) that it almost required a chart to find
their respective stations.
These two learned gentlemen attended my poor father with the greatest
assiduity, and daily prescribed for him a certain portion of every drug
the Stradbally apothecary could supply: but these were not very
numerous; and as every thing loses its vigour by age, so the Stradbally
drugs, having been some years waiting for customers (like the landlord
of the Red Cow in “John Bull”), of course fell off in their efficacy,
till at length they each became, what the two doctors ultimately turned
my poor father into—a _caput mortuum_. Notwithstanding the drugs and the
doctors, indeed, my father held out nearly ten days; but finally, as a
matter of course, departed this world. I was deeply and sincerely
grieved. I loved him affectionately, and never after could reconcile
myself to either of his medical attendants. I had overheard their last
consultation, and from that time to this, am of opinion, that one doctor
is as good as, if not better than, five hundred. I shall never forget
the dialogue. After discussing the weather and prevalence of diseases in
the county, they began to _consult_.—“What do you say to the _pulveres
Jacobi_?” said Dr. Mulhall (the family physician).
“We are three days too late,” smirked Doctor Fletcher.
“What think you then of cataplasmus, or the _flies_?—Eh! Doctor, eh! the
flies?” said Mulhall.
“The flies won’t rise in time,” replied Doctor Fletcher:—“too late
again!”
“I fear so,” said Mulhall.
“’Tis a pity, Doctor Mulhall, you did not suggest blistering breast and
spine sooner: you know it was not my business, as I was only _called
in_:—I could not duly _suggest_.”
“Why,” replied Doctor Mulhall, “I thought of it certainly, but I was
unwilling to _alarm the family_ by so definitive an application, unless
in _extremis_.”
“We’re in _extremis_ now,” said Doctor Fletcher—“he! he!”
“Very true—very true,” rejoined Doctor Mulhall; “but Nature is too
strong for art; she takes her way in spite of us!”
“Unless, like a wife, she’s kept down at first,” said Fletcher—“he! he!
he!”
“Perhaps I was rather too discreet and delicate, doctor; but if the
colonel can still get down the _pulveres Jacobi_—” said Mulhall.
“He can’t!” said Fletcher.
“Then we can do no more for the patient,” replied Mulhall.
“Nothing _more_,” said Fletcher; “so you had better break your
‘_give-over_’ to the family as tenderly as possible. That’s your
business, you know: there is no use in my staying.” And so, as the sun
rose, Doctor Fletcher jumped into his little cabriolet, and I heard him
say in parting, “This is no jest, I fear, to his family.”
The next day I lost my father; and never did grief show itself more
strong, or general, than on that mournful occasion. There was not a dry
eye amongst his tenantry. My mother was distracted: for more than thirty
years that they had been united, a single difference of opinion was
never expressed between them. His sons loved him as a brother; and the
attachment was mutual. His person was prepossessing—his manners those of
a man of rank—his feelings such as became a man of honour. He had the
mien of a gentleman, and the heart of a philanthropist; but he was
careless of his concerns, and had too rustic an education. He left large
landed estates, with large incumbrances to overwhelm them; and thirteen
children survived to lament his departure.
After I was called to the bar, Counsellor Fletcher, the doctor’s son
(already mentioned in a former Vol.), was in the best of practice. On my
first circuit, I did not know him, and of course wished to make
acquaintance with my seniors. Lord Norbury went circuit as judge at the
same time I went first as barrister; he therefore can be no _juvenile_
at this time of day.
Fletcher was, as has already been mentioned, of very uncertain humour,
and when not pleased, extremely repulsive. The first day I was on
circuit he came into the bar-room, perhaps tired, or—what was far worse
to him—hungry, for nothing ruffled Fletcher so much as waiting for
dinner. Wishing to lose no time in making acquaintance with any
countryman and brother barrister, and supposing he was endowed with the
same degree of urbanity as other people, I addressed him in my own
civil, but perhaps over-vivacious manner. He looked gruff, and answered
my first question by some monosyllable. I renewed my address with one of
the standing interrogatories resorted to by a man who wishes to fall
into conversation.—Another monosyllable.
I was touched:—“You don’t know me, perhaps, Counsellor Fletcher?” said
I.
“Not as yet, sir,” said Fletcher.
I was angry:—“Then I’ll refresh your memory,” said I. “Your father
_killed_ mine.”
The barristers present laughed aloud.
“I hope you don’t mean to revenge the circumstance on _me_, sir?” said
Fletcher, with a sardonic smile.
“That,” said I, “depends entirely on your making me an apology for your
father’s ignorance. I forgive _your own_.”
He seemed surprised at the person he had to deal with, but no increase
of ire was apparent. He looked, however, rather at a loss. The laugh was
now entirely against him, when Warden Flood (my predecessor in the
Admiralty), who was then father of the circuit bar, happened to come in,
and formally introduced me as a new member.
After that time Fletcher and I grew very intimate:—he had several good
qualities, and these induced me to put up with many of his humours. He
was a very clever man, possessing good legal information; had a clear
and independent mind, and never truckled to any one because he was
great. He often wrangled, but never quarrelled with me, and I believe I
was one of the few who maintained a sincere regard for him. He was
intimate with Judge Moore, who now sits in his place, and was the most
familiar friend I had at Temple. I have alluded to Judge Fletcher
incidentally, as a public character who could not be bribed to support
the Union, and was appointed a judge by the Duke of Bedford during his
short viceroyalty.
I have introduced Doctor Fletcher’s medical practice in my glance at the
Irish _faculty_, the more particularly, because I was present at another
consultation held with him, which was (as I hinted at the commencement
of this sketch) connected with as droll an incident as any could be,
little short of terminating fatally.
I rode with Mr. Flood, of Roundwood, to the meeting of a turnpike-board,
held at Mount Rath, a few miles from my father’s house. One of the
half-mounted gentlemen already described, Sam Doxy of the Derrys, being
on his way to the same meeting, just at the entrance of the town his
horse stumbled over a heap of earth, and, rolling over and over (like
the somerset of a rope-dancer), broke the neck of his rider. The body
was immediately—as usual when country gentlemen were slain in
fox-hunting, riding home drunk at nights, or the like—brought on a door,
and laid upon a bed spread on the floor at the next inn. Mr. Knaggs, the
universal prescriber, &c. for the town and vicinity, was sent for to
inspect _the corpse_, and Doctor Fletcher being also by chance in the
place, was called into the room to consult as to the _dead man_, and
vouch that the breath was out of the body of Mr. Samuel Doxy of the
Derrys.
The two practitioners found he had no pulse, not even a single _thump in
his arteries_ (as Doctor Knaggs emphatically expressed it). They
therefore both shook their heads. His hands being felt, were found to be
cold. They shook their heads again. The doctors now retired to the
window, and gravely consulted: first, as to the danger of stumbling
horses; and second, as to the probability of the deceased having been
sober. They then walked back, and both declared it was “all over” with
Mr. Doxy of the Derrys. His neck was broken—otherwise dislocated; his
marrow-bones (according to Dr. Knaggs) were disjointed; and his death
had of course been instantaneous. On this decisive opinion being
promulgated to the turnpike-board, Dr. Fletcher mounted his pony, and
left the town, to _cure_ some other patient.
The coroner, Mr. Calcut, was sent for to hold his inquest before Sam’s
body could be “forwarded” home to the Derrys; and Mr. Knaggs, the
apothecary, remained in the room, to see if any _fee_ might be stirring
when his relations should come to carry away the dead carcase; when, all
of a sudden, an exclamation of “by J—s!” burst forth from Mr. Jerry
Palmer (already mentioned) of Dureen, near Castle Durrow, an intimate
acquaintance of Sam Doxy: “I don’t think he’s dead at all:—my father
often made him twice _deader_ at Dureen, with Dan Brennan’s
double-proof, and he was as well and hearty again as any dunghill cock
early in the morning.”
“Not dead!” said Knaggs with surprise and anger. “Is not dead, you
say?—Lieutenant Jer Palmer, you don’t mean to disparage my skill, or
injure my business in the town, I hope? There is no more life left in
Sam Doxy than in the leg of that table.”
The lieutenant bristled up at the doctor’s contradiction. “I don’t care
a d—n, Pothecary Knaggs, either for your skill, your business, or
yourself; but I say Sam Doxy is _not_ dead, and I repeat that I have
seen him _twice as dead_ at Dureen, and likewise, by the same token, on
the day Squire Pool’s tenants of Ballyfair had a great dinner in Andrew
Harlem’s big room at Maryborough.”
“Pothecary Knaggs” was now much chagrined. “Did you ever hear the like,
gentlemen of the turnpike-board?” said he. “Is it because the lieutenant
was in the American wars that he thinks he knows a corpse as well as I
do?”
“No I don’t do that same,” said Palmer: “for they say here that you have
_made_ as many dead bodies yourself as would serve for a couple of
battles, and a few skirmishes into the bargain. But I say _Sam_ is not
dead, by J—s!”
“Well now, gentlemen,” said Knaggs, appealing to public candour from the
rough treatment of the lieutenant, “you shall soon see, gentlemen, with
all your eyes that I am no _ignoramus_, as the lieutenant seems to say.”
Then opening his case of instruments and strapping a large operation
knife on the palm of his fist, “now, gentlemen of the turnpike-board,”
pursued he, “I’ll convince you all that Sam Doxy is as dead as
Ballaghlanagh.[8] Its a burning shame for you, Lieutenant Jer Palmer, to
be after running down a well-known practitioner in this manner, in his
own town. Gentlemen, look here, now, I’ll show you that Sam is dead.
Living, indeed! Oh, that’s a fine story!”
-----
Footnote 8:
Ballaghlanagh was the name of an old Irish bard (by tradition), whose
ghost used to come the night before to people who were to be killed
fighting in battle on the morning: and as a ghost offers the most
convincing proof that the mortal it represents is no longer living,
the term _Ballaghlanagh_, came, figuratively, to signify a “dead man.”
I learnt this explanation from the old colloughs, who all joined
exactly in the same tradition.
-----
We all conceived that Doctor Knaggs only intended to _try_ to bleed him;
and with this impression flocked round the body. Doctor Knaggs turned
_the corpse_ on one side, took off the cravat, and the neck appeared to
have somewhat of a bluish look on one side. “Now, gentlemen,” said he,
“here’s the spot (pressing it with his finger): the spinal marrow is
injured, perhaps in more places than one, or two either; the bones are
dislocated, and the gristle between them is knocked out of its place.
The formation of a gentleman’s neck is just the same as that of a
horse’s tail; and as most of you have either yourselves docked and
nicked, or been present at the docking and nicking of the tail of a
hunter, you’ll understand precisely the structure of Sam Doxy’s
vertebre. Now, gentlemen, (all this time placing Sam’s head in a
convenient position to make an incision, or, had the coroner been
present, to _cut the head off_, for clearer demonstration,) see, now,
I’ll just make a slight longitudinal gash along the back joints of the
neck, and by withdrawing the skin and the covering of fat on either
side, I’ll show as clear as his nose the fatal fracture of the spinal
cord.”
Every person in company now began instinctively to feel the nape of his
own neck for the spinal cord which the doctor was speaking of. “No man,”
resumed Doctor Knaggs, “ever recovered when this cord was fairly
cracked, and that’s the real secret of hanging, I assure you; and it has
been remarked that no culprit at Maryborough has ever given a kick after
he was duly strung and the shelf fell, for these three last years, since
I humanely taught the hangman the proper way. The _jerk_ is the thing,
gentlemen; and whether the spine is broken by its being pulled up from a
man’s shoulders by a cord, or thrust down into his shoulders by a fall
on the head, makes no sort of difference. Not dead!” resumed he, with a
sneer at the lieutenant: “Gentlemen, (every body came close) now, you
see, the gristle which we call cartilage lies between those two bones,
and the cord runs over and within also:—when cut through, then, the
head, gentlemen, having no support, bobs forward, and the dislocation
will appear quite plain. See, now,” and as he spoke he gave a pretty
smart gash from the nape of Sam’s neck downward toward his shoulders;
and proceeding to draw back the skin and fat on each side, to get a view
of the bones, to the surprise of the turnpike-board, the amazement of
Doctor Knaggs himself, and the triumph of Lieutenant Jer Palmer, a
stream of warm red blood instantly issued from the gash, and a motion
appeared in one eyelid of the corpse.
“By J—s!” shouted the lieutenant, “I told you the man was not dead—not a
taste of it. Oh! you diabolical pothecary, if you attempt to give
another slash, I’ll cut your own wezand; and if the poor follow dies
_now_, of this cutting, which I think he may, I’ll prosecute you for the
murder of Sam Doxy of the Derrys—a fair honest man, and a friend of my
father’s!”
Doctor Knaggs stood petrified and motionless.
“Gentlemen,” continued Jer Palmer, “lend me your cravats. (An immense
jug of hot punch was smoking on the hearth ready made for the proposed
dinner.) I know well enough what to do,” said the lieutenant: “my
father’s own neck was broken two years ago, coming home drunk one night
from Ballyspellen Spa, at the widow Maher’s house-warming: his horse
tumbled over at the Seven Sisters; but Dr. Jacob soon brought him to
again.—I recollect now all about it. Here, gentlemen, stir, give me your
_cravats_; you have no _handkerchiefs_ I suppose.”
They all obeyed the lieutenant, who immediately plunged the cravats into
the hot punch, and lapped one of them round the _dead man’s_ neck, then
another over that, and another still, and kept dropping the hot punch on
them, whereat the blood flowed freely. He then, putting his knees to the
dead man’s shoulder, gave his head two or three no very gentle lugs,
accompanying them in the manner of a view holloa, with “Ough! Hurra!
Hurra! By J—s he’s alive and kicking! Oh! you murdering thief of a
pothecary, get off, or I’ll cut your throat!”
The poor apothecary stood motionless at the window; for Palmer (whom, in
his paroxysm, he durst not go near) was between him and the door; but he
wished himself a hundred miles off. The lieutenant then put a spoonful
of the punch into Sam Doxy’s mouth, and down it went, to the surprise of
the turnpike-board. In a short time a glassful was patiently received
the same way. A groan and a heavy sigh now proved the fallibility of
Pothecary Knaggs; and the lieutenant’s superior treatment was extolled
by the whole board. The dead man at length opened one eye, then the
other; in about half an hour he could speak; and in the course of an
hour more the broken-necked Doxy was able to sit up. They then got some
mulled wine and spices for him, and he was quite recovered, with the
exception of a pain in his head and neck; but he could bear no motion,
so they fixed him in an upright position in an arm-chair, and Palmer
remained with him to perfect his miraculous cure. We dined in another
room.
Mr. Flood and myself called on Doxy next day, and brought him and
Lieutenant Palmer home to Roundwood; and poor Dr. Knaggs’ wanting to cut
off the head of Mr. Sam Doxy of the Derrys became a standing jest, with
a hundred embellishments, till both have been forgotten. I know not if
Knaggs is living. Sam Doxy was at last choked by the drumstick of a
turkey sticking in his throat whilst he was picking it.