of Red Lion Square. He had originally established himself at York,
where he was born, but being much attached to theatrical amusements, and
a man of wit, he had written a dramatic piece, entitled 'The Mercantile
Lovers: a Satire.' It contained a number of highly caustic remarks,
either so directly levelled at certain persons of that city, or taken by
them to themselves, that he lost all professional practice, and had to
leave York, when he came to London, and, as already mentioned, commenced
lectures on the Theory and Practice of Physic. He published various
medical works, and died in 1802.
In the reign of James I. lived Dr. Edward Jorden, whom we mention on
account of two curious circumstances in his life. The doctor, being on
a journey, benighted on Salisbury Plain, and not knowing which way to
ride, met a shepherd of whom he made inquiry what places were near where
he could pass the night. He was told there was no house of entertainment
for travellers near, but that a gentleman of the name of Jordan, and a
man of great estate, lived close by. Looking on the similarity of the
names as a good omen, Jorden applied at the house, where he was kindly
received, and made so good an impression on his host that the latter
bestowed on him his daughter with a considerable fortune.
The second circumstance was this: James, as is well known, was a firm
believer in witchcraft. Now, it happened that a girl in the country was
said to have been bewitched by a neighbour. The King had her sent for,
and placed under the care of Dr. Jorden, who very soon discovered the
girl to be a cheat; in fact, she confessed as much, saying that her
father, having had a quarrel with a female neighbour, had induced her
(his daughter) to accuse the woman of having bewitched her and brought
upon her the fits she simulated. This confession Jorden reported to the
King, the doctor not being courtier enough to see what James wanted,
namely, a witch to burn. But as the girl had for a short time given him
the prospect of such a treat, the King, though she by her own confession
was a diabolical liar--for everyone in those days knew that the charge
of witchcraft involved the risk of losing life by a fiery death--James
actually gave her a portion, and she was married, 'and,' as the account
naively observes, 'thus was cured of her inimical witchery.'
Of Dr. Francis J. P. de Valangin (b. 1719, d. 1805), of the College of
Physicians, London, though a native of Switzerland, it was said that to
his patients he was kind and consolatory in the extreme--nothing of the
rough element in him; he was, as the obituary notice of him says, the
friend of mankind and an honour to his profession. About the year 1772
de Valangin purchased ground in Pentonville, near White Conduit House,
where he erected a residence on a plan laid down by himself; and as the
design was not that of ordinary builders or architects it was called
fanciful, chiefly because of a high brick tower rising from it, which
the doctor built for an observatory. Of course the next tenant, a
timber merchant, had nothing more pressing to do than immediately to
pull down the features which distinguished the building from the dulness
of orthodox architecture. Valangin had christened the elevation on
which his house stood 'Hermes Hill,' after Hermes Trismegistus, the
fabled discoverer of the chemist's art.
Dr. Anthony Askew, one of the celebrities of St. Bartholomew's in the
last half of the last century, was as famous in literature as he was in
medicine. He had a collection of Greek MSS., purchased at great expense
in the East, more numerous and more valuable than that of any other
private gentleman in England. His house in Queen Square was, moreover,
crammed with printed books; the sale of his library in 1775, which
lasted twenty days, was the great literary auction of the time.
Another famous physician of St. Bartholomew's was Dr. David Pitcairn,
who died in 1809. He also was distinguished as a literary man and lover
of art. His earnings were very large, for he was frequently requested
by his brethren for his advice in difficult cases. His manners as a
physician were simple, gentle, and dignified, and always sufficiently
cheerful to inspire confidence and hope. It is said that he was
occasionally affected in his speech; thus he is reported to have asked a
lady for a pinch of snuff in the following terms: 'Madam, permit me to
immerse the summits of my digits in your pulveriferous utensil, to
excite a grateful titillation of my olfactory nerves.'
Of Dr. John Radcliffe, the physician of the reigns of William III. and
Queen Anne, many strange anecdotes are told, for he was a man of rough
Abernethy manners, even with kings. When called in to see King William
at Kensington, finding his legs dropsically swollen, he said: 'I would
not have your two legs, your Majesty, not for your three kingdoms.' The
remark gave great offence. But on another occasion he was even more
brusque. 'Your juices,' he said to the King, 'are all vitiated, your
whole mass of blood corrupted, and the nutriment mostly turned to water.
If your Majesty will forbear making long visits to the Earl of Bradford'
(where the King was wont to drink very hard), 'I'll engage to make you
live three or four years longer, but beyond that time no physic can
protract your Majesty's existence.' On one occasion, when he was sent
for from the tavern, to which he resorted but too often, by Queen Anne,
he flatly refused to leave his bottle. 'Tell her Majesty,' he bellowed,
'that it's nothing but the vapours.' He advised a hypochondriacal lady,
who complained of nervous singing in the head, to 'curl her hair with a
ballad.' He cured a gentleman of a quinsy by making his own two
servants eat a hasty-pudding for a wager, which caused the patient to
break out into such a fit of laughter as to burst the quinsy. Sir
Godfrey Kneller and Radcliffe were at one time neighbours in Bow Street,
Covent Garden, and the painter having beautiful pleasure-grounds, a door
was opened for the accommodation of his neighbour. But in consequence
of damage done to his flower-beds, Sir Godfrey threatened to close the
door, to which Radcliffe replied, he might do anything with it but paint
it. 'Did Dr. Radcliffe say so?' cried Sir Godfrey. 'Go and tell him,
with my compliments, that I can take anything from him but his physic.'
In spite of his cynicism and rudeness, he made a very large income, on
the average twenty guineas a day, and when he was told that the L5,000
he had invested in South Sea stock was lost, he could with placid
sangfroid say: 'Well, it is only going up another 5,000 stairs.' But
though he so heavily taxed his patients, he was very much opposed to
paying his debts, especially such as he owed to tradespeople. A pavior,
whom he had employed and constantly put off paying, at last waited for
him at his (the doctor's) door, and, when his carriage drove up, roughly
asked for his money. 'Why, you rascal,' said the doctor, 'do you expect
to get paid for such a bad piece of work? You have spoiled my pavement,
and covered it with earth to hide your bad work!' 'Doctor,' replied the
pavior, 'mine is not the only bad work the earth hides.' 'You dog,
you!' cried the doctor, 'you must be a wit, and want the money. Come
in.' And he paid him. Curiously enough, the man who left the splendid
library, known by his name, to Oxford, at one time, on being asked where
his library was, pointed to a few phials, a skeleton, and a herbal, in
one corner of his apartment, and said, 'Sir, there is my library!' He
was a Tory in politics, and it was said that he kept Lady Holt alive out
of pure political animosity to the Whig Chief Justice Holt, because she
led her lord such a life.
Of a more genial disposition, though no less original character, was Dr.
John Cookley Lettsom. He was born in a small island near Tortola,
called Little Van Dyke, which belonged to his father. A view of it may
be seen in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, December Supplement, 1815. When
only six years of age he was sent to England for his education, being
entrusted to the care of a Mr. Fothergill, then a famous preacher among
the Quakers. His father dying before he came of age, that gentleman
became his guardian, and with a view to his future profession sent him
to Dr. Sutcliffe. For two years he attended St. Thomas's Hospital, and
then returned to his native place in the West Indies to take possession
of any property that might remain; but on his arrival he found himself
L500 worse than nothing, his elder brother, then dead, having run
through an ample fortune, leaving to his younger brother only a number
of negro slaves, whom he at once emancipated. He entered on the medical
profession, and in five months made the astonishing sum of L2,000, with
which he returned to Europe, visited the medical schools of Paris and
Edinburgh, took his degree of M.D. at Leyden in 1769, and was admitted a
licentiate of the College of Physicians of London in the same year. His
rise in his profession was rapid. In 1783 he earned L3,600; in 1784,
L3,900; in 1785, L4,015; in 1786, L4,500; and in some years his income
reached L12,000. But he was at the same time giving away hundreds--nay
thousands--in gratuitous advice, and the poorer order of the clergy and
struggling literary men received not only gratuitous advice, but
substantial aid. He was one of the original projectors and supporters
of the General Dispensary, of the Finsbury and Surrey Dispensaries, of
the Margate Sea-Bathing Infirmary, as well as of many other charitable
institutions. In 1779 he purchased some land on the east side of Grove
Hill, Camberwell, where he erected the villa which for years was
associated with his name, and where he entertained some of the most
eminent literati of his time. The house contained a library of near ten
thousand volumes, and a museum full of natural and artistic curiosities.
The grounds were most tastefully laid out and adorned with choice trees,
shrubs and flowers. The avenue of elms, still retaining the name of
Camberwell Grove, formed part of the small estate and the approach to
the house. It is sad to relate that Dr. Lettsom's excessive devotion to
science and literature impaired his resources, and compelled him
eventually to quit Grove Hill. He died in 1815, aged seventy-one years.
He being in the habit of signing his prescriptions 'J. Lettsom,' some
wag, putting forth the lines as the doctor's own composition, wrote
thus:
'When patients comes to I,
I physics, bleeds, and sweats 'em;
Then, if they choose to die,
What's that to I? I lets 'em.'
Everyone has heard, and has a story to tell, of Dr. John Abernethy (b.
1764, d. 1831), so we do not know whether in telling our stories of him
we shall be able to tell the reader anything new; but as he was a
medical eccentricity, we cannot omit him from our portrait gallery. But
let us premise that if we call him eccentric we refer to his manners
only, in which he did not take after his chief instructor, Sir Charles
Blick, who was a fashionable physician of the extra-courteous school.
In scientific knowledge Abernethy greatly excelled all his colleagues,
though he got less fame by that than by his oddities. When he had made
up his mind to marry he wrote off-hand to a lady a note of proposal,
saying that he was too busy to attend in person, but he would give her a
fortnight for consideration. His irritable temper at times rendered him
very disagreeable with patients and medical men who consulted him. When
the latter did so, he would walk up and down the room with his hands in
his pockets and whistle all the time, and end by telling the doctor to
go home and read his (Abernethy's) book. On being asked by a colleague
whether a certain plan he suggested would answer, the only reply he
could obtain was: 'Ay, ay, put a little salt on a bird's tail, and you
will be sure to catch him.' He could hardly be induced to give advice
in cases which appeared to depend on improper diet. A farmer of immense
bulk came from a distance to consult him, and having given an account of
his daily meals, which showed an immense amount of animal food,
Abernethy said: 'Go away, sir; I won't attempt to prescribe for such a
hog!' A loquacious lady he silenced by telling her to put out her
tongue; she having done so, 'Now keep it there till _I_ have done
talking,' said Abernethy. A lady having brought her daughter, he
refused to prescribe for her, but told the mother to let the girl take
exercise. Having received his guinea, he gave the shilling to the
mother and said: 'Buy the girl a skipping-rope as you go along.' When
the late Duke of York consulted him, he stood whistling with his hands
in his pockets, and the Duke said: 'I suppose you know who I am?'
'Suppose I do,' was the uncourtly reply, 'what of that?' To a gentleman
who consulted him for an ulcerated throat, and wanted him to look at it,
he said: 'How dare you suppose that I would allow you to blow your
stinking, foul breath in my face!' But sometimes he met a Tartar. A
gentleman who could not succeed in getting the doctor to listen to his
case, suddenly locked the door, put the key into his pocket, and took
out a loaded pistol. Abernethy, alarmed, asked if he meant to murder
him. No, he only wanted him to listen to his case, and meant to keep
him a prisoner till he did. The patient and the surgeon afterwards
became great friends. The Duke of Wellington having insisted on seeing
him out of his usual hours, and abruptly entering his room, was asked by
the doctor how he got in. 'By that door,' was the reply. 'Then,' said
Abernethy,' I recommend you to make your exit by the same way.' He
refused to attend George IV. until he had delivered his lecture at the
hospital, in consequence of which he lost a royal appointment. To a
lady who complained that on holding her arm over her head she felt pain,
he said: 'Then what a fool you must be to hold it up!' He was fond of
calling people fools. A countess consulted him, and he offered her some
pills, when she said she could never take a pill. 'Not take a pill!
What a fool you must be!' was the courteous reply.
Abernethy usually cut patients short by saying: 'I have heard enough.
You have heard of my book?' 'Yes.' 'Then go home and read it.' This
book gives admirable rules for dieting and general living, though few
persons would be willing to comply with them rigidly; he himself did
not. When someone told him that he seemed to live like most other
people, he replied: 'Yes, but then I have such a devil of an appetite!'
One day a lawyer suffering from dyspepsia, brought on by want of
exercise and good living, went to consult Abernethy. As he came out of
the consulting-room he met another lawyer, a friend of his. 'What the
devil brought you here?' said one, and the other echoed the question,
and the reply of each was the same. 'What has he prescribed for you?'
asked the newcomer. The prescription was produced and read as follows:
'Read my book, p. 72. J. Abernethy.' The first lawyer agreed to wait
for his friend whilst he went to consult the doctor. In about a quarter
of an hour he came out, well pleased apparently with his interview.
'Well, what is your prescription?' inquired lawyer number one. Number
two produced a slip of paper, on which was written: 'Read my book, p.
72. J. Abernethy.' That was what each got for his guinea. But Abernethy
deserves praise for three utterances, viz., that mind is a miraculous
energy added to matter, and not the result of certain modes of
organization, as modern scientists maintain; that an operation is a
reproach to surgery, and that a patient should be cured without recourse
to it; and that vivisection experiments are morally wrong and
physiologically unsafe, because unreliable.
That Dr. Abernethy, with his uncouth manners and vulgar repartee, should
have been so successful in his profession is a marvel; certainly few
people of the present day would tolerate such rudeness as his. Possibly
in former days the doctor's distinctive dress had a secret influence of
its own. The gold-headed cane, the elaborate shirt-frill, the massive
snuff-box, tapped so argumentatively in consultation, the pompous manner
and overbearing assurance, no doubt exercised a spell with which we are
unacquainted now.
Abernethy had imitators, but they had been pupils of his. Tommy
Wormald, or 'Old Tommy,' as the students called him, was Abernethy over
again in voice, style, appearance and humour. To an insurance company
he reported on a bad life proposed to them: 'Done for.' When an
apothecary wanted to put him off with a single guinea at a consultation
on a rich man's case, he said: 'A guinea is a lean fee, and the patient
is a fat patient. I always have fat fees from fat patients. Pay me two
guineas instantly; our patient is a fat patient.' Some rich but mean
people would drive to St. Bartholomew's to get advice gratis as
out-patients. To this Tommy meant to put a stop. Seeing a lady dressed
in silk, he thus addressed her before a roomful of people: 'Madam, this
charity is for the poor, destitute invalids; I refuse to pay attention
to destitute invalids who wear rich silk dresses.' The lady quickly
disappeared. Will no Old Tommy arise at the present day and put an end
to the abuse, which is as rampant as ever?
Doctors are not agreed as to what constitutes medical science. By an
empiric a quack is meant. Now, an empiric goes by observation only,
without rational grounds; yet Sir Charles Bell asserted that physiology
was a science of observation rather than of experiment, which is the
rational ground the quack is said to disregard. Who is right? Without
attempting to answer the question, which would lead us too far, we must
rest satisfied with the fact that the profession and the public have
agreed to stigmatize certain individuals as quacks who, with or without
any medical training, pretend to cure diseases by charms, manipulations,
or nostrums, which have no scientific or rational basis. Quacks have
existed at all times, for mankind, especially suffering mankind, has
ever been credulous. Henry VIII. endeavoured to put down those of his
own times by establishing censors in physic, but the public would not be
enlightened, and so the quacks flourished. In 1387 one Roger Clerk, of
Wandsworth, pretending to be a physician, got twelve pence in part
payment from one Roger atte Haccke, in Ironmonger Lane, for undertaking
the cure of his wife, who was ill. He put a charm, consisting of a
piece of parchment, round her neck, but it did her no good, whereupon
Roger brought him before the chamber at Guildhall for his deceit and
falsehood, and Roger Clerk was sentenced to be led through the middle of
the city with trumpets and pipes, he riding on a horse without a saddle,
the said parchment and a whetstone[#] for his lies being hung about his
neck, a urinal also being hung before him, and another on his back. In
the reign of Edward VI. one Grig, a poulterer in Surrey, was set in the
pillory at Croydon, and again in the Borough, for cheating people out of
their money by pretending to cure them by charms or by only looking at
the patient.
[#] Early in English history we find the whetstone as the symbol of a
liar. Why? Does lying imply a sharpened wit, as a whetstone sharpens a
blade? The custom is referred to in 'Hudibras,' II., i. 57-60.
Was Valentine Greatrakes, whom Charles II. invited to his Court, a
quack? If he was, he was a harmless one, since he gave no physic, but
only pretended to cure by magnetic stroking. Our modern magnetizers are
not so modest; they have added much hocus-pocus to Valentine's simple
process.
From among the medical oddities of the latter part of the last century
we must not omit Dr. Von Butchell, who lived in Mount Street, and
pretended to cure every disease. He applied for the post of dentist to
George III., but when the King's consent was obtained he said he did not
care for the custom of royalty. When his wife died, he had her embalmed
and kept in his parlour, where he allowed his patients to see the body;
so that the modern showman who exhibited the dead body of his wife at
Olympia was, after all, only a copyist. But whilst the doctor was
half-mad, the world was altogether mad; for his exhibiting the corpse of
his wife was not considered as eccentric as his letting his beard grow,
which then was held to be the height of madness. And there seems to
have been method in _his_ madness, for he sold the hairs out of his
beard at a guinea each to ladies who wished to have fine children. He
used to ride about the West End on a pony painted with spots by the
doctor himself. There is an engraving extant of him, showing him
astride on it. The horse was afterwards, in consequence of a dispute
with the stable-keeper who had charge of it, sold at Tattersall's,
where, as a curiosity, it fetched a good price. There was a wonderful
inscription on the outside of his house, extending over the front of the
next, and his neighbour rebuilding his frontage, half the inscription
was obliterated. Butchell was also a great advertiser, and his
advertisements even now afford amusing reading. He never would visit a
patient, though as much as L500 was offered him for a visit--patients
had to go to his house. 'I go to none,' he said in his advertisements.
Many persons used to visit him, not for getting advice, but simply to
converse with such an original. He was twice married. His first wife
he dressed in black, and his second in white, never allowing a change of
colour. He was one of the earliest teetotalers. The profits he and some
of his contemporaries made on their quack draughts and pills led, in
1788, to the imposition of the tax on 'patent medicines.'
But to come down to more recent times, in 1700 one John Pechey, living
at the Angel and Crown, in Basing Lane, an Oxford graduate and member of
the College of Physicians, London, advertised that all sick people might
for sixpence have a faithful account of their diseases and plain
directions for their cure, and that he was prepared to visit any sick
person in London for 2s. 6d.; and that if he were called by any person
as he passed by, he would require but one shilling for his advice. A
physician who in our day advertised like this would be deprived of his
diploma. In 1734 one Joshua Ward became a celebrity even among quacks
by his pills, which he extensively advertised, and which were patronized
by the Queen herself. There was a rhyming quack, Dr. Hill, who also
wrote a farce, and wanted Garrick to produce it, till the latter
published the following distich on him:
'For farces and physic his equal there scarce is,
His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.'
A Dr. Hannes, a contemporary of Dr. Radcliffe, ordered his servant to
stop a number of coaches between Whitehall and the Royal Exchange, and
to inquire at each whether it belonged to Dr. Hannes, as he was called
to a patient. Entering Garraway's Coffee-House, the servant put the
same question. Dr. Radcliffe happening to be there, he asked who wanted
Dr. Hannes. The servant named several lords who all wanted him. 'No,
no, friend,' said Radcliffe; 'Dr. Hannes wants the lords.'