There is a wonderful inclination to practical paradox in the human mind.
If a man be dull, the world charitably sets him down as sound. If he be
clever, the world, with equal charity, sets him down as unscrupulous. If
a man be courteous, he is instantly condemned as designing; if brutal,
lauded as straightforward.
But if this natural impulse to moral compensation be the general bias of
the human intellect, it assumes twofold force in the special case of
medical men. Perhaps with such men personal characteristics are more
prominently displayed; perhaps the confidence of the patient reposing in
the individuality of his advisers gives a factitious importance to minor
peculiarities.
Be it how it may, you have never yet seen an Asclepiad whose manners
were not, in some respect, different from those of his fellow-creatures.
Great or small, clever or stupid, he has managed to inspire confidence,
or to impose successfully on some circle of patients, however
contracted.
Amongst these he is an authority. His individual influence is so great,
that but little trust is reposed in his art when practised by another.
If in large practice, his patients consider him deserving of it; if in
small practice, they esteem him an ill-used man. He is their guide and
their friend as well as their philosopher; godfather to their children,
trustee to their settlements, legatee to their wills. He is present at
their _births_ and deaths, generally at their weddings. He knows their
pecuniary difficulties, their family quarrels; the husband’s distrust,
or the wife’s jealousy; the son’s folly, and the daughter’s infatuation.
He can go down the street and schedule out each house as to its specific
non-observance of the decalogue. He can tell you who steals, who commits
murder, or who commits any other sin of the first magnitude.
There are thousands of little secrets confided to the diary of a
physician; thousands of fees to his pocket, for little occurrences
which, like the fees, go no further than himself.
By the highest he is treated almost as an equal; by the wisest he is
respected as a man of science and of power. If not profoundly versed in
our constitution, he knows us in our moments of weakness, and that
knowledge alone makes him the master of most of us.
But before we admit him to this position, we minutely examine his
qualities, or accept the judgment of them passed by the universal
suffrage of mortal men.
Science of anatomy is sufficient for the surgeon; but science of the
world is the best passport for the medical man.
We require him to cure our bodies—most doctors can do that.
But we occasionally require from him medicaments for our minds. This
requires the skill of a man of the world.
From such premises we conclude that perfection in art is not the
keystone of medical fame. The serpent was dedicated to Æsculapius, the
emblem of his foresight as well as of his craft. Nor would the symbol
misrepresent the physicians of Babylon.
Sir Erasistratus will be enabled to discover that Duke Antiochus is
fearfully in love with Countess Stratonice. Sir Paulus will gain favour
with the patrons of art by the number of statues decorating his
country-place at Ægina. Sir Democritus exposes somnambulism, mesmerism,
homœopathy, and spirit-rapping. Dr Andrew Machaon displays
administrative qualities in the army medical department; while Sir
Podalirius, K.C.B., after exhibiting geniality at the mess-table and
intrepidity in the field, marries the daughter of King Damætas, and sets
up in Grosvenor Square. Dr Chrysippus, who has not yet attained the
purple, manages to oppose the dogmatists, and to soar into practice by
his agreeable conversation and sparkling jests. Heraclitus is the
man-hater, declines to visit sovereigns, and frightens poor women into
new diseases by a savage laugh and peremptory brutality. Sir Oribasius,
who ushers young peers into the world, endears himself to the mothers by
affectionate epithets and profuse gossip; and Sir Sextus Empiricus
drives a flourishing trade and a chariot by periodic journeys to the
equator, and the administration of stimulants to statesmen. All have
some quality independent of their art. Few rely on their craft, and
their craft alone, for practice or popularity, competency or knighthood.
Writers require an _ars celare artem_; physicians an art to thrust their
skill into prominence. In France this is considered charlatanerie; in
England it is styled humbug. Yet what great man is, consciously or
unconsciously, free from this vice?
Has Bumcombe no place in our social, political, scientific, or
ecclesiastical system?
Some few have tried the narrow, narrow path. They labour in their youth,
they labour in their manhood. “They live forgotten—they die forlorn.” An
hospital is the scene of their triumphs, a parish-rate forms their
emolument. The parson and the overseer compose their society, and the
blessings of the poor their fame.
Yet there are first-rate men amidst the great physicians of Babylon.
Heaven bless them! How would the young Babylonians be born without them,
or how could the Babylonian ladies take their strong waters innocuously?
But Dr Leadbitter was an exception to every rule.
He was devoted to the science of medicine. It absorbed his whole mind;
and, indeed, together with dinners and the price-list, formed the staple
of his conversation.
He lived near an hospital; and spent a useful life, pleasantly to
himself, in constant attention to revolting diseases.
The hospital had been endowed chiefly from his own purse—an expenditure
owning a double origin in his charity and his love of science.
Hitherto he had never been permitted to sate himself sufficiently in the
least agreeable works of his profession. His universal popularity had
induced his colleagues in other hospitals to take from him this portion
of his duties. To Dr Leadbitter this indulgence was purgatory. The
dirtier the patient, the more complicated his disorder, the more
grateful was the treatment to this worthy man. Pity and love of science
formed a curious combination in his phrenology. His professional skill,
therefore, had reached a height where envy had ceased to criticise or
malice to detract. Yet, unknowingly to himself, he possessed other than
technical qualities; and these caused him to be sought after by those
whose search is considered honourable.
In his career Leadbitter had studied deeply and variously. In his ideas
every knowledge tended to enhance the value of his heart.
So intimate is the connection of our moral and physical structure, that
to the eye of the accomplished physician few disorders of our frame can
be disconnected from some indirect and intellectual cause. As mental
emotions form the features of manhood, so is the innermost thought of
man betrayed by some external indication.
Those best practised to command expression can ill disguise their
feelings from the true physiologist. The smile is forced that dissembles
anger, the gravity overcharged that suppresses mirth.
However perfect the acting, there are some, even among mortals, to whose
far-seeing eye acting can never compete with nature. Such a one was Dr
Leadbitter, fat, foolish, as he looked. In him intuitive perception was
refined by rare and delicate study. To know the diseases of a singer he
would hear her song, of an orator his speech. He would examine the
portrait of a statesman, and study his biography, then tell you his
organic disorders. Nor was his rare skill unknown or unappreciated. To
him would the singer and statesman repair, as a last resource, glad to
stand in his anteroom and vie with a pauper for an audience.
Yet Leadbitter, though astute, was simple. He made more by speculation
than by his profession.
His kindness of heart and his passion for disagreeable affections gave
to the pauper, in his eyes, a higher value than the statesman. He might
have been a baronet, but he had no wife to urge him thereunto. A
comfortable dinner was his sole vice, a few good cases his only desire.
He wore the traditional black clothes and white neckcloth, the capacious
watch in the capacious fob. He carried the rattan with the gold knob,
and, at times, even buckles in his shoes.
A little flower or sprig bedecked his upper button-hole. His walk was a
trot, and a smile ever on his lips.
Moreover, nothing could be more commonplace than his ordinary
conversation. A few truisms, parliamentary interjections, many technical
references. His action was as that of one feeling a pulse, and he was
always in a hurry to turn away and leave the room.
“Won’t you have a glass of wine, Mr Bromley?” asked the doctor,
hospitably.
“Thanks, I am going to dine later.”
“Commodeque, Erasistratus dixit, sæpe, interiore parte humorem non
requirente, os et fauces requirere.”
Dr Leadbitter lost no time in getting into the carriage.
The doctor overcame the gourmet, and, though at dinner, the voice of
duty and of friendship prevailed.
“My dear doctor,” said Bromley, “Miss Constance has fallen very ill. She
fell to the ground at Lady Ilminster’s breakfast. She was insensible all
the way home. I suppose they have put her to bed, for I drove off at
once for you.”
“Hear, hear!” responded the doctor.
“Now, doctor, between ourselves, I think Miss Constance has something on
her mind.”
“Hear, hear! Eros, I suppose. Soon cured.”
“Something more than that.”
“Nothing cryptogamic, I hope?”
“I have a moral certainty of the cause, but no legal evidence yet. If
you will accept my assurance without seeking any corroboration, I will
tell you my surmises—to me certainties—which, perhaps, may guide you in
your treatment.”
“HEAR, HEAR!”
“My impression is that Lady Coxe and Miss Constance Coxe are deeply in
debt to Madame Mélanie the dressmaker. They are afraid to own it to Sir
Jehoshaphat. Count Rabelais has got possession of the secret, and holds
it _in terrorem_ over Constance.
“He has conciliated the friendship and advocacy of Lady Coxe—perhaps by
the same means; and he has extorted from Constance a promise of
marriage. Now, what would you advise?
“The whole thing should be told to Sir Jehoshaphat. Yet, I think, he
would never forgive Lady Coxe, whatever treatment he might pursue
towards his daughter. I have known him from boyhood. His temperament is
bilious and nervous. About money matters, though more than liberal, he
is obdurate.”
“At any rate, it would be better avoided, for the present at least.”
“Hear, hear!”
“I should think the woman Mélanie might be frightened for having
inveigled a girl under age.”
“Hear, hear! But suppose Lady Coxe knew of her daughter’s debts?”
“But perhaps she does not. As soon as I can get my surmises into shape,
I will, with your permission, consult you.”
“Hear, hear! Come to me directly you have any news—day or night.
Meanwhile, I will pursue the soothing system—calming draughts. I shall
tell Lady Coxe at once that I know the whole story. That will keep her
quiet.”
By this time the carriage had again arrived in Grosvenor Square.
“How is Miss Constance?”
“Very bad, sir.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured the doctor, mournfully.
Constance was in a high fever. Bromley found a letter on his table. He
opened it. It was but a few lines.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,—The family is that of Sir J. Coxe, Bart., M.P., the
banker. Her ladyship owes about £2000; her daughter Constance about
£900. The rest of the news I hope to obtain in a day or two.—Yours
very sincerely,
“K. M.”
A paper fluttered forth and fell to the ground. Bromley picked it up. It
was folded, flimsy as a bank-note. He opened it. It was headed with the
image and superscription of Madame Mélanie. Below were items
representing a total of £27, 4s. 8d.