MEDICINÆ DOCTOR.
Humphrey did not, like Benjamin, brag of the things he would do when
he should go forth to the world. Nevertheless, he thought much about
his future, and frequently he discoursed with me about the life that
he fain would lead. A young man, I think, wants someone with whom
he may speak freely concerning the thoughts which fill his soul. We
who belong to the sex which receives but does not create or invent,
which profits by man's good work, and suffers from the evil which he
too often does, have no such thoughts and ambitions.
'I cannot,' he would say, 'take upon me holy orders, as Mr. Boscorel
would have me, promising, in my cousin Robin's name, this living
after his death, because, though I am in truth a mere pauper and
dependent, there are in me none of those prickings of the spirit
which I could interpret into a Divine call for the ministry; next,
because I cannot in conscience swear to obey the Thirty-nine
Articles while I still hold that the Nonconformist way of worship
is more consonant with the Word of God. And, again, I am of opinion
that the Law of Moses, which forbade any but a well-formed man from
serving at the altar, hath in it something eternal. It denotes that
as no cripple may serve at the earthly altar, so in heaven, of which
the altar is an emblem, all those who dwell therein shall be perfect
in body as in soul. What, then, is such a one as myself, who hath
some learning and no fortune, to do? Sir Christopher, my benefactor,
will maintain me at Oxford until I have taken a degree. This is more
than I could have expected. Therefore, I am resolved to take a
degree in medicine. It is the only profession fit for a mis-shapen
creature. They will not laugh at me when I alleviate their pains.'
'Could anyone laugh at you, Humphrey?'
'Pray heaven, I frighten not the ladies at the first aspect of me.'
He laughed, but not with merriment; for, indeed, a cripple or a
hunchback cannot laugh mirthfully over his own misfortune. 'Some men
speak scornfully of the profession,' he went on. 'The great French
playwright, Monsieur Molière, doth make the physicians the butt and
laughing-stock of all Paris. Yet consider. It is medicine which
prolongs our days and relieves our pains. Before the science was
studied, the wretch who caught a fever in the marshy forest lay down
and died; an ague lasted all one's life; a sore throat putrefied
and killed; a rheumatism threw a man upon the bed, from which he
would never rise. The physician is man's chief friend. If our
Sovereigns studied the welfare of humanity as deeply as the art of
war, they would maintain, at vast expense, great colleges of learned
men continually engaged in discovering the secrets of nature--the
causes and the remedies of disease. What better use can a man make
of his life than to discover one--only one--secret which will drive
away part of the agony of disease? The Jews, more merciful than the
Romans, stupefied their criminals after they were crucified; they
died, indeed, but their sufferings were less. So the physician,
though in the end all men must die, may help them to die without
pain. Nay, I have even thought that we might devise means of causing
the patient by some potent drug to fall into so deep a sleep that
even the surgeon's knife shall not cause him to awaken.'
He, therefore, before he entered at Oxford, read with my father
many learned books of the ancients on the science and practice of
medicine, and studied botany with the help of such books as he could
procure.
Some men have but one side to them--that is to say, the only active
part of them is engaged in but one study; the rest is given up to
rest or indolence. Thus Benjamin studied law diligently, but nothing
else. Humphrey, for his part, read his Galen and his Celsus, but
he neglected not the cultivation of those arts and accomplishments
in which Mr. Boscorel was as ready a teacher as he was a ready
scholar. He thus learned the history of painting, and sculpture,
and architecture, and that of coins and medals, so that at eighteen
Humphrey might already have set up as a virtuoso.
Nor was this all. Still, by the help of the Rector, he learned the
use of the pencil and the brush, and could both draw prettily, or
paint in water colours, whether the cottages or the church, the
cows in the fields, or the woods and hills. I have many pictures
of his painting which he gave me from time to time. And he could
play sweetly, whether on the spinnet, or the violin, or the guitar,
spending many hours every week with Mr. Boscorel playing duettos
together; and willingly he would sing, having a rich and full
voice, very delightful to hear. When I grew a great girl, and had
advanced far enough, I was permitted to play with them. There was no
end to the music which Mr. Boscorel possessed. First, he had a great
store of English ditties such as country people love--as, 'Sing all
a green willow,' 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,' or 'Once I loved
a maiden fair.' There was nothing rough or rude in these songs,
though I am informed that much wickedness is taught by the ribald
songs that are sung in playhouses and coffee-rooms. And when we were
not playing or singing, Mr. Boscorel would read us poetry--portions
from Shakspeare or Ben Jonson, or out of Milton's 'Paradise Lost';
or from Herrick, who is surely the sweetest poet that ever lived,
'yet marred,' said Mr. Boscorel, 'by his coarseness and corruption.'
Now, one day, after we had been thus reading--one winter afternoon,
when the sun lay upon the meadows--Humphrey walked home with me,
and on the way confessed, with many blushes, that he, too, had been
writing verses. And with that he lugged a paper out of his pocket.
'They are for thine own eyes only,' he said. 'Truly, my dear, thou
hast the finest eyes in the world. They are for no other eyes than
thine,' he repeated. 'Not for Robin, mind, lest he laugh: poetry
hath in it something sacred, so that even the writer of bad verses
cannot bear to have them laughed at. When thou art a year or two
older thou wilt understand that they were written for thy heart as
well as for thine eyes. Yet, if thou like the verses, they may be
seen by Mr. Boscorel, but in private; and if he laugh at them do not
tell me. Yet, again, one would like to know what he said; wherefore,
tell me, though his words be like a knife in my side.'
Thus he wavered between wishing to show them to his master in art,
and fearing.
In the end, when I showed them to Mr. Boscorel, he said that, for a
beginner, they were very well--very well, indeed; that the rhymes
were correct, and the metre true; that years and practice would
give greater firmness, and that the crafty interlacing of thought
and passion, which was the characteristic of Italian verse, could
only be learned by much reading of the Italian poets. More he said,
speaking upon the slight subject of rhyme and poetry with as much
seriousness and earnestness as if he were weighing and comparing
texts of Scripture.
Then he gave me back the verses with a sigh.
'Child,' he said, 'to none of us is given what most we desire.
For my part, I longed in his infancy that my son should grow up
even as Humphrey, as quick to learn; with as true a taste; with as
correct an ear; with a hand as skilful. But----you see, I complain
not, though Benjamin loves the noisy tavern better than the quiet
coffee-house where the wits resort. To him such things as verses,
art, and music are foolishness. I say that I complain not; but I
would to Heaven that Humphrey were my own, and that his shoulders
were straight, poor lad! Thy father hath made him a Puritan: he
is such as John Milton in his youth--and as beautiful in face as
that stout Republican. I doubt not that we shall have from the hand
of Humphrey, if he live and prosper, something fine, the nature
of which, whether it is to be in painting, or in music, or in
poetry, I know not. Take the verses, and take care that thou lose
them not; and, child--remember--the poet is allowed to say what he
pleases about a woman's eyes. Be not deceived into thinking----But
no--no--there is no fear. Good-night, thou sweet and innocent saint.'
I knew not then what he meant; but these are the verses, and I truly
think that they are very moving and religious. For if woman be truly
the most beautiful work of the Creator (which all men aver), then it
behoves her all the more still to point upwards. I read them with
a pleasure and surprise that filled my whole soul, and inflamed my
heart with pious joy:--
Around, above, and everywhere
The earth hath many a lovely thing;
The zephyrs soft, the flowers fair,
The babbling brook, the bubbling spring.
The grey of dawn, the azure sky,
The sunset glow, the evening gloom;
The warbling thrush, the skylark high,
The blossoming hedge, the garden's bloom.
The sun in state, the moon in pride,
The twinkling stars in order laid;
The winds that ever race and ride,
The shadows flying o'er the glade.
Oh! many a lovely thing hath earth,
To charm the eye and witch the soul;
Yet one there is of passing worth--
For that one thing I give the whole.
The crowning work, the last thing made,
Creation's masterpiece to be--
Bend o'er yon stream, and, there displayed,
This wondrous thing reflected see.
Behold a face for heaven designed;
See how those eyes thy soul betray--
Love--secret love--there sits enshrined,
And upwards still doth point the way.
When Humphrey went away, he did not, like Benjamin, come blustering
and declaring that he would marry me, and that he would break the
skull of any other man who dared make love to me--not at all;
Humphrey, with tears in his eyes, told me that he was sorry I could
not go to Oxford as well; that he was going to lose the sweetest
companion in the world; and that he should always love me; and
then he kissed me on the forehead, and so departed. Why should
he not always love me? I knew very well that he loved me, and
that I loved him. Although he was so young, being only seventeen
when he was entered at Exeter College, I suppose there never was
a young gentleman went to the University of Oxford with so many
accomplishments, and so much learning. By my father's testimony
he read Greek as if it were his mother tongue, and he wrote and
conversed easily in Latin: and you have heard what arts and
accomplishments he added to this solid learning. He was elected to a
scholarship at his college, that of Exeter, and, after he took his
degree as Bachelor of Medicine, he was made a Fellow of All Souls,
where Mr. Boscorel himself had also been a Fellow. This election was
not only a great distinction for him, but it gave him what a learned
young man especially desires--the means of living and of pursuing
his studies.
While he was at Oxford he wrote letters to Sir Christopher, to Mr.
Boscorel, and to my father (to whom also he sent such new books and
pamphlets as he thought would interest him). To me he sent sometimes
drawings and sometimes books, but never verses.
Now (to make an end of Humphrey for the present), when he had
obtained his fellowship, he asked for and obtained leave of absence
and permission to study medicine in those great schools which far
surpass, they say, our English schools of medicine. These are that
of Montpellier; the yet more famous school of Padua, in Italy; and
that of Leyden, whither many Englishmen have resorted for study,
notably Mr. Evelyn, whose book called 'Sylva' was in the Rector's
library.
He carried on during the whole of this time a correspondence with
Mr. Boscorel on the paintings, statues, and architecture to be seen
wherever his travels carried him. These letters Mr. Boscorel read
aloud, with a map spread before him, discoursing on the history of
the place and the chief things to be seen there, before he began to
read. Surely there never was a man so much taken up with the fine
arts, especially as they were practised by the ancients.
There remains the last of the boys--Robin, Sir Christopher's
grandson and heir. I should like this book to be all about
Robin--yet one must needs speak of the others. I declare, that
from the beginning, there never was a boy more happy, more jolly;
never anyone more willing to be always making someone happy. He
loved the open air, the wild creatures, the trees, the birds,
everything that lives beneath the sky; yet not--like my poor brother
Barnaby--a hater of books. He read all the books which told about
creatures, or hunting, or country life; and all voyages and travels.
A fresh-coloured, wholesome lad, not so grave as Humphrey, nor so
rustic as Barnaby, who always seemed to carry with him the scent of
woods and fields. He was to Sir Christopher, what Benjamin was to
Jacob. Even my father loved him though he was so poor a scholar.
Those who stay at home have homely wits; that is well known:
therefore Robin must follow Humphrey to Oxford. He went thither
the year after his cousin. I never learned that he obtained a
scholarship, or that he was considered one of the younger pillars
of that learned and ancient University; or, indeed, that he took a
degree at all.
After he left Oxford he must go to London, there to study Justice's
Law and fit himself for the duties he would have to fulfil. Also his
grandfather would have him acquire some knowledge of the Court and
the City, and the ways of the great and the rich. This, too, he did;
though he never learned to prefer those ways to the simple customs
and habits of his Somerset village.
He, too, like the other two, bade me a tender farewell.
'Poor Alice!' he said, taking both my hands in his, 'what wilt thou
do when I am gone?'
Indeed, since Humphrey went away, we had been daily companions; and
at the thought of being thus left alone the tears were running down
my cheeks.
'Why, Sweetheart,' he said, 'to think that I should ever make thee
cry--I who desire nothing but to make thee always laugh and be
happy! What wilt thou do? Go often to my mother. She loves thee as
if thou wert her own daughter. Go and talk to her concerning me. It
pleaseth the poor soul to be still talking of her son. And forget
not my grandfather; play backgammon with him; fill his pipe for him;
sing to the spinnet for him; talk to him about Humphrey and me. And
forget not Mr. Boscorel, my uncle. The poor man looks as melancholy
since Humphrey went away as a turtle robbed of her nest. I saw him
yesterday opening one of his drawers full of medals, and he sighed
over them fit to break his heart. He sighed for Humphrey, not for
Ben. Well, child, what more? Take Lance'--'twas his dog--'for a
run every day; make George Sparrow keep an eye upon the stream for
otters; and--there are a thousand things, but I will write them
down. Have patience with the dear old man when he will be still
talking about me.'
'Patience, Robin,' I said. 'Why, we all love to talk about thee.'
'Do you all love to talk about me? Dost thou, too, Alice? Oh, my
dear, my dear!' Here he took me in his arms and kissed me on the
lips. 'Dost thou also love to talk about me? Why, my dear, I shall
think of nothing but of thee. Because--oh, my dear!--I love thee
with all my heart.'
Well, I was still so foolish that I understood nothing more than
that we all loved him, and he loved us all.
'Alice, I will write letters to thee. I will put them in the packet
for my mother. Thus thou wilt understand that I am always thinking
of thee.'
He was as good as his word. But the letters were so full of the
things he was doing and seeing, that it was quite clear that his
mind had plenty of room for more than one object. To be sure, I
should have been foolish, indeed, had I desired that his letters
should tell me that he was always thinking about me, when he should
have been attending to his business.
After a year in London, his grandfather thought that he should
travel. Therefore, he went abroad and joined Humphrey at
Montpellier, and with him rode northwards to Leyden, where he
sojourned while his cousin attended the lectures of that famous
school.