The next morning Mr. Morgan came before I had finished breakfast. He was
the most dapper little man I ever met. I see the affection with which
people cling to the style of dress that was in vogue when they were
beaux and belles, and received the most admiration. They are unwilling
to believe that their youth and beauty are gone, and think that the
prevailing mode is unbecoming. Mr. Morgan will inveigh by the hour
together against frock-coats, for instance, and whiskers. He keeps his
chin close shaven, wears a black dress-coat, and dark grey pantaloons;
and in his morning round to his town patients, he invariably wears the
brightest and blackest of Hessian boots, with dangling silk tassels on
each side. When he goes home, about ten o’clock, to prepare for his ride
to see his country patients, he puts on the most dandy top-boots I ever
saw, which he gets from some wonderful bootmaker a hundred miles off.
His appearance is what one calls “jemmy”; there is no other word that
will do for it. He was evidently a little discomfited when he saw me
in my breakfast costume, with the habits which I brought with me from
the fellows at Guy’s; my feet against the fire-place, my chair balanced
on its hind-legs (a habit of sitting which I afterwards discovered he
particularly abhorred); slippers on my feet (which, also, he considered
a most ungentlemanly piece of untidiness “out of a bedroom”); in short,
from what I afterwards learned, every prejudice he had was outraged by
my appearance on this first visit of his. I put my book down, and sprang
up to receive him. He stood, hat and cane in hand.
“I came to inquire if it would be convenient for you to accompany me on
my morning’s round, and to be introduced to a few of our friends.” I
quite detected the little tone of coldness, induced by his disappointment
at my appearance, though he never imagined that it was in any way
perceptible. “I will be ready directly, sir,” said I, and bolted into my
bedroom, only too happy to escape his scrutinising eye.
When I returned, I was made aware, by sundry indescribable little coughs
and hesitating noises, that my dress did not satisfy him. I stood ready,
hat and gloves in hand; but still he did not offer to set off on our
round. I grew very red and hot. At length he said:
“Excuse me, my dear young friend, but may I ask if you have no other
coat besides that—‘cut-away,’ I believe you call them? We are rather
sticklers for propriety, I believe, in Duncombe; and much depends on a
first impression. Let it be professional, my dear sir. Black is the garb
of our profession. Forgive my speaking so plainly; but I consider myself
_in loco parentis_.”
He was so kind, so bland, and, in truth, so friendly that I felt it would
be most childish to take offence; but I had a little resentment in my
heart at this way of being treated. However, I mumbled, “Oh, certainly,
sir, if you wish it,” and returned once more to change my coat—my poor
cut-away.
“Those coats, sir, give a man rather too much of a sporting appearance,
not quite befitting the learned profession; more as if you came down here
to hunt than to be the Galen or Hippocrates of the neighbourhood.” He
smiled graciously, so I smothered a sigh; for, to tell you the truth, I
had rather anticipated—and, in fact, had boasted at Guy’s of—the runs
I hoped to have with the hounds; for Duncombe was in a famous hunting
district. But all these ideas were quite dispersed when Mr. Morgan
led me to the inn-yard, where there was a horse-dealer on his way to
a neighbouring fair, and “strongly advised me”—which in our relative
circumstances was equivalent to an injunction—to purchase a little,
useful, fast-trotting, brown cob, instead of a fine showy horse, “who
would take any fence I put him to,” as the horse-dealer assured me. Mr.
Morgan was evidently pleased when I bowed to his decision, and gave up
all hopes of an occasional hunt.
* * * * *
“My dear young friend, there are one or two hints I should like to give
you about your manner. The great Sir Everard Home used to say, ‘A general
practitioner should either have a very good manner, or a very bad one.’
Now, in the latter case, he must be possessed of talents and acquirements
sufficient to ensure his being sought after, whatever his manner might
be. But the rudeness will give notoriety to these qualifications.
Abernethy is a case in point. I rather, myself, question the taste
of bad manners. I, therefore, have studied to acquire an attentive,
anxious politeness, which combines ease and grace with a tender regard
and interest. I am not aware whether I have succeeded (few men do)
in coming up to my ideal; but I recommend you to strive after this
manner, peculiarly befitting our profession. Identify yourself with your
patients, my dear sir. You have sympathy in your good heart, I am sure,
to really feel pain when listening to their account of their sufferings,
and it soothes them to see the expression of this feeling in your manner.
It is, in fact, sir, manners that make the man in our profession. I don’t
set myself up as an example—far from it; but—— This is Mr. Huttons, our
vicar; one of the servants is indisposed, and I shall be glad of the
opportunity of introducing you. We can resume our conversation at another
time.”
I had not been aware that we had been holding a conversation, in which, I
believe, the assistance of two persons is required.