[Illustration: William Pitcairn, M.D. F.R.S. From a portrait, anno
1777, by Sir J. Reynolds.]
When the Radcliffe Library was opened at Oxford, which was done April
13th, 1749, with great solemnity, the degree of Doctor of Medicine was
conferred by diploma upon Dr. William Pitcairn; and the College of
Physicians hastened to adopt him, in the following year, into their
corporate body. He was descended from the family of Dr. Archibald
Pitcairn, celebrated as the founder of the mechanical sect of medicine,
who, having followed the fortunes of the exiled James, was, for a
short time, Professor of the Practice of Physic at the University of
Leyden. Boerhaave and Mead had been fellow pupils of this distinguished
man, and Dr. Wm. Pitcairn, into whose hands I now was delivered, had
studied under Boerhaave; afterwards he had travelled with the Duke of
Hamilton (to whose family he was related), though not in a medical
capacity. His brother, a Major in the army, had been killed at the
battle of Bunker’s Hill, and as there was not in the world a more
excellent or benevolent character than my present master, he adopted
his orphan children, and always acted towards them with the affection
and solicitude of a parent. He was a man of very agreeable manners, and
his society was much sought after.--Among the many occasions on which
I attended him to the houses of his professional brethren, I remember
once particularly, when in company with his nephew, then a very young
man (afterwards Dr. David Pitcairn), we called upon Dr. Richard Warren.
We were received with the greatest kindness and alacrity, the Doctor
showing my master that respectful attention which, without checking
the familiar tone of friendly intercourse, is due and agreeable to
superiors in age. During the lively and entertaining conversation
which ensued, Dr. Pitcairn, in introducing his nephew, expressed
himself in these words:--“Dr. Warren, my nephew, whom I present to
you, received his early education at Glasgow, but afterwards I took
him home, and kept him here in London, under my own eye for a short
time, endeavouring to give him some of my peculiar views of practice.
He is now just returned from Edinburgh, where he has been under the
tuition of my countryman, Dr. Cullen, whose clinical clerk he has
been for a twelvemonth. Surely you will think him a youth of promise
in his profession when I inform you, that in the case of the son of
that great master of physic, which the father thought desperate, he
took a hint from what he had learned in London, and advised a larger
dose of laudanum than is usually made use of, which restored the
child of his preceptor and friend. My _currus triumphalis opii_, as
some of my brethren have been pleased to call my practice, has thus
travelled northwards to my own country, and I rejoice that it has
reached the door of so amiable a man and excellent practitioner as
Dr. Cullen.” So strong a recommendation was not without its effect,
and the expressions of friendship with which Dr. Warren received the
young student of physic were afterwards amply fulfilled by the real
assistance and countenance which he gave him in the commencement of
his professional career. On our return from Sackville Street, where Dr.
Warren lived, to our own residence, in Warwick Court, Warwick Lane,
when I had been carefully replaced in the carriage--“David,” said my
master to his nephew, “the Physician whose house we have left is a
remarkable man, and well worthy your observation. He has risen rapidly
to the top of his profession, and his abilities justify his success.
You must have remarked the liveliness, distinctness, and accuracy
of his mind, and the felicity of expression with which he explains
himself, exhibiting at once a clearness of comprehension and a depth
of knowledge that are very rarely to be met with. He has certainly had
some considerable advantages in the beginning of his professional life,
was early admitted into the best society, and is the intimate friend of
the minister, Lord North, who is confessedly the most agreeable man of
our day. You see how kindly he has received you; and as I hope, nay,
fully expect, that you will become intimately acquainted with him, I
think you will like to know all about him. His father was the Rev. Dr.
Richard Warren, Archdeacon of Suffolk and Rector of Cavendish, in the
same county; a divine of considerable eminence, and one of those who
entered into the controversy upon the Sacrament against Bishop Hoadley.
He was also editor of the Greek Commentary of Hierocles upon the golden
verses of Pythagoras. My friend, the Doctor, was the third son, and
was born at Cavendish, in December, 1731: he received the rudiments of
his education at the public school at Bury St. Edmunds, in Suffolk;
from whence in the year 1748, immediately upon his father’s death, he
removed to Jesus College, Cambridge. At this time he had little but his
industry and natural talents to support him, aided by the reputation
of being the son of a clergyman of ability. How far this served him,
however, in the beginning of life may be doubted, for the low church
party prevailed at that time in the University with such violence,
as not to dispose the persons then in authority to look with an eye
of kindness upon the son of an antagonist of Hoadley. In due time he
took the degree of A. B., and his name appears fourth in the list of
wranglers of that year. I am not much acquainted with the forms of
these English Universities, as I have never resided at either of them;
but I have been given to understand, that if fair justice had been done
my friend, he ought to have been placed even higher; it is certain,
however, that he obtained the prize granted to the middle Bachelors of
Arts for Latin prose composition, and the following year got the prize
for the senior Bachelors. Being already elected Fellow of his College,
the choice of a profession presented itself to his mind. To pursue
the steps of his father, who had been like himself a Fellow of Jesus
College, was perhaps the most obvious; but he had two elder brothers
already in the church, which indeed might be considered his family
profession, as his ancestors had followed it from the time of Queen
Elizabeth. His own inclination, as I have often heard him say, would
have led him to the law, but the _res angusta domi_ was an invincible
obstacle, and accident at length threw him upon the study of physic.
[Illustration: Dr. Richard Warren, from a portrait of him in the Dining
Room of the College.]
“Whether fortunately for himself, great as has been his early
success, and promising as his future prospects undoubtedly are, may
be questioned; for abilities like his would have led him to the head
of any other profession. At this critical moment the son of Dr. Peter
Shaw was entered at Jesus College, and placed under his tuition. The
name of this Physician must be known to you from his works, by his
editions of Bacon and Boyle, and from the fact of his having been one
of the Physicians of George the Second, and the usual medical attendant
upon that Monarch in his journeys to Hanover. The casual acquaintance
which my friend thus formed determined his lot in life; for Dr. Shaw,
who was a very amiable and high spirited man, and possessed of various
knowledge, was naturally pleased with similar qualities in a young man;
took an interest in his welfare, and in recommending him to pursue
the study of medicine, predicted that he would rank with the first
Physicians of his country. This connexion was some years afterwards
strengthened by a marriage with Dr. Shaw’s daughter; and much of the
early difficulty of medical life was consequently overcome by an
immediate introduction to the prominent Physicians of that day, and
to some of the upper circles in life, in which Dr. Shaw moved. Sir
Edward Wilmot, at that time a Physician to the Court, and much employed
among the nobility, was the attendant on the Princess Amelia, the
daughter of George the Second. Being advanced in life and looking to
retirement, he was led to propose Dr. Warren as an assistant to attend
to the more minute and arduous duties required by a royal patient,
who was besides subject to sudden seizures that created alarm. At the
commencement of his practice, Dr. Warren, during three summers, went
to Tunbridge Wells, and on two of these occasions Her Royal Highness
visited that watering-place under his care. On the retirement of Sir
Edward Wilmot, he continued Physician to the Princess, and one of the
rewards bestowed upon him was the appointment of Physician to the
King, which was procured for him by her influence, on the resignation
of his father-in-law, Dr. Shaw, who had been continued in that office
on the accession of George the Third. He was for a short time one of
the Physicians to the Middlesex Hospital, then in its infancy; and
afterwards, for several years, belonged to St. George’s Hospital.
“His progress has been more rapid than that of any other physician of
our time, and when you meet him in practice, which I hope you may often
do hereafter, you will discover in him a marked superiority over other
men.”
My master here paused for an instant, and taking me up from the
position in which I had been lying, raised me to the level of his eyes,
and looking attentively at my head, exclaimed, “This cane, which my
worthy friend, Dr. Askew, left to me about two years ago, once belonged
to Radcliffe, and might well have descended to Dr. Warren, for no one
more resembles that penetrating physician, and most extraordinary man,
in the accuracy of his prognosis, and the almost intuitive sagacity
with which he sees at a glance the true nature of a complaint. But I
recommend you to read his Harveian Oration, which I heard him deliver
seven years ago, where, notwithstanding the difficulty of introducing
any thing like novelty into the annual commemoration of the Benefactors
of the College, you will find that he has contrived to treat the
subject with the sprightliness, the force and brevity, the precision
of thought, and smartness of expression, that are peculiarly his own.
The characters are drawn without effort, the narration flows easily
and naturally, containing touches of tenderness and pathos when he
alludes to the death of his early friends, Wollaston and Hadley, and
rising even to eloquence when he comes to speak of his relative, Dr.
Shaw. But here,” continued he, as we entered the narrowest part of
Warwick Lane, “is the College of Physicians, where I heard the speech
delivered; we will alight, and send the carriage home. As I am now the
President, I will show you the interior of the building, point out and
explain to you some of its contents.” We stopped at some large iron
gates, and passed under the curiously constructed dome, built in an
oval form over the entrance, the plan of which was furnished by Sir
Christopher Wren. On the opposite side of the court, he pointed out,
over the door, in a niche, the statue of Charles II., voted in 1680,
with the following inscription, expressive of the various fortunes of
that monarch.
Utriusque Fortunæ Exemplar
Ingens Adversis Rebus Deum
Probavit Prosperis Seipsum
Collegii Hujusce Stator.
On entering the Hall, we turned to the right, and saw the Library,
consisting of two rooms communicating with each other, with galleries
running round them. “The College,” said my master, “was built and
used for public meetings, in the year 1674, but this Library was not
finished till eight or ten years after[43]. Unfortunately we have lost
our able Librarian, George Edwards, who died two years ago, at the
age of eighty. But here,” said Dr. Pitcairn, “is his work on Birds,
which he began about seven years after he was chosen Library Keeper,
to which office he was elected in 1733, through the influence of Sir
Hans Sloane, who continued through life his great patron. Edwards was
an extraordinary man; when young he had been intended for trade, but
having an opportunity to travel, he much improved himself; and when,
on his return from abroad, he was lucky enough to obtain the leisure
which his office here afforded him, he devoted himself to the study
of natural history, and became by great assiduity a distinguished
ornithologist. During thirty-six years he was Librarian to the College,
and in that period was chosen Fellow of the Royal and Antiquarian
Societies, and by the first of these learned bodies was rewarded with
the Copley medal; of which he was deservedly so proud, as to have
caused it to be engraved in the title-page of the first volume of his
work. Were he in my place, he would exhibit to you the treasures of our
Library, which, though imperfect as a collection of medical books (for
it consists chiefly of donations), is rich in rare classics, curious
manuscripts, and in very scarce and valuable Treatises on Civil Law.”
On returning to the Hall, we ascended a broad staircase, the sides of
which were hung with pictures, and on the first landing-place stopped,
to read the long inscription to the memory of Harvey. “This,” said my
master, “was voted by the College, in 1659, the year after the death
of this illustrious man. You see it is on copper, which proves that it
is a copy of the original epitaph, for that was on marble[44]. During
his lifetime a statue, ornamented with a cap and gown, on the pedestal
of which was another inscription, had been erected in the Hall of the
College, in Amen Corner; but this honorary tablet which we are now
looking at was placed in the Museum which bore his own name.” And this
difference of position is alluded to in the inscription itself, for
after enumerating the virtues, the discoveries, and more especially the
various claims Harvey has to the eternal gratitude of the College, it
concludes--
Ne mireris igitur Lector
Si quem Marmoreum _illic_ stare vides
_Hic_ totam implevit Tabulam.
Abi et merere alteram.
We now reached the great room, or Cænaculum, wainscoted by Hamey with
Spanish oak, at the expense of some hundred pounds, in the most elegant
manner, with pilasters and carved capitals; and here the President
explained to his nephew the pictures with which this and the adjoining
Censor’s Room were adorned. He particularly called his attention to the
portraits of Sir Theodore Mayerne, of Sydenham, of Harvey, and of the
deeply learned Physician and antiquary, Sir Thomas Browne, the author
of the Religio Medici. While gazing on that of Sir Edmund King--“To be
a court Physician now-a-days,” said my master, “does not involve quite
so much responsibility as formerly, for the Doctor whose likeness is
before us incurred considerable hazard, by saving for a time the life
of His Majesty Charles the Second. When the King was first seized with
his last illness, it was in his bedchamber, where he was surprised by
an apoplectic fit, so that, if by God’s providence Dr. King had not
been accidentally present to let him blood (having his lancet in his
pocket), His Majesty had certainly died that moment; which might have
been of direful consequence, there being nobody else present with
the King, save this Doctor and one more. It was considered a mark of
extraordinary dexterity, resolution, and presence of mind in the Doctor
to let him blood in the very paroxysm, without staying the coming
of other physicians, which regularly should have been done, and for
want of which it was at first thought that he would require a regular
pardon. The Privy Council, however, approved of what he had done, and
ordered him £1000--which, by the by, was never paid him.”
We next passed to the portrait of Vesalius, on board, by Calker. “This
famous anatomist,” continued the President, “was some time Physician
to the Emperor Charles the Fifth, but being disgusted with the manners
of a court, he made a voyage to the Holy Land; on his return thence to
fill the chair of Professor of Medicine at Padua, to which he had been
invited on the death of Fallopius, he was shipwrecked in 1564, in the
Isle of Zante, where he perished of hunger.”
Opposite the full length portrait of Sir Hans Sloane my master paused,
and told his nephew, that “Sir Hans, in the decline of his life, had
left London, and retired to his manor-house[45] at Chelsea, where he
resided about fourteen years before he died. Our Librarian, Edwards, of
whom we were talking a few minutes ago, was used to visit him every
week to divert him for an hour or two with the common news of the
town, and with any particulars that might have happened amongst his
acquaintances of the Royal Society, or other ingenious gentlemen, and
seldom missed drinking coffee with him on a Saturday. The old baronet
was so infirm, as to be wholly confined to his house, except sometimes,
though rarely, taking a little air in his garden in a wheeled chair;
and this confinement made him very desirous to see any of his old
acquaintance to amuse him. Knowing that the Librarian did not abound
in the gifts of fortune, he was strictly careful, Edwards used to say,
that he should be at no expense in his journeys from London to Chelsea;
and Sir Hans would calculate what the cost of coach hire, waterage, or
any other little charge attending on his journeys backward and forward
would amount to, and, observing as much delicacy as possible, would
oblige him annually to accept of it. In this quiet and inoffensive life
did he continue exercising the most charitable disposition towards
decayed branches of families of eminent men, famous for their learned
works, till January, 1753, when he died, with great firmness of mind,
and resignation to the will of God. Thirty years before this event,
he had presented to the Apothecaries’ Company his botanical garden at
Chelsea, upon the following conditions, viz. the payment of £5 per
annum, and the yearly offering of fifty plants to the Royal Society,
till the number amounted to 2000. If it were attempted to convert it to
any other use, it was to devolve to the Royal Society, and ultimately
to the College of Physicians; but the intentions of the original donor
have been most faithfully and liberally fulfilled by the Apothecaries,
who expend a very large sum annually, with no other view than the
promotion of botanical knowledge, more especially in the cultivation
of curious and rare plants. In 1748, they erected a statue[46] to Sir
Hans, in front of the green-house, with this inscription--
HANSIO SLOANE BARONETTO ARCHIATRO
INSIGNISSIMO BOTANICES FAUTORI
HOC HONORIS CAUSA MONIMENTUM
INQUE PERPETUAM EJUS MEMORIAM
SACRUM VOLUIT
SOCIETAS PHARMACOPÆIORUM LONDINENSIS
1733.”
The merit and virtues of Sir Hans had particularly caught the attention
of young Pitcairn, and his character continued to form the subject of
conversation as the senior returned with his nephew to his own house.
“The immediate result of his death,” observed the uncle, “was the
foundation of the British Museum; for this great patron of science,
being well aware how much it is benefited by the aggregation of various
objects, and anxious that his fine collection should be preserved
entire, directed by his will, that after his decease the whole of
his Museum of natural and artificial curiosities, which had cost him
£50,000, should be offered to Parliament for the moderate sum of
£20,000, to be paid to his family.
“The contents of his collection were very various, and consisted of his
library, books of drawings, MSS., &c. 50,000 volumes.
Medals and coins, 23,000
Cameos, intaglios, seals, &c. 1,500,
besides antique idols, anatomical preparations, amphibia, insects,
minerals, volumes of dried plants, mathematical instruments, &c. the
particulars of which were entered in a catalogue that was comprised in
thirty-eight volumes folio, and eight volumes quarto.
“The offer directed in the will of Sir Hans Sloane was immediately
made to Parliament, and accepted without hesitation; and before the
expiration of the year of his death an Act was passed, ordering the
payment of the stipulated sum to his executors, and vesting the
property of the Museum in trustees for the use of the public. To
this scientific repository was soon afterwards added whatever the
Legislature could command; the Cottonian Library was obtained, and
the Harleian collection of MS. was purchased; and in order to defray
the expenses of these different acquisitions, and to provide a proper
mansion for their reception, Parliament raised the sum of £100,000 by
way of Lottery. The trustees then bought of the representatives of
the Montague family the house which had been built by the first Duke
of Montague; a stately and ample palace, which had been originally
ornamented by the fresco paintings of the famous Verrio, representing
the Funeral Pile of Dido, the Labours of Hercules, the Fight with the
Centaurs, and other designs, excellent on the walls and roof of the
great room. The gardens and appurtenances occupied together about seven
acres. The first mansion was destroyed by a fire, which broke out in
the night of January 22d, 1685, and burnt with so great violence that
the whole house was consumed by five o’clock; but it was immediately
rebuilt, and ornamented by artists sent from France for that purpose.
“The British Museum was opened to the public in 1759.”
I had often been to the College of Physicians, but never till this
occasion been carried thither in the hands of a President, and my
present master appeared to me to dwell with great satisfaction upon
every part of the structure, and every thing connected with its
history, which was probably not felt the less from the reflection
that the distinction of the Fellowship had been conferred upon him
without his having passed through the ordinary routine of an English
academical education. For several years Dr. William Pitcairn was the
leading Practitioner in the city, and thus afforded me an opportunity
of observing more closely the manners of the wealthy inhabitants
of that quarter, and contrasting them with the habits of the more
polite and courtly end of the town, to which I had previously been
chiefly accustomed. In 1784 he resigned the office of President, being
succeeded by Sir George Baker; and in seven years afterwards died, when
I was bequeathed to his nephew, Dr. David Pitcairn: this promising
young man had realized the expectations formed of him in early life,
and before he took his Doctor’s degree at Cambridge, had been elected
Physician to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The commencement of his
private medical practice may be dated about the year 1780, and he was
placed at the head of his profession in London by the death of Dr.
Warren.
I have spoken before of this eminent Physician, but his professional
career was so brilliant, and attracted my notice in so remarkable a
degree, that I must bestow an additional observation on his character.
If posterity should ask what works Dr. Warren has left behind him
worthy of the great reputation he enjoyed during his lifetime, it
must be answered that such was his constant occupation in practice
among all classes of people, from the highest to the lowest, that he
had no leisure for writing, with the exception of a very few papers
published in the College Transactions. But the unanimous respect in
which he was held by all his medical brethren, which no man ever
obtains without deserving it, fully justifies the popular estimate of
his character. To a sound judgment and deep observation of men and
things, he added various literary and scientific attainments, which
were most advantageously displayed by a talent for conversation that
was at once elegant, easy, and natural. Of all men in the world, he
had the greatest flexibility of temper, instantaneously accommodating
himself to the tone of feeling of the young, the old, the gay, and the
sorrowful. But he was himself of a very cheerful disposition, and his
manners being peculiarly pleasing to others, he possessed over the
minds of his patients the most absolute control; and it was said, with
truth, that no one ever had recourse to his advice as a Physician, who
did not remain desirous of gaining his friendship and enjoying his
society as a companion. In interrogating the patient he was apt and
adroit; in the resources of his art, quick and inexhaustible; and when
the malady was beyond the reach of his skill, the minds of the sick
were consoled by his conversation, and their cares, anxieties, and
fears soothed by his presence. And it may be mentioned among the minor
qualities which distinguished Dr. Warren, that no one more readily
gained the confidence or satisfied the scruples of the subordinate
attendants upon the sick, by the dexterous employment of the various
arguments of encouragement, reproof, and friendly advice. The height
he had rapidly attained in his profession he maintained with unabated
spirits till his death, which took place in 1797, at the age of
sixty-five, at his house in Dover Street.
Dr. David Pitcairn resided many years in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and was
early admitted a Fellow of the Royal and Antiquarian Societies. To
these meetings it was my lot often to be taken, and gradually to become
acquainted not only with the members, but, in the course of the various
conversations which I overheard, to pick up a good deal of information
connected with the former history and establishment of these learned
bodies. I will endeavour to describe one of the most remarkable
evenings passed at a meeting of the first of these Societies.
When I was in the service of Dr. Mead, the Royal Society met in one
of the Professors’ Rooms in Gresham College; and many of the Members
used to dine at Pontac’s, in Abchurch Lane. The house was kept by a
Frenchman, who had been cook to M. Pontac, president of the parliament
of Bourdeaux; and who, from respect to the memory of his master, hung
up his effigies as the outward sign of his place of entertainment. Soon
after their first incorporation by charter, these convivial meetings
themselves were made subservient to the purposes of science, and were
intended, as well as their more formal stated assemblies, to further
the progress of knowledge. For it is related that on April 2d, 1682,
at a supper where several of the Society were present, every thing
was dressed, both fish and flesh, in Monsieur Papin’s digestors (then
newly invented), and the philosophers ate pike and other fish bones,
all without impediment; nay, the hardest bones of beef and mutton made
as soft as cheese, and pigeons stewed in their own juice, without
any addition of water. From this scientific entertainment one of the
guests sent home a glass of jelly to his wife, to the reproach of
all that the ladies ever made of their best hartshorn. But this was
in the infancy of their establishment, when the zeal of the original
founders of the Society was in its full energy. They had in fact only
existed as a corporate body about twenty years, for it was in 1662
that Charles the Second granted them a charter, at a period which
was certainly peculiarly favourable to the progress of science in
Britain. The sudden restoration of the King had healed the divisions
of party, and the effervescence of turbulent minds was directed to the
advancement of knowledge, instead of political speculation. The germ of
the Royal Society may indeed be traced a few years further back than
the period now mentioned, since, so early as 1645, several ingenious
men, residing in London, agreed to meet once a week to discourse upon
subjects connected with Mathematics and Natural Philosophy. They
assembled sometimes in Cheapside, at others in Gresham College, but
chiefly in the lodgings of Dr. Goddard, in Wood Street. This last
place was preferred, because the Doctor kept in his house an operator
for grinding glasses for telescopes. The revolutionary troubles
suspended for a time these meetings, but after the restoration they
were revived in the apartments of Mr. Rooke, in Gresham College; a set
of regulations was drawn up, and a weekly contribution of one shilling
was collected from each of the members, in order to defray the expenses
of their experimental investigations.
The chief objects of their association were to publish periodically
all the discoveries which came to their knowledge, and to perform
experiments. For the first of these purposes their Secretary was
appointed Editor of their Transactions, the first Number of which
appeared in 1665, by Mr. Henry Oldenburg[47]. They were not for some
time continued regularly, owing to their limited sale, and to the
small profit which accrued to the Editor. For the second purpose a
person was appointed, with a salary, to contrive suitable experiments,
and to have every thing ready for their exhibition: besides which
they hired a man, whom they called their English _itinerant_, and who
regularly gave an account of his autumnal peregrination about England,
bringing dried fowls, fish, plants, animals, &c.
Such was the simplicity of this early establishment, when every step
was a discovery, and every judicious experiment led the fortunate
philosopher to eminence. In that infant period of science apparatus
had been procured with difficulty, and the greatest philosophers
were obliged to labour with their own hands to frame the instruments
which they were to use. Hence it was found expedient to keep in the
rooms of the Society a collection of all such machines as were likely
to be useful in the progress of experimental knowledge. It was soon
discovered that little progress could be made by an individual, and
all felt the necessity of mutual co-operation. Money was, therefore,
furnished for the purchase of convenient apparatus, curators and
operators were employed, by whom many capital experiments were made
under the eyes of the Society, and exhibited to the distinguished
strangers who were invited to be present. Nor was this latter an
uncommon occurrence. Immediately after they had obtained their charter,
when Charles the Second intimated his intention of being present at
one of their meetings, Sir Christopher Wren, who had been consulted
upon the matter, suggested that His Majesty should be entertained with
some experiments upon the barometer, which, besides being amusing, were
useful and easy of exhibition.
The King was an experimenter himself, and had an elaboratory at
Whitehall, though, whether he believed the philosopher’s elixir
attainable, or had ever seen _projection_, does not appear. But having
bought the receipt of the famous _arcanum Goddardianum_ for the sum
of £1500, His Majesty was wont to witness the distillation as it was
going on. The drops were procured from raw silk, one pound of which
yielded an incredible quantity of volatile salt, and in proportion the
finest spirit that ever was tasted. The salt (a coarse kind of spirit
of hartshorn) being refined with any well scented chemical oil, made
the King’s salt, as it was used to be called. The experiments were
shown to the King three years before the fire of London, which drove
the Society from Gresham College; when they were invited by Mr. Howard
to sit at Arundel House, in the Strand; who also bestowed upon them
the noble library that had been collected by his ancestors. After the
fire the Society returned to Gresham College, which when they finally
left, they purchased a house in Crane Court, Fleet Street, where their
meetings continued to be held, till the government, a short time ago,
allotted them apartments in Somerset House. Since that period, _the
Club_, which consists of the more select of the Society, have for many
years dined at the neighbouring tavern, the Crown and Anchor; where,
at half past five o’clock on each Thursday previous to the sitting of
the Society, you are sure of meeting with very indifferent cheer, but
excellent company. On the 7th April, 1791, I accompanied Dr. Pitcairn
to the tavern, and met there Prince Poniatowsky, who had been invited
as a guest. Sir Joseph Banks was in the chair. His Highness appeared
about fifty, had a good face, was of middling stature, was dressed in
black, had the order of Malta in his buttonhole, and wore his hair in
a round curl.--When the dinner was over, after the usual toast, “the
King,” Sir Joseph proposed the health of the King of Poland, which was
drunk by the company. Soon after, the Prince took an opportunity of the
President’s getting up for a moment or two from table, to propose Sir
Joseph’s health.--From the tavern we adjourned to the apartments of the
Royal Society in Somerset House, where the distinguished stranger, who
had been balloted for on the preceding Thursday, was admitted a Fellow,
as a sovereign prince, by the title of Duke de Lowitz. The President
addressed him as Prince Primate of Poland; and he was styled in the
minutes, “His Highness Prince Michael Poniatowsky, Prince Primate of
Poland, Archbishop of Gnesna, and sovereign of the principality of
Lowitz.”
When the meeting broke up, my master accompanied a very intelligent
friend and Physician in his carriage home, and the discourse naturally
turned to the subject of the eminent foreigner whom they had that
evening seen. “You know,” said Dr. Samuel Foart Simmons, “that the
Prince is the brother of the present King of Poland, and since his
arrival in England I have seen a great deal of him, as he has done
me the honour of inviting me frequently to his table. The motive of
his visit to England at this moment is, to absent himself during the
present session of the Diet, that he may avoid all interference in the
question now agitated, relative to the succession. My introduction to
him was through Dr. Szaster, a Polish Physician, whom the Prince had
met at Paris, and who is much esteemed by him, and who was recommended
to me by some of my friends. My first visit to His Highness, at his
house, No. 11, Soho Square, which had been taken ready furnished for
him, was in company with Dr. Grieve, who from his residence in Russia
and Poland, and his consequent acquaintance with the languages and
customs of those parts of Europe, has rendered himself very agreeable
and highly useful. As a Polish dinner given in London was quite a
novelty to myself, and perhaps may be so to you, I will describe it
minutely. I was invited for four o’clock, and our party consisted of
six: before we sat down to table a glass of Dantzick liqueur was handed
round on a waiter, with which, as a foreign custom, we readily complied.
“On taking our seats, the Prince placed himself at the head, and I
took a chair on his right hand, while His Highness’s Physician sat
at the bottom and carved. Two dishes of oysters were first placed on
the table, and a servant then handed round a plate of lemons, cut
into halves. I was going to drink a glass of wine with Dr. Grieve,
for decanters of wine stood on the table near us; but the Prince
pleasantly observed, that he hoped as Physicians we would excuse him
if he reminded us of an old Polish opinion, that beer and not wine
should be drunk immediately after oysters. When the oysters were taken
away, a tureen of soup, called by the Poles _bosch_, made of milk and
beet-root, and having an acid smell, was placed at top, bouilli at
bottom, and a dish of boiled tongue, sliced and mixed with vegetables,
in the middle. The Physician cut slices of the bouilli into the dish,
which a servant carried round to the company: the same ceremony
was also observed with respect to the other dish. Then slices of
buttered French roll, covered with a chocolate-coloured powder, which
I understood to be grated hare, were handed about.--After the second
course, which consisted of fritters, roast turkey, and some made dish
in the middle, the dessert was put upon the table, and the servants
withdrew. The Prince was in excellent humour, extremely communicative,
and the conversation became interesting.
“He had dined a few days before with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who
had told him an anecdote which had pleased him so much, that he had
communicated it in a letter he had just written, and which was going by
the next post to Poland. Before he sealed his letter, His Highness read
that part of it to us. It related to a dramatic writer whose play had
been a good deal applauded, and who was informed that on a particular
night a great philosopher and mathematician was to be present at its
performance. ‘This,’ said the author, ‘is the man for me: I shall long
to hear what he says of my play. The opinion of such a judge will be
really worth having.’ The mathematician took his seat in the centre of
the pit; and when the performance was over, the author was anxious to
have his opinion of the piece. ‘I find,’ said the philosopher, ‘that
such an actress has pronounced 3284 words, that such an actor has
pronounced 2864,’ &c.; and this was the only reply that the mortified
dramatist could obtain.
“The Prince continued his amusing anecdotes, and related to us that one
of his brothers had engaged a Frenchman as a pastry-cook, in which art
he greatly excelled, but who was so drunken a fellow that a sentinel
was always placed at the door to prevent his getting strong liquors
before he had finished his work. At length, however, his frequent
intoxication became intolerable, and it was necessary to discard him.
He went to Dantzick, where he found a vessel bound to Petersburgh,
in which he embarked; and, on his arrival in that city, accidentally
heard of a nobleman near Moscow, who was in want of a preceptor for his
son. The _pâtissier_ offered his services, was accepted, and travelled
in an elegant coach to his destination. Of Italian, which he was to
teach, he knew not a word; but being a native of Provence, he spoke the
dialect of that part of France. This he taught his pupil, and was for
some time in great credit. But the nobleman having at length a visitor
who spoke Italian, the impostor was detected, and he was ignominiously
driven out of the family. For some months he rambled about Tartary, and
lived on the hospitality of different hordes; but after an absence of
more than two years, finding his way back into Poland, he threw himself
at the feet of his old master, and was taken again into his service,
upon promising better behaviour in future.
“We now adjourned to another room, and drank our coffee, after which
frankincense was burned before the Prince, who expressed a wish that
we should not be in a hurry to depart. In the course of the evening it
appeared that he did not think very favourably of the English writing
travellers; particularly “ces gouverneurs,” as he called them, who
eagerly catch up every thing they hear in conversation, for the sake
of printing it. The English minister at Warsaw had observed to him,
that he found himself oftentimes situated awkwardly enough with his
raw young countrymen; but that this was nothing when compared with the
trouble he had when they came accompanied with a travelling pedant as
their tutor.
“Speaking of his brother, His Highness told us that he could speak
English before his arrival in this country, which was in 1754; and
added that George the Second, upon being informed that the King of
Poland had remained a certain number of months at Paris, previous to
his coming to England, asked why His Majesty had stayed there so long.
‘To learn English,’ was the reply.
“The conversation having turned on Russia, the Prince spoke of a
certain courtier there, who, when Biron was disgraced, said, ‘Ay, that
fellow was the cause of my losing two of my teeth.’ ‘How so?’ said
somebody. ‘Why, because a dentist came here whom he patronised; and in
order to pay my court to Biron, I sent for that man to draw two of my
teeth.’ We next talked of Potemkin, who is said to have seduced five
or six of his nieces, one after the other, and then to have married
them off, except the youngest, who is now his mistress. He has the
reputation of having always kept up his influence with the empress,
notwithstanding her favours have been bestowed on so many others
since his time, and of having always contrived to get his successors
discarded whenever he found them acquiring too much power. Before we
left, the Prince desired his secretary to bring out his orders: viz.
his Order of the White Eagle, and that of Malta, both in brilliants,
the latter of which was most admirably set.”
Here the Doctor left off speaking, and we reached home.
Prince Poniatowsky remained in England till June 13th, when he set
out on his return to Warsaw. On his way through Holland he received
intelligence of the revolution in Poland. The journey he had undertaken
had originated in the circumstances which had paved the way for this
event. At the opening of the Diet, he had pronounced a discourse
which had directed the eyes of his countrymen to their real political
situation, and this had gained him many enemies. He was now going
back to share in the shortlived general joy. For this sudden and
ill-concerted attempt to withdraw the kingdom of Poland from under the
influence of Russia ultimately involved the exhausted republic in an
unprosperous war, and was shortly afterwards followed by the loss of
the fine and fertile provinces of the Lesser Poland and Lithuania[48].
The success of Dr. Pitcairn in practice was great, and though one or
two other Physicians might possibly derive more pecuniary emolument
than himself, certainly no one was so frequently requested by his
brethren to afford his aid in cases of difficulty. He was perfectly
candid in his opinions, and very frank in acknowledging the extent of
his confidence in the efficacy of medicine. To a young friend, who
had very recently graduated, and who had accompanied him from London
to visit a lady, ill of a consumption, in the country, and who, on
their return, was expressing his surprise at the apparent inertness
of the prescription, which had been left behind, (which was nothing
more than infusion of roses, with a little additional mineral acid),
he made this reply, “The last thing a physician learns, in the course
of his experience, is to know when to do nothing, but quietly to wait,
and allow nature and time to have fair play, in checking the progress
of disease, and gradually restoring the strength and health of the
patient.”
The extensive practice of my master necessarily brought me in contact
with every physician of any eminence, of whom the most prominent was
unquestionably that profound and elegant scholar, Sir George Baker,
the soundness of whose judgment was acknowledged by all. To him the
whole medical world looked up with respect, and in the treatment of
any disease in the least degree unusual, if it was desired to know
all that had ever been said or written on the subject, from the most
remote antiquity, down to the case in question, a consultation was
proposed with Sir George Baker. From _his_ erudition every thing
was expected. He was particularly kind to the rising members of his
profession, whom he encouraged and informed with great condescension
and apparent interest. He was a native of Devonshire, was educated
at Eton, and, afterwards, at King’s College, Cambridge. The accuracy
and extent of his classical learning particularly engaged the respect
and admiration of the members of those institutions; and to the
inhabitants of Devonshire he rendered a signal service, by pointing out
the source of that species of colic and subsequent palsy, which had
long been the bane of that county. It was reported at the time of the
publication of his “Essay concerning the Cause of the Endemial Colic
of Devonshire,” that the farmers were much annoyed at his discovery;
but every prejudice was at length overcome by the force of truth; and
the use of lead in the construction of their cider vessels, which he
clearly demonstrated to be the cause of that malady, has since been
discontinued[49].
Sir George Baker commenced his professional career at Stamford, in
Lincolnshire, to which place he had been invited by a large circle of
friends whom he had known in early life; but this was a situation too
limited for the exertion of his talents, and he soon removed to London.
In the metropolis it was not long before he arrived at very extensive
practice and reputation, and he was appointed Physician to Their
Majesties. His character, his learning, and his authority rendered
him for several years a distinguished President of the College of
Physicians. As an author, he must be estimated rather by the value than
the extent of his works; for his Thesis de affectibus Animi, published
as an exercise at Cambridge in 1755, his Harveian Oration, and his
two treatises, de Catarrho Epidemico and de Dysenteria Londinensi,
are models of the purest and chastest classical style. With studious
habits, and unassuming manners, he combined great playfulness of
imagination, as will appear from the two following specimens of Latin
pleasantry.
Epigram on two brothers who applied to Sir George Baker for advice
nearly at the same time:
Hos inter fratres quantum disconvenit! alter
Corpus ali prohibet, se nimis alter alit;
Hinc ambo ægrotant; sed non est causa timoris;
Nam penes est ipsos certa utriusque salus.
Cautus uterque suam mutet, me judice, vitam;
Huic cibus, ast illi sit medicina fames.
Which may be thus rendered in English:
Behold two brothers, how unlike their state!
One’s too indulgent, one too temperate;
Hence both are sick; but let not this alarm them,
The cure is in themselves, and will not harm them.
Let me prescribe, with caution, to each brother,
Food for the one, and fasting for the other.
On Mrs. Vanbutchel, who was preserved as a Mummy at the request of her
husband, he wrote the following inscription. Under the superintendence
of Dr. Hunter, Mr. Cruikshank injected into the arteries spirits of
turpentine, coloured by vermilion. She died at the age of forty, and
her body, thus prepared, was kept by her husband in his own house
during his lifetime; at his death, his son presented it to the College
of Surgeons, where it is now to be seen in a mahogany case.
In reliquias Mariæ Vanbutchel, novo miraculo conservatas, et a
marito suo superstite, cultu quotidiano adoratas:--
Hic, expers tumuli, jacet
Uxor Joannis Vanbutchel,
Integra omnino et incorrupta,
Viri sui amantissimi
Desiderium simul et deliciæ;
Hanc gravi morbo vitiatam
Consumtamque tandem longâ morte
In hunc, quem cernis, nitorem,
In hanc speciem et colorem viventis
Ab indecorâ putredine vindicavit
Invitâ et repugnante naturâ
Vir egregius, Gulielmus Hunterus,
Artificii priùs intentati
Inventor idem, et perfector.
O fortunatum maritum
Cui datur
Uxorem multùm amatam
Retinere unà in unis ædibus,
Affari, tangere, complecti,
Propter dormire, si lubet,
Non fatis modò superstitem
Sed (quod pluris æstimandum
Nam, non est vivere, sed placere, vita)
Etiam suaviorem
Venustiorem
Habitiorem
Solidam magis, et magis succi plenam
Quam cum ipsa in vivis fuerit!
O! fortunatum hominem et invidendum
Cui peculiare hoc, et proprium contingit
Apud se habere fæminam
Non variam, non mutabilem
Et egregiè taciturnam!
This epitaph was first given imperfectly to the public in Franklin’s
translation of Lucian, and, certainly, without the consent of the
author.
[Illustration: Dr. David Pitcairn.]
To return to Dr. David Pitcairn: his manner was simple, gentle, and
dignified; from his kindness of heart, he was frequently led to give
more attention to his patients than could well be demanded from a
physician; and as this evidently sprung from no interested motive, he
often acquired considerable influence with those whom he had attended
during sickness. No medical man, indeed, of his eminence in London
perhaps ever exercised his profession to such a degree gratuitously.
Besides, few persons ever gained so extensive an acquaintance with the
various orders of society. He associated much with gentlemen of the
law, had a taste for the fine arts, and his employment as a physician
in the largest hospital in the kingdom, made known to him a very great
number of persons of every rank and description in life. His person
was tall and erect; his countenance during youth was a model of manly
beauty, and even in advanced life he was accounted remarkably handsome.
But the prosperous views that all these combined advantages might
reasonably open to him were not of long endurance.
Ill health obliged him to give up his profession and quit his native
country. He embarked for Lisbon in the summer of 1798, where a stay
of eighteen months in the mild climate of Portugal, during which
period there was no recurrence of the spitting of blood with which
he had been affected, emboldened him to return to England, and for a
few years more resume the practice of his profession. But his health
continued delicate and precarious, and in the spring of the year 1809
he fell a victim to a disease that had hitherto escaped the observation
of medical men. Pitcairn, though he had acquired great practical
knowledge, and had made many original observations upon the history
and treatment of diseases, never published any thing himself; but the
peculiar and melancholy privilege was reserved for him, to enlighten
his profession in the very act of dying. On the 13th of April, he
complained of a soreness in his throat; which, however, he thought so
lightly of, that he continued his professional visits during that and
the two following days. In the night of the 15th his throat became
worse, in consequence of which he was copiously bled, at his own
desire, and had a large blister applied over his throat. On the evening
of the 16th Dr. Baillie called upon him accidentally, not having been
apprized of his illness; and, indeed, even then, observed no symptom
that indicated danger. But the disease advanced in the course of that
night, and a number of leeches were applied to the throat early in the
morning. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon, Dr. Baillie again saw
him. His countenance was now sunk, his pulse feeble and unequal, his
breathing laborious, and his voice nearly gone. In this lamentable
state, he wrote upon a piece of paper, that he conceived his windpipe
to be the principal seat of his complaint, and that this was the
croup. The tonsils were punctured, some blood obtained, and a little
relief appeared to have been derived from the operation. Between four
and five o’clock in the afternoon his situation seemed considerably
improved; but soon afterwards a slight drowsiness came on. At eight,
the patient’s breathing became suddenly more difficult, and in a few
minutes he was dead. This was the first case of this peculiar affection
of the throat that has been distinctly recognised and described. It was
an inflammation of the larynx, or upper part of the windpipe, of so
insidious a nature as hitherto to have passed unnoticed.
Although approaching to the well-known complaint called croup, it
differs in some respects, particularly by the presence of the following
symptoms:--Painful deglutition, partial swelling of the fauces, and
a perpetually increasing difficulty of breathing. The mouth of the
larynx, or aperture by which air is admitted into the lungs, is so
much narrowed, that the vital functions are actually extinguished by
the stricture. And yet the apparent inflammation in the throat is so
inconsiderable, that upon a superficial observation, it would hardly be
noticed; but in its progress the voice is changed, becomes altogether
suppressed, and the disease terminates in suffocation.
[Illustration]
BAILLIE.