JOHN CHAPMAN DAVIE, M.D.
Sincere will be the regret at the announcement of the death of the
subject of this sketch. As I have known him since he arrived in the
colony with his father (who was also John Chapman Davie), and his
three brothers, William, Horace and Alexander, in 1862, it may not be
inappropriate that I, one of his oldest friends, should tell what I
know of him. Dr. Davie was born in Wells, Somersetshire, on the 22nd
March, 1845, and was therefore sixty-six years of age. He, with his
brother Horace (residing in Somenos), were educated at Silcoats
College, England, and studied for the profession which afterwards
made him known from north to south of the Pacific Coast, at the
University of San Francisco. He also studied under a clever English
physician, Dr. Lane, and under Dr. Toland, both eminent men who
founded colleges in California.
After Dr. Davie had finished his medical course in California he came
to Victoria and entered into practice with his father.
[Portrait: John Chapman Davie, M.D.]
When I was about fifteen years old I was troubled a deal with my
throat and was under his father's treatment. I was obliged to give up
singing in consequence, being a choir boy in Christ Church. In my
frequent visits to the doctor's surgery I became acquainted with Dr.
Davie, Jr., who undertook the treatment of my throat until I was able
to resume my choir duties. Both Dr. Davie and his brother
Alexander were members of the choir at this time, and regular in
attendance at service and choir practice. I can see with my mind's
eye at a choir practice both brothers. Mr. Cridge, the rector, always
conducted these practices, and he asked each brother in turn to sing
his individual part over in the anthem, as they were to take solos,
he (Mr. Cridge) beating time as they sang. I might say that we had
some fine singers in the choir in those days, and more anthems were
sung than even now. His brother Horace and I were school-fellows at
the Church Collegiate School, which was situated on Church Hill, just
about where Mr. Keith Wilson's residence now stands. It was built as
a Congregational Church, and was destroyed by fire about 1870.
At the time I first became acquainted with Dr. Davie his father's
office was situated where Challoner & Mitchell's store now stands,
and was a very unpretentious affair--as most business places were in
Victoria at that time--a wooden one-story frame cottage of three
rooms. The doctor's first office was on the corner of Government and
Bastion, where Richardson's cigar store stands. At the former office
my friend studied and worked with his father until the latter's
death, when the son continued the practice in his own behalf.
From Mr. Alexander Wilson, who was a director of the Royal Hospital
at the time, I am told a deal about Dr. Davie's early medical career.
He says the young doctor was ambitious to become medical officer to
the Royal Hospital, then situated on the rock at the top of Pandora
Street, and asked Mr. Wilson to try and get the position for him,
even without salary, and Mr. Wilson, having great faith in the young
man, promised to do his best, and at a meeting of the board, consisting
of Alexander McLean, J. D. Robinson, Henry Short and Alexander
Wilson, Dr. Davie was duly elected, and at a salary of 100 pounds
per annum, and held the position for over twenty years. He entered on
his duties with great zeal, his first surgical case being that of an
Indian girl who was accidentally shot on Salt Spring Island. The poor
girl's arm was badly shattered, and she was brought down from the
island in a canoe. It was a bad case, but the doctor pulled her
through and, saving her arm, sent her home again as good as ever.
Dr. Davie was fond of music, and in early days was proficient on the
flute, contributing to the programme of many a concert for charity in
those days when amateurs did so much to entertain the public.
That the subject of this sketch was a clever man goes without saying.
Many there are, and have been, who have been snatched from grim death
by this skilful surgeon. By some he was thought to be bearish and
unsympathetic, but they who thought so did not know him as I did, or
they would not have thought so. Where there was real suffering and
danger there could not have been a more gentle, kinder-hearted or
careful man. Because he did not always respond to a friend's
salutation in passing it was taken as bearishness or indifference. It
was really pre-occupation. He was thinking out a difficult case for
the next morning at the hospital. As he once said to a lady friend,
"They little know the hours I pass walking up and down at night
thinking out a case I have to operate on--how I shall do it to make
it a success." I went into his office one day and found him with a
surgical instrument on his knee which he seemed very intent on, and I
asked him what it was for. He hesitated for a moment, then said, "You
would not understand." But still he explained it all to me. It
was for an operation in the morning on the stomach of a patient at
one of the hospitals, and I have no doubt it was successful. About
seven years ago he attended me for typhoid fever, and even then he
had his bad spells of sickness, but still he came regularly, and on
reaching the top of the stairs to my room he would hold on till his
coughing fit was over. "Well, old man, how are you to-day?" After I
had taken a turn for the better and was very susceptible to the smell
of good things cooking downstairs, I asked him when I should be
allowed to have something solid, and added, "Oh, I am so tired of
milk and egg-nog; when may I have a bit of chicken or mutton?"
"Well, how many days is it since your temperature was normal? Well,
in so many days you may have jelly and junket."
"Is that all?" I replied, disappointed.
"Look here, old man, I want to get you well, and you must be
patient."
"That reminds me of a little story," said the doctor. "Some years ago
two men were digging a deep ditch on Johnson Street to repair a
sewer. Some time after both the men were taken sick, which turned out
to be typhoid fever, and, being single men, they were taken to the
hospital. I saw them every day in my regular round of visits, and
they progressed towards recovery until they got to the stage that you
have, and complained of my bill of fare. They asked for 'something
solid,' and I put them off with the same answer you got. A day or two
after in making my regular rounds I noticed that one of my patients
was not in evidence and I asked his friend where he was. Then the
story was told me of his friend having had some visitors, one of whom
brought a cooked chicken, part of which was eaten on the sly and
the balance hidden under the mattress. The result was that he was
then out in the morgue, having died that day, and in due time, to
conclude my little story, his friend, who had no chicken, left the
hospital cured."
"Now," said Dr. Davie, "I'll go; you are in good hands (my wife's);
be patient and ponder on my little story."
It is pretty well known that Dr. Davie had had only one lung for
years past, but that did not prevent him attending to his numerous
patients. The many who to-day are indebted to his skill and kindness
of heart will feel a great sorrow at his passing. Many of his former
patients have told me of his refusal of pay for valuable services
rendered them. At the conclusion of a sickness a patient would likely
say: "Well, doctor, I am grateful for your pulling me through. I
shall have to pay by instalments. Here is something on account."
If the doctor did not know his circumstances he would say: "How much
is your salary?" On his replying he (the doctor) would say: "If that
is all you get you cannot afford to pay anything," and that was the
last the patient would hear of it.
On a certain occasion I heard the experience of three in a small
party who had this or something to this effect to relate. With his
extensive practice he ought to have been a very wealthy man, but not
with such patients as these, of course, but if all the patients he
has had in years past had been charged for his valuable services he
would have been worth half a million instead of dying a comparatively
poor man. This last year I have visited him regularly, and many
events of early Victoria life have been recalled on these visits.
He repined at first when he knew that his days were numbered, saying,
"Fawcett, old man, don't I wish I could go back to the days when we
were young and took those trips to Cowichan. It is pretty hard to
go!" I fully agreed with him then, but when later he got so bad and
suffered so much, he prayed to go, and I again agreed with him,
poor fellow. This latter time was when to speak made him cough and
suffocate. "Old man, I cannot talk to you," and he would lie back in
an exhausted state, and I would go, sorry that I was unable to do
anything to relieve him, to slightly repay all his kindness to me
in the past.
Tuesday last I with my wife paid my last call on him, he having
expressed a desire to see me. I little thought it was the last time I
should see him alive, for he said he would not go till October, he
thought, and I believed him.
Well, maybe I have said enough, but I could say a deal more if
necessary. What I have said will be echoed by many, I'm sure.
So, in the words of Montgomery, the poet:
"Friend after friend departs, who has not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts, that finds not here an end,
Were this frail world our only rest, living or dying none were blest."