THE QUARRELS OF PHYSICIANS.
For many a day authors have had the reputation of being more sensitive
and quarrelsome than any other set of men. Truth to tell, they are not
always so amiable and brilliant as their works. There is in them the
national churlishness inducing them to nurse a contempt for every one
they don't personally know, and a spirit of antagonism towards nearly
every one they do. But to say this is only to say that they are made
of British oak. Unfortunately, however, they carry on their
contentions in a manner that gives them a wide publicity and a
troublesome duration of fame. Soldiers, when they quarrelled in the
last century, shot one another like gentlemen, at two paces' distance,
and with the crack of their pistols the whole noise of the matter
ceased. Authors, from time immemorial, have in their angry moments
rushed into print, and lashed their adversaries with satire, rendered
permanent by aid of the printer's devil,--thus letting posterity know
all the secrets of their folly, whilst the merciful grave put an end
to all memorial of the extravagances of their friends. There was
less love between Radcliffe and Hannes, Freind and Blackmore, Gibbons
and Garth, than between Pope and Dennis, Swift and Grub Street. But we
know all about the squabbles of the writers from their poems; whereas
only a vague tradition, in the form of questionable anecdotes, has
come down to us of the animosities of the doctors--a tradition which
would long ere this have died out, had not Garth--author as well as
physician--written the "Dispensary," and a host of dirty little
apothecaries contracted a habit of scribbling lampoons about their
professional superiors.
Luckily for the members of it, the Faculty of Medicine is singularly
barren of biographies. The career of a physician is so essentially one
of confidence, that even were he to keep a memorial of its interesting
occurrences, his son wouldn't dare to sell it to a publisher as the
"Revelations of a Departed Physician." Long ere it would be decent or
safe to print such a diary, the public would have ceased to take an
interest in the writer. Pettigrew's "Life of Lettsom," and Macilwain's
"Memoirs of Abernethy," are almost the only two passable biographies
of eminent medical practitioners in the English language; and the last
of these does not presume to enter fully on the social relations of
the great surgeon. The lives of Hunter and Jenner are meagre and
unworthily executed, and of Bransby Cooper's Life of his uncle little
can be said that is not in the language of emphatic condemnation.
From this absence of biographical literature the medical profession at
least derives this advantage--the world at large knows comparatively
little of their petty feuds and internal differences than it would
otherwise.
The few memorials, however, that we have of the quarrels of physicians
are of a kind that makes us wish we had more. Of the great battle of
the apothecaries with the physicians we have already spoken in the
notice of Sir Samuel Garth. To those who are ignorant of human nature
it may appear incredible that a body, so lovingly united against
common foes, should have warred amongst themselves. Yet such was the
case. A London druggist once put up at the chief inn of a provincial
capital, whither he had come in the course of his annual summer ride.
The good man thought it would hurt neither his health nor his
interests to give "a little supper" to the apothecaries of the town
with whom he was in the habit of doing business. Under the influence
of this feeling he sallied out from "The White Horse," and spent a few
hours in calling on his friends--asking for orders and delivering
invitations. On returning to his inn, he ordered a supper for
twelve--as eleven medical gentlemen had engaged to sup with him. When
the hour appointed for the repast was at hand, a knock at the door was
followed by the appearance of guest A, with a smile of intense
benevolence and enjoyment. Another rap--and guest B entered. A looked
blank--every trace of happiness suddenly vanishing from his face. B
stared at A, as much as to say, "You be ----!" A shuffled with his
feet, rose, made an apology to his host for leaving the room to attend
to a little matter, and disappeared. Another rap--and C made his bow
of greeting. "I'll try to be back in five minutes, but if I'm not,
don't wait for me," cried B, hurriedly seizing his hat and rushing
from the apartment. C, a cold-blooded, phlegmatic man, sat down
unconcernedly, and was a picture of sleeping contentment till the
entry of D, when his hair stood on end, and he fled into the inn-yard,
as if he were pursued by a hyena. E knocked and said, "How d' you do?"
D sprung from his chair, and shouted, "Good-bye!" And so it went on
till, on guest No. 11 joining the party--that had received so many new
comers, and yet never for an instant numbered more than three--No. 10
jumped through the window, and ran down the street to the bosom of his
family. The hospitable druggist and No. 11 found, on a table provided
for twelve, quite as much supper as they required.
Next morning the druggist called on A for an explanation of his
conduct. "Sir," was the answer, "I could not stop in the same room
with such a scoundrel as B." So it went straight down the line. B had
vowed never to exchange words with C. C would be shot rather than sit
at the same table with such a scoundrel as D.
"You gentlemen," observed the druggist, with a smile to each, "seem to
be almost as well disposed amongst yourselves as your brethren in
London; only they, when they meet, don't run from each other, but draw
up, square their elbows, and fight like men."
The duel between Mead and Woodward, as it is more particularly
mentioned in another part of these volumes, we need here only to
allude to. The contest between Cheyne and Wynter was of a less bloody
character. Cheyne was a Bath physician, of great practice and yet
greater popularity--dying in 1743, at the age of seventy-two. At one
time of his life he was so prodigiously fat that he weighed 32 stone,
he and a gentleman named Tantley being the two stoutest men in
Somersetshire. One day, after dinner, the former asked the latter what
he was thinking about.
"I was thinking," answered Tantley, "how it will be possible to get
either you or me into the grave after we die."
Cheyne was nettled, and retorted, "Six or eight stout fellows will do
the business for me, but you must be taken at twice."
Cheyne was a sensible man, and had more than one rough passage of arms
with Beau Nash, when the beau was dictator of the pump-room. Nash
called the doctor in and asked him to prescribe for him. The next day,
when the physician called and inquired if his prescription had been
followed, the beau languidly replied:--
"No, i' faith, doctor, I haven't followed it. 'Pon honour, if I had I
should have broken my neck, for I threw it out of my bed-room window."
But Cheyne had wit enough to reward the inventor of the white hat for
this piece of insolence. One day he and some of his learned friends
were enjoying themselves over the bottle, laughing with a heartiness
unseemly in philosophers, when, seeing the beau draw near, the doctor
said:--
"Hush, we must be grave now, here's a fool coming our way."
Cheyne became ashamed of his obesity, and earnestly set about
overcoming it. He brought himself down by degrees to a moderate diet,
and took daily a large amount of exercise. The result was that he
reduced himself to under eleven stone, and, instead of injuring his
constitution, found himself in the enjoyment of better health.
Impressed with the value of the discovery he had made, he wrote a book
urging all people afflicted with chronic maladies to imitate him and
try the effects of temperance. Doctors, notwithstanding their precepts
in favour of moderation, neither are, nor ever have been, averse to
the pleasures of the table. Many of them warmly resented Cheyne's
endeavours to bring good living into disrepute, possibly deeming that
their interests were attacked not less than their habits. Dryden
wrote,
"The first physicians by debauch were made.
Excess began, and sloth sustained the trade;
By chase our long-liv'd fathers earned their food,
Toil strung their nerves and purified their blood;
But we, their sons, a pamper'd race of men,
Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.
Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught;
The wise for cure on exercise depend,
God never made his work for man to mend."
Dr. Wynter arose to dispose of Cheyne in a summary fashion. Wynter had
two good reasons for hating Cheyne: Wynter was an Englishman and loved
wine, Cheyne was a Scotchman and loved milk.
DR. WYNTER TO DR. CHEYNE.
"Tell me from whom, fat-headed Scot,
Thou didst thy system learn;
From Hippocrate thou hadst it not,
Nor Celsus, nor Pitcairn.
"Suppose we own that milk is good,
And say the same of grass;
The one for babes is only food,
The other for an ass.
"Doctor, one new prescription try
(A friend's advice forgive),
Eat grass, reduce thyself, and die,
Thy patients then may live."
Cheyne responded, with more wit and more good manners, in the
following fashion:--
"DR. CHEYNE TO DR. WYNTER.
"My system, doctor, is my own,
No tutor I pretend;
My blunders hurt myself alone,
But yours your dearest friend.
"Were you to milk and straw confin'd,
Thrice happy might you be;
Perhaps you might regain your mind,
And from your wit be free."
"I can't your kind prescription try,
But heartily forgive;
'Tis natural you should wish me die,
That you yourself may live."
The concluding two lines of Cheyne's answer were doubtless little to
the taste of his unsuccessful opponent.
In their contentions physicians have not often had recourse to the
duel. With them an appeal to arms has rarely been resorted to, but
when it has been deliberately made the combatants have usually fought
with decision. The few duels fought between women have for the most
part been characterized by American ferocity. Madame Dunoyer mentions
a case of a duel with swords between two ladies of rank, who would
have killed each other had they not been separated. In a feminine duel
on the Boulevard St. Antoine, mentioned by De la Colombèire, both the
principals received several wounds on the face and bosom--a most
important fact illustrative of the pride the fair sex take in those
parts.[21] Sometimes ladies have distinguished themselves by fighting
duels with men. Mademoiselle Dureux fought her lover Antinotti in an
open street. The actress Maupin challenged Dumény, but he declined to
give her satisfaction; so the lady stripped him of watch and
snuff-box, and bore them away as trophies of victory. The same lady,
on another occasion, having insulted in a ball-room a distinguished
personage of her own sex, was requested by several gentlemen to quit
the entertainment. She obeyed, but forthwith challenged and fought
each of the meddlesome cavaliers--and killed them all! The slaughter
accomplished, she returned to the ball-room, and danced in the
presence of her rival. The Marquise de Nesle and the Countess
Polignac, under the Regency, fought with pistols for the possession of
the Duc de Richelieu. In or about the year 1827, a lady of
Châteauroux, whose husband had received a slap in the face, called out
the offender, and severely wounded him in a duel fought with swords.
The most dramatic affair of honour, however, in the annals of female
duelling occurred in the year 1828, when a young French girl
challenged a _garde du corps_ who had seduced her. At the meeting the
seconds took the precaution of loading without ball, the fair
principal of course being kept in ignorance of the arrangement. She
fired first and saw her seducer remain unhurt. Without flinching, or
changing colour, she stood watching her adversary, whilst he took a
deliberate aim (in order to test her courage), and then, after a
painful pause, fired into the air.
[21] _Vide_ Millingen's "History of Duelling."
Physicians have been coupled with priests, as beings holding a
position between the two sexes. In the Lancashire factories they
allow women and clergymen the benefit of an entrée--because they don't
understand business. Doctors and ladies could hardly be coupled
together by the same consideration; but they might be put in one class
out of respect to that gentleness of demeanour and suavity of voice
which distinguish the members of the medical profession, in common
with well-bred women.
Gentle though they be, physicians have, however, sometimes indulged in
wordy wrangling, and then had recourse to more sanguinary arguments.
The duel between Dr. Williams and Dr. Bennet was one of the bloodiest
in the eighteenth century. They first battered each other with
pamphlets, and then exchanged blows. Matters having advanced so far,
Dr. Bennet proposed that the fight should be continued in a
gentlemanly style--with powder instead of fists. The challenge was
declined; whereupon Dr. Bennet called on Dr. Williams, to taunt him
with a charge of cowardice. No sooner had he rapped at the door, than
it was opened by Williams himself, holding in his hand a pistol loaded
with swan-shot, which he, without a moment's parley, discharged into
his adversary's breast. Severely wounded, Bennet retired across the
street to a friend's house, followed by Williams, who fired another
pistol at him. Such was the demoniacal fury of Williams, that, not
contented with this outrage, he drew his sword, and ran Bennet through
the body. But this last blow was repaid. Bennet managed to draw his
rapier, and give his ferocious adversary a home-thrust--his sword
entering the breast, coming out through the shoulder-blade, and
snapping short. Williams crawled back in the direction of his house,
but before he could reach it fell down dead. Bennet lived only four
hours. A pleasant scene for the virtuous capital of a civilized and
Christian people!
The example of Dr. Bennet and Dr. Williams was not lost upon the
physicians of our American cousins. In the August of 1830, a meeting
took place, near Philadelphia, between Dr. Smith and Dr. Jeffries.
They exchanged shots at eight paces, without inflicting any injury,
when their friends interposed, and tried to arrange the difficulty;
but Dr. Jeffries swore that he would not leave the ground till some
one had been killed. The principals were therefore put up again. At
the second exchange of shots Dr. Smith's right arm was broken, when he
gallantly declared that, as he was wounded, it would be gratifying to
his feelings, to be killed. Third exchange of shots, and Dr. Smith,
firing with his left arm, hits his man in the thigh, causing immense
loss of blood. Five minutes were occupied in bandaging the wound; when
Dr. Jeffries, properly primed with brandy, requested that no further
obstacles might be raised between him and satisfaction. For a fourth
time the mad men were put up--at the distance of six feet. The result
was fatal to both. Dr. Smith dropped dead with a ball in his heart.
Dr. Jeffries was shot through the breast, and survived only a few
hours. The conduct of Dr. Jeffries during those last few hours was
admirable, and most delightfully in keeping with the rest of the
proceeding. On seeing his antagonist prostrate, the doctor asked if he
was dead. On being assured that his enemy lived no longer, he
observed, "Then I die contented." He then stated that he had been a
school-mate with Dr. Smith, and that, during the fifteen years
throughout which they had been on terms of great intimacy and
friendship, he had valued him highly as a man of science and a
gentleman.
One of the latest duels in which an English physician was concerned as
a principal was that fought on the 10th of May, 1833, near Exeter,
between Sir John Jeffcott and Dr. Hennis. Dr. Hennis received a wound,
of which he died. The affair was brought into the Criminal Court, and
was for a short time a _cause célèbre_ on the western circuit; but the
memory of it has now almost entirely disappeared.
As we have already stated, duels have been rare in the medical
profession. Like the ladies, physicians have, in their periods of
anger, been content with speaking ill of each other. That they have
not lost their power of courteous criticism and judicious abuse, any
one may learn, who, for a few hours, breathes the atmosphere of their
cliques. It is good to hear an allopathic physician perform his duty
to society by frankly stating his opinion of the character and conduct
of an eminent homœopathic practitioner. Perhaps it is better still
to listen to an apostle of homœopathy, when he takes up his parable
and curses the hosts of allopathy. "Sir, I tell you in confidence,"
observed a distinguished man of science, tapping his auditor on the
shoulder, and mysteriously whispering in his ear, "I know _things_
about _that man_ that would make him end his days in penal servitude."
The next day the auditor was closeted in the consulting-room of _that
man_, when that man said--quite in confidence, pointing as he spoke to
a strong box, and jingling a bunch of keys in his pocket--"I have
_papers_ in that box, which, properly used, would tie a certain friend
of ours up by the neck."
Lettsom, loose-living man though he was for a member of the Society of
Friends, had enough of the Quaker element in him to be very fond of
controversy. He dearly loved to expose quackery, and in some cases did
good service in that way. In the _Medical Journal_ he attacked, A. D.
1806, no less a man than Brodum, the proprietor of the Nervous
Cordial, avowing that that precious compound had killed thousands; and
also stating that Brodum had added to the crime of wholesale murder
the atrocities of having been born a Jew, of having been a shoe-black
in Copenhagen, and of having at some period of his chequered career
carried on an ignoble trade in oranges. Of course Brodum saw his
advantage. He immediately brought an action against Phillips, the
proprietor of the _Medical Journal_, laying his damages at £5000. The
lawyers anticipated a harvest from the case, and were proceeding not
only against Phillips, but various newsvendors also, when a newspaper
editor stept in between Phillips and Brodum, and contrived to settle
the dispute. Brodum's terms were not modest ones. He consented to
withdraw his actions, if the name of the author was given up, and if
the author would whitewash him in the next number of the Journal,
under the same signature. Lettsom consented, paid the two attorneys'
bills, amounting to £390, and wrote the required puff of Brodum and
his Nervous Cordial.
One of the singular characters of Dublin, a generation ago, was John
Brenan, M.D., a physician who edited the _Milesian Magazine_, a
scurrilous publication of the satirist class, that flung dirt on every
one dignified enough for the mob to take pleasure in seeing him
bespattered with filth. The man certainly was a great blackguard, but
was not destitute of wit. How he carried on the war with the members
of his own profession the following song will show:--
"THE DUBLIN DOCTORS.
"My gentle muse, do not refuse
To sing the Dublin Doctors, O;
For they're the boys
Who make the joys
Of grave-diggers and proctors, O.
We'll take 'em in procession, O,
We'll take 'em in succession, O;
But how shall we
Say who is he
Shall lead the grand procession, O?
Least wit and greatest malice, O,
Least wit and greatest malice, O,
Shall mark the man
Who leads the van,
As they march to the gallows, O.
First come then, Doctor Big Paw, O,
Come first then, Doctor Big Paw, O;
Mrs Kilfoyle
Says you would spoil
Its shape, did you her wig paw, O.
Come next, dull Dr Labat, O,
Come next, dull Dr Labat, O;
Why is it so,
You kill the doe,
Whene'er you catch the rabbit, O?
Come, Harvey, drunken dandy, O,
Come, Harvey, drunken dandy, O;
Thee I could paint
A walking saint,
If you lov'd God like brandy, O.
Come next, Doctor Drumsnuffle, O,
Come next, Doctor Drumsnuffle, O;
Well stuffed with lead,
Your leather head
Is thick as hide of Buffaloe.
Come next, Colossus Jackson, O,
Come next, Colossus Jackson, O;
As jack-ass mute,
A burthen brute,
Just fit to trot with packs on, O.
Come next, sweet Paddy Rooney, O,
Come next, sweet Paddy Rooney, O;
Tho' if you stay
Till judgment's day,
You'll come a month too soon-y, O.
Come next, sweet Breeny Creepmouse, O,
Come next, sweet Breeny Creepmouse, O;
Thee heaven gave
Just sense to shave
A corpse, or an asleep mouse, O.
For I say, creep-mouse Breeny, O,
For I say, creep-mouse Breeny, O;
Thee I can't sing
The fairy's king,
But I'll sing you their Queen-y O;
For I say, Dr Breeny, O,
For I say, Dr Breeny, O;
If I for once
Called you a dunce,
I'd shew a judgment weeny, O.
Come, Richards dull and brazen, O,
Come, Richards dull and brazen, O;
A prosperous drone,
You stand alone,
For wondering sense to gaze on, O.
Then come, you greasy blockhead, O,
Then come, you greasy blockhead, O;
Balked by your face,
We quickly trace,
Your genius to your pocket, O.
Come, Crampton, man of capers, O,
Come, Crampton, man of capers, O;
. . . . .
And come, long Doctor Renney, O,
And come, long Doctor Renney, O;
If sick I'd fee
As soon as thee,
Old Arabella Denny, O.
Come, Tandragee Ferguson, O,
Come, Tandragee Ferguson, O;
Fool, don't recoil,
But as your foil
Bring Ireland or Puke Hewson, O.
Come, ugly Dr Alman, O,
Come, ugly Dr Alman, O;
But bring a mask,
Or do not ask,
When come, that we you call man, O.
. . . . .
Come, Boyton, king of dunces, O,
Come, Boyton, king of dunces, O;
Who call you knave
No lies receive,
Nay, that your name each one says, O.
Come, Colles, do come, Aby, O,
Come, Colles, do come, Aby, O;
Tho' all you tell,
You'll make them well,
You always 'hould say may be, O.
Come, beastly Dr Toomy, O,
Come, beastly Dr Toomy, O;
If impudence
Was common sense
As you no sage ere knew me, O.
Come, smirking, smiling Beattie, O,
Come, smirking, smiling Beattie, O;
In thee I spy
An apple eye
Of cabbage and potaty, O.
Come, louse-bit Nasom Adams, O,
Come, louse-bit Nasom Adams, O;
In jail or dock
Your face would shock
It thee as base and bad damus, O.
Come next, Frank Smyth on cockney, O,
Come next, Frank Smyth on cockney, O;
Sweet London's pride,
I see you ride,
Despising all who flock nigh, O.
And bring your partner Bruen, O,
And bring your partner Bruen, O;
And with him ride
All by your side,
Like two fond turtles cooing, O.
Come next, Spilsberry Deegan, O,
Come next, Spilsberry Deegan, O;
With grace and air
Come kill the fair,
Your like we'll never, see 'gain, O.
Come, Harry Grattan Douglass, O,
Come, Harry Grattan Douglass, O;
A doctor's name
I think you claim,
With right than my dog pug less, O.
Come, Oronoko Harkan, O,
Come, Oronoko Harkan, O;
I think your face
Is just the place
God fix'd the blockhead's mark on, O.
Come, Christ-denying Taylor, O,
Come, Christ-denying Taylor, O;
Hell made your phiz
On man's a quiz,
But made it for a jailor, O.
Come, Packwood, come, Carmichael, O,
Come, Packwood, come, Carmichael, O;
Your cancer-paste,
The fools who taste,
Whom it kills not does nigh kill, O.
Come next, Adonis Harty, O,
Come next, Adonis Harty, O;
Your face and frame
Shew equal claim,
Tam Veneri quam Marti, O.
Here ends my song on Doctors, O,
Here ends my song on Doctors, O;
Who, when all damn'd
In hell are cramm'd,
Will beggar all the Proctors, O."
Brenan (to do him justice) was as ready to fell a professional
antagonist and brother with a bludgeon, hunting-whip, or pistol, as he
was to scarify him with doggerel. He was as bold a fellow as Dr.
Walsh, the Hibernian Æsculapius, who did his best to lay Dr. Andrew
Marshall down amongst the daisies and the dead men. Andrew Marshall,
when a divinity-student at Edinburgh, was insulted (whilst officiating
for Stewart, the humanity professor) by a youngster named Macqueen.
The insolence of the lad was punished by the professor (_pro tem._)
giving him a caning. Smarting with the indignity offered him, Macqueen
ran home to his father, imploring vengeance; whereupon the irate sire
promptly sallied forth, and entering Marshall's lodgings, exclaimed:--
"Are you the scoundrel that dared to attack my son?"
"Draw and defend yourself!" screamed the divinity student, springing
from his chair, and presenting a sword-point at the intruder's breast.
Old Macqueen, who had expected to have to deal only with a timid
half-starved usher ready to crouch whiningly under personal
castigation, was so astonished at this reception that he turned and
fled precipitately. This little affair happened in 1775. As a
physician Andrew Marshall was not less valiant than he had been when
a student of theology. On Walsh challenging him, he went out and stood
up at ten paces like a gentleman. Walsh, a little short fellow,
invisible when looked at side-ways, put himself in the regular
attitude, shoulder to the front. Marshall disdained such mean
prudence, and faced his would-be murdered with his cheeks and chest
inflated to the utmost. Shots were exchanged, Dr. Andrew Marshall
receiving a ball in his right arm, and Dr. Walsh, losing a lock of
hair--snipped off by his opponent's bullet, and scattered by the
amorous breeze. Being thus the _gainer_ in the affair, Dr. Andrew
Marshall made it up with his adversary, and they lived on friendly
terms ever afterwards. Why don't some of our living _medici_ bury the
hatchet with a like effective ceremony?
An affair that ended not less agreeably was that in which Dr.
Brocklesby was concerned as principal, where the would-be belligerents
left the ground without exchanging shots, because their seconds could
not agree on the right number of paces at which to stick up their man.
When Akenside was fool enough to challenge Ballow, a wicked story went
about that the fight didn't come off because one had determined never
to fight in the morning, and the other that he would never fight in
the afternoon. But the fact was--Ballow was a paltry mean fellow, and
shirked the peril into which his ill-manners had brought him. The
lively and pleasant author of "Physic and Physicians," countenancing
this unfair story, reminds us of the off-hand style of John Wilkes in
such little affairs. When asked by Lord Talbot "How many times they
were to fire?" the brilliant demagogue responded--
"Just as often as your Lordship pleases--I have brought _a bag of
bullets and a flask of gunpowder_ with me."