THE COUNTRY MEDICAL MAN.
The country doctor, such as we know him--a well-read and observant
man, skilful in his art, with a liberal love of science, and in every
respect a gentleman--is so recent a creation, that he may almost be
spoken of as a production of the present century. There still linger
in the provinces veteran representatives of the ignorance which, in
the middle of the last century, was the prevailing characteristic of
the rural apothecary. Even as late as 1816, the law required no
medical education in a practitioner of the healing art in country
districts, beyond an apprenticeship to an empiric, who frequently had
not information of any kind, beyond the rudest elements of a
druggist's learning, to impart to his pupils. Men who commenced
business under this system are still to be found in every English
county, though in most cases they endeavour to conceal their lack of
scientific culture under German or Scotch diplomas--bought for a few
pounds.
Scattered over these pages are many anecdotes of provincial doctors in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, from which a truthful but
not complimentary picture of their order may be obtained. Indeed, they
were for the most part vulgar drunken knaves, with just learning
enough to impose on the foolish crowds who resorted to them. The most
brilliant of the fraternity in Henry the Eighth's reign was Andrew
Borde, a Winchester practitioner. This gentleman was author and
buffoon, as well as physician. He travelled about the country from
market to fair, and from fair to market, making comic orations to the
crowds who purchased his nostrums, singing songs, and enlivening the
proceedings when they were becoming dull with grimaces of
inexpressible drollery. It was said of Sir John Hill,
"For physic and farces
His equal there scarce is;
His farces are physic,
His physic a farce is."
Borde's physic doubtless was a farce; but if his wit resembled physic,
it did so, not (like Hill's) by making men sick, but by rousing their
spirits and bracing their nerves with good hearty laughter. Everywhere
he was known as "Merry Andrew," and his followers, when they mounted
the bank, were proud to receive the same title.
Mr. H. Fleetwood Sheppard communicated in the year 1855, some amusing
anecdotes to "Notes and Queries" about the popular Dorsetshire
doctor--little Dr. Grey. Small but warlike, this gentleman, in the
reign of James the First, had a following of well-born roisterers that
enabled him to beard the High Sheriff at the assizes. He was always in
debt, but as he always carried a brandy-flask and a brace of loaded
pistols in his pocket or about his neck, he neither experienced the
mental harass of impecuniosity nor feared bailiffs. In the hour of
peril he blew a horn, which he wore suspended to his person, and the
gentlemen of his body-guard rallied round him, vowing they were his
"sons," and would die for him. Says the MS.--"This Doctor Grey was
once arreste by a pedler, who coming to his house knocked at ye dore
as yey (he being desirous of Hobedyes) useth to doe, and ye pedler
having gartars upon his armes, and points, &c., asked him whether he
did wante any points or gartars, &c., pedler like. Grey hereat began
to storme, and ye other tooke him by ye arme, and told him that he had
no neede be so angry, and holdinge him fast, told him y he had ye
kinge's proces for him, and showed him his warrant. 'Hast thou?' quoth
Grey, and stoode stil awhile; but at length, catchinge ye fellowe by
both ends of his collar before, held him fast, and _drawinge out a
great rundagger, brake his head in two or three places_."
Again, Dr. Grey "came one day at ye assizes, wheare ye sheriffe had
some sixty men, and he wth his twenty sonnes, ye trustyest young
gentlemen and of ye best sort and rancke, came and drancke in
Dorchester before ye sheriffe, and bad who dare to touch him; _and so
after awhile blew his horn and came away_." On the same terms who
would not like to be a Dorsetshire physician?
In 1569 (_vide_ "Roberts' History of the Southern Counties") Lyme had
no medical practitioner. And at the beginning of the seventeenth
century Sir Symonds D'Ewes was brought into the world at Coxden Hall,
near Axminster, by a female practitioner, who deformed him for life by
her clumsiness. Yet more, Mrs. D'Ewes set out with her infant for
London, when the babe, unable to bear the jolting of the carriage,
screamed itself into a violent illness, and had to be left behind at
Dorchester under the care of another doctress--Mrs. Margaret Waltham.
And two generations later, in 1665, the Rev. Giles Moore, of Essex,
had to send twenty-five miles for an ordinary medical man, who was
paid 12_s._ per visit, and the same distance for a physician, whose
fee was £1--a second physician, who came and stayed two days, being
paid £1 10_s._
Of the country doctors of the middle and close of the last century,
Dr. Slop is a fair specimen. They were a rude, vulgar, keen-witted set
of men, possessing much the same sort of intelligence, and disfigured
by the same kind of ignorance, as a country gentleman expects now to
find in his farrier. They had to do battle with the village nurses at
the best on equal terms, often at a disadvantage; masculine dignity
and superior medical erudition being in many districts of less account
than the force of old usage, and the sense of decorum that supported
the lady practitioners. Mrs. Shandy had an express provision in her
marriage settlement, securing her from the ignorance of country
doctors. Of course, in respect to learning and personal acquirements,
the rural practitioners, as a class, varied very much, in accordance
with the intelligence and culture of the district in which their days
were spent, with the class and character of their patients, and with
their own connections and original social condition. On his Yorkshire
living Sterne came in contact with a rought lot. The Whitworth Taylors
were captains and leaders of the army in which Dr. Slop was a
private. The original of the last-mentioned worthy was so ill-read
that he mistook Lithopædii Senonensis Icon for the name of a
distinguished surgical authority, and, under this erroneous
impression, quoted Lithopædus Senonensis with the extreme of gravity.
This Lithopædus Senonensis story is not without its companions. A
prescription, in which a physician ordered _extract, rad valer._, and
immediately under it, as an ingredient in the same mixture, a certain
quantity of _tinctura ejusdem_, sorely perplexed the poor apothecary
to who it was sent to be dispensed. _Tinctura ejusdem!_ What could it
be! _Ejusdem!_ In the whole pharmacopoeia such a drug was not named.
Nothing like it was to be found on any label in his shop. At his wits'
end, the poor fellow went out to a professional neighbour, and asked,
in an off-hand way, "How are you off for _Tinctura Ejusdem_? I am out
of it. So can you let me have a little of yours." The neighbour, who
was a sufficiently good classical scholar to have _idem_, _eadem_,
_idem_ at his tongue's end, lamented that he too was "out of the
article." and sympathizingly advised his _confrère_, without loss of
time, to apply for some at Apothecaries' Hall. What a delightful
blunder to make to a _friend_, of all the people in the world! The
apothecary must have been a dull as well as an unlettered fellow, or
he would have known the first great rule of his art--"When in
doubt--_Use water!_" A more awkward mistake still was that made by the
young dispenser, who, for the first time in his life, saw at the end
of a prescription the words _pro re natâ_. What could they mean? _pro
re natâ!_ What could _pro re natâ_ have to do with a mixture sent to
a lady who had just presented her husband with an heir. With the aid
of a Latin Dictionary, the novice rendered _pro re natâ_ "for the
thing born." Of course. Clearly the mixture was for the baby. And in a
trice the compound to be taken by an adult, as circumstances should
indicate a necessity for a dose, was sent off for the "little
stranger."
May not mention here be made of thee, ancient friend of childhood,
Roland Trevor? The whole country round, for a circle of which the
diameter measured thirty fair miles, thou wert one of the most popular
doctors of East Anglia. Who rode better horses? Who was the bolder in
the hunt, or more joyous over the bottle? Cheery of voice, with hearty
laughter rolling from purple lips, what company thou wert to festive
squires! The grave some score years since closed over thee, when
ninety-six years had passed over thy head--covering it with silver
tresses, and robbing the eye of its pristine fire, and the lip of its
mirthful curl. The shop of a country apothecary had been thy only
_Alma Mater_; so, surely, it was no fault of thine if thy learning was
scanty. Still, in the pleasant vales of Loes and Wilford is told the
story of how, on being asked if thou wert a believer in _phrenology_,
thou didst answer with becoming gravity, "I never keep it, and I never
use it. But I think it highly probable that, given frequently and in
liberal doses, it would be very useful in certain cases of irregular
gout."
Another memory arises of a country doctor of the old school. A huge,
burly, surly, churlish old fellow was Dr. Standish. He died in
extremely advanced age, having lived twenty-five years in the present
century. A ferocious radical, he was an object of considerable public
interest during the period of political excitement consequent on the
French Revolution. Tom Paine, the Thetford breeches-maker of whom the
world has heard a little, was his familiar friend and correspondent.
It was rumoured throughout the land that "government" had marked the
doctor out for destruction.
"Thar sai," the humbler Suffolk farmers used to gossip amongst
themselves, "thar sai a picter-taikin chap hav guv his poortright to
the King. And Billy Pitt ha'sin it. And oold King Georgie ha' swaren
as how that sooner nor later he'll hav his hid" (_i. e._ head).
The "upper ten" of Holmnook, and the upper ten-times-ten of the
distance round about Holmnook, held themselves aloof from such a
dangerous character. But the common folk believed in and admired him.
There was something of romance about a man whom George III. and Billy
Pitt were banded together to destroy.
Standish was a man of few words. "Down with the bishops!" "Up with the
people!" were his stock sentiments. He never approached nearer poetry
than when (yellow being then the colour of the extreme liberal party
in his district) he swore "there worn't a flower in the who' o'
crashun warth lookin' at but a sunflower, for that was yallow, and a
big un."
The man had no friends in Holmnook or the neighbourhood; but every
evening for fifty years he sate, in the parlour of the chief inn,
drinking brandy-and-water, and smoking a "churchwarden." His
wife--(his wooing must have been of a queer sort)--a quiet,
inoffensive little body, sometimes forgot she was but a woman, and
presumed to have an opinion of her own. On such occasions Standish
thrashed her soundly with a dog-whip. In consequence of one of these
castigations she ran away from her tyrant. Instead of pursuing her,
Dr. Standish merely inserted the following advertisement in the county
paper:--
"_Dr Standish to all whom it may concern._--Dr Standish's wife having
run away, he wants a housekeeper. Dr Standish doesn't want good looks
in a woman: but she must know how to hold her tongue and cook a plain
joint. He gives ten pounds. Mrs Standish needn't apply--she's too much
of a lady."
But poor Mrs. Standish did apply, and, what is more, obtained the
situation. She and her lord never again had any quarrel that obtained
publicity; and so the affair ended more happily than in all
probability it would have done had Sir Creswell Creswell's court been
then in existence. Standish's practice lay principally amongst the
mechanics and little farmers of the neighborhood. Much of his time was
therefore spent in riding his two huge lumbering horses about the
country. In his old age he indulged himself in a gig (which, out of
respect to radical politics, he painted with a flaring yellow paint);
but, at the commencement of the present century, the by-roads of
Suffolk--now so good that a London brougham drawn by one horse can
with ease whisk over the worst of them at the rate of ten miles an
hour--were so bad that a doctor could not make an ordinary round on
them in a wheeled carriage. Even in the saddle he ran frequent risk
of being mired, unless his horse had an abundance of bone and pluck.
Standish's mode of riding was characteristic of the man. Straight on
he went, at a lumbering six miles an hour trot--dash, dosh,
dush!--through the muddy roads, sitting loosely in his seat, heavy and
shapeless as a sack of potatoes, looking down at his brown corduroy
breeches and his mahogany top-boots (the toes of which pointed in
directly opposite directions), wearing a perpetual scowl on his brows,
and never either rising in his stirrups or fixing himself to the
saddle with his knees. Not a word would he speak to a living creature
in the way of civil greeting.
"Doctor, good morning to you," an acquaintance would cry out; "'tis a
nice day!"
"Ugh!" Standish would half grunt, half roar, trotting straight
on--dish, dosh, dush!
"Stop, doctor, I am out of sorts, and want some physic," would be the
second form of address.
"Then why the ---- ---- didn't you say so, instead of jawing about the
weather?" the urbane physician would say, checking his horse.
Standish never turned out an inch for any wayfarer. Sullen and
overbearing, he rode straight on upon one side of the road; and,
however narrow the way might be, he never swerved a barley-corn from
his line for horse or rider, cart or carriage. Our dear friend Charley
Halifax gave him a smart lesson in good manners on this point. Charley
had brought a well-bred hackney, and a large fund of animal spirits,
down from Cambridge to a title for orders in mid-Suffolk. He had met
Standish in the cottages of some of his flock, and afterwards meeting
elsewhere, had greeted him, and had no greeting in return. It was not
long ere Charley learnt all about the clownish apothecary, and
speedily did he devise a scheme for humbling him. The next time he saw
Standish in the distance, trotting on towards him, Charley put his
heels to his horse, and charged the man of drugs at full gallop.
Standish came lumbering on, disdaining to look before him and
ascertain who was clattering along at such a pace. On arriving within
six feet of Standish's horse, Halifax fell back on his curb-rein, and
pulled up sharp. Astonished, but more sensible than his master,
Standish's horse (as Charley knew would be the case) suddenly came to
a dead stop, on which Standish rolled over its head into the muddy
highway. As he rolled over, he threw out a volley of oaths. "Ah,
doctor," cried Charley, good-humoredly, "I said I would make you speak
to me." Standish was six feet high, and a powerful man. For a few
moments, on recovering his legs, he looked as if he contemplated an
assault on the young parson. But he thought better of it; and,
climbing into his seat once more, trotted on, without another
word--dish, dosh, dush! The incident didn't tend to soften his
feelings toward the Established Church.
The country doctor of the last century always went his rounds on
horseback booted and spurred. The state of the roads rendered any
other mode of travelling impracticable to men who had not only to use
the highways and coach-roads, but to make their way up bridle-paths,
and drifts, and lanes, to secluded farmsteads and outlying villages.
Even as late as the last generation, in Suffolk, where now people
drive to and fro at the rate of twelve miles an hour, a doctor (whom
the writer of these pages has reason to think of with affection) was
more than once mired, on a slightly-built blood horse, so effectually,
that he had to dismount ere the animal could be extricated; and this
happened in roads that at the present time are, in all seasons, firm
as a garden walk.
Describing the appearance of a country doctor of this period, a writer
observes--"When first I saw him, it was on Frampton Green. I was
somewhat his junior in years, and had heard so much of him that I had
no small curiosity to see him. He was dressed in a blue coat and
yellow buttons, buckskins, well-polished jockey-boots, with handsome
silver spurs, and he carried a smart whip with a silver handle. His
hair, after the fashion, was done up in a club, and he wore a
broad-brimmed hat." Such was the appearance of Jenner, as he galloped
across the vale of Gloucester, visiting his patients. There is little
to remind us of such a personage as this in the statue in Trafalgar
Square, which is the slowly-offered tribute of our gratitude to Edward
Jenner for his imperishable services to mankind. The opposition that
Jenner met with in his labours to free our species from a hideous
malady that, destroying life and obliterating beauty, spared neither
the cottage nor the palace, is a subject on which it is painful to
reflect. The learned of his own profession and the vulgar of all ranks
combined to persecute and insult him; and when the merit of his
inestimable discovery was acknowledged by all intelligent persons, he
received from his country a remuneration that was little better than
total neglect.
While acting as an apprentice to a country surgeon he first conceived
the possibility of checking the ravages of small-pox. A young servant
woman, who accidentally said that she was guarded from that disease by
having "had cow-pox," first apprized him that amongst the servants of
a rural population a belief existed that the virus from the diseased
cow, on being absorbed by the human system, was a preventive against
small-pox. From that time, till the ultimate success of his inquiries,
he never lost sight of the subject.
The ridicule and misrepresentation to which he was subjected are at
this date more pleasant for us to laugh at than, at the time, they
were for him to bear. The ignorant populace of London was instructed
that people, on being vaccinated, ran great risks of being converted
into members of the bovine family. The appearance of hair covering the
whole body, of horns and a tail, followed in many cases the operation.
The condition of an unhappy child was pathetically described, who,
brutified by vaccine ichor, persisted in running on all-fours and
roaring like a bull. Dr. Woodville and Dr. Moseley opposed Jenner, the
latter with a violence that little became a scientific inquirer.
Numerous were the squibs and caricatures the controversy called forth.
Jenner was represented as riding on a cow--an animal certainly not
adapted to show the doctor ("booted and spurred" as we have just seen
him) off to the best advantage. Of Moseley the comic muse sung:
"Oh, Moseley! thy book, nightly phantasies rousing,
Full oft makes me quake for my heart's dearest treasure;
For fancy, in dreams, oft presents them all browsing
On commons, just like little Nebuchadnezzar.
_There_, nibbling at thistle, stand Jem, Joe, and Mary,
On their foreheads, O horrible! crumpled horns bud:
There Tom with his tail, and poor William all hairy,
Reclined in a corner, are chewing the cud."
If London was unjust to him, the wiseacres of Gloucestershire thought
that burning was his fit punishment. One dear old lady, whenever she
saw him leaving his house, used to run out and attack him with
indescribable vivacity. "So your book," cried this charming matron, in
genuine Gloucestershire dialect, "is out at last. Well! I can tell you
that there bean't a copy sold in our town, nor shan't neither, if I
can help it." On hearing, subsequent to the publication of the book (a
great offence to the old lady!), some rumours of vaccination failures,
the same goodie bustled up to the doctor and cried, with galling
irony, "Shan't us have a general inoculation now?"
But Jenner was compensated for this worthy woman's opposition in the
enthusiastic support of Rowland Hill, who not only advocated
vaccination in his ordinary conversation, but from the pulpit used to
say, after his sermon to his congregation, wherever he preached, "I am
ready to vaccinate to-morrow morning as many children as you choose;
and if you wish them to escape that horrid disease, the small-pox, you
will bring them." A Vaccine Board was also established at the Surrey
Chapel--_i. e._ the Octagon Chapel, in Blackfriars Road.
"My Lord," said Rowland Hill once to a nobleman, "allow me to present
to your Lordship my friend, Dr. Jenner, who has been the means of
saving more lives than any other man."
"Ah!" observed Jenner, "would that I, like you, could say--souls."
There was no cant in this. Jenner was a simple, unaffected, and devout
man. His last words were, "I do not marvel that men are grateful to
me, but I am surprised that they do not feel gratitude to God for
making me a medium of good."
Of Jenner's more sprightly humour, the following epigrams from his pen
(communicated to the writer of these pages by Dr. E. D. Moore of
Salop), are good specimens.
"TO MY SPANISH CIGAR.
"Soother of an anxious hour!
Parent of a thousand pleasures!
With gratitude I owe thy power
And place thee 'mongst my choicest treasures.
Thou canst the keenest pangs disarm
Which care obtrudes upon the heart;
At thy command, my little charm,
Quick from the bosom they depart."
"ON THE DEATH OF JOHN AND BETTY COLE.
"Why, neighbours, thus mournfully sorrow and fret?
Here lie snug and cosy old John and his Bet;
Your sighing and sobbing ungodly and rash is,
For two knobs of coal that have now gone to ashes."
"ON MISS JENNER AND MISS EMILY WORTHINGTON TEARING THE "GLOBE"
NEWSPAPER.
"The greatest curse that hath a name
Most certainly from woman came.
Two of the sex the other night--
Well arm'd with talons, venom, spite,--
Pull'd caps, you say?--a great wonder!
By Jove, they pull'd the globe asunder!"
Dr. Jenner was very fond of scribbling _currente calamo_ such verses
as these. The following specimens of his literary prowess have, we
believe, never before been published.
HANNAH BALL.--A SONG.
"Farewell, ye dear lasses of town and of city,
Sweet ladies, adieu to you all!
Don't show a frown, though I tune up a ditty
In praise of fair Hannah Ball.
"T'other eve, as I rambled her snug cottage by,
Sly Cupid determined my fall,
The rogue, 'stead of darts, shot the beams of her eye,
The eye of my fair Hannah Ball.
"So sweetly she look'd, when attired so fine,
In her Dunstable hat and her shawl,
Enraptured I cried--''Tis a Goddess divine.'
'No indeed'--she replied--'Hannah Ball.'
"The bosom of Delia, tho' whiter than snow,
Is no more than black velvet pall--
Compared with my Hannah's--I'd have you to know--
The bosom of fair Hannah Ball.
"The honey the bee from her jessamine sips
You'd swear was as bitter as gall,
Could you taste but the sweets that exhale from the lips,
From the lips of the fair Hannah Ball.
"What's rouge, or carmine, or the blush of the rose?
Why, dead as the lime on the wall,
Compared with the delicate colour that glows
On the cheek of my fair Hannah Ball.
"When David melodiously play'd to appease
The troubled emotions of Saul,
Were his sounds more enchanting--ah, tell me, than these?
'Hannah Ball, oh! the fair Hannah Ball.'
"Near yonder fair copse as I pensively rove
In an eve, when the dews 'gin to fall;
To my sighs how kind echo responds from the grove--
'Hannah Ball, oh! the fair Hannah Ball.'
"With graces so winning see Rossi advance
But what's all his grace?--Why a sprawl--
With my Hannah compared, as she skims through the dance--
The lovely, the fair Hannah Ball.
"The song of the Mara--tho' great is her skill,
Believe me's no more than a squall,
Compared with the rapturous magical trill
Of my charming, my fair Hannah Ball.
"For oft in the meads at the close of the day,
Near yon murmuring rivulet's fall,
Have I heard the soft nightingale's soul-piercing lay,
And thought 'twas my fair Hannah Ball.
"To her eyes in Love's language I've told a soft tale,
But, alas! they replied not at all;
Yet bashfulness oft will our passions conceal;
Oh! the modest, the fair Hannah Ball.
"Ye Gods! would you make the dear creature my wife,
With thanks would I bow to you all;
How smoothly would then run the wheels of my life,
With my charming, my fair Hannah Ball.
"But should my petition be flung from the skies,
I'll take the bare bodkin or awl;
Yes! the cold seal of Death shall be fix'd on my eyes,--
What's Life without fair Hannah Ball."
This is a happy little satire on a vilage scandal. The Methodist
parson and Roger were amongst the doctor's rustic neighbours.
On a quarrel between Butler, the Methodist parson of
Frampton, and Roger his clerk. Butler accused the clerk of
stealing his liquors, and the clerk accused Butler of
stealing his bacon.
"Quoth good parson Butler to Rogers his clerk,
'How things come to light that are done in the dark!
My wine is all pilfer'd,--a sad piece of work,--
But a word with thee, Richard--I see thou'rt no Turk.'
"'What evil befall us!'--quoth Dick in reply,
Whilst contempt methodistical glanced from his eye,--
'My bacon's slipt off too--alas, sir! 'tis true,
And the fact seems to whisper that--you are no Jew.'"
The most daring of Jenner's epigrams, out of the scores that we have
perused, is the following--
ON READING ADAM SMITH.
"The priests may exclaim against cursing and swearing,
And tell us such things are quite beyond bearing;
But 'tis clear as the day their denouncing's a sham;
For a thousand good things may be learnt from _Adam_."
Babbage, in his "Decline of Science in England," has remarked that
"some of the most valuable names which adorn the history of English
science have been connected with this (the medical) profession." Of
those names many have belonged to country doctors; amongst which
Jenner has a conspicuous place.[22]
[22] Medical readers will be amused with the following letter, written
by Dr. Jenner, showing as it does the excess of caution with which he
prepared his patients for the trifling operation of vaccination.
"Sir,
"I was absent from home when your obliging letter of the
24th November arrived; but I do not think this is likely to
occur again for some time, and I shall therefore be very
happy to take your little family under my care at the time
you mention--the latter end of January. Our arrangements
must be carefully made, as the children must be met here by
proper subjects for transferring the Vaccine Lymph; for on
the accuracy of this part of the process much depends. It
may be necessary to observe also, that among the greatest
impediments to vaccination (indeed the greatest) is an
eruptive state of the skin on the child intended to receive
the infection. On this subject I wrote a paper so long ago
as the year 1804, and took much pains to circulate it; but I
am sorry to say the attention that has been paid to it by
the Faculty in general has been by no means equal to its
importance. This is a rock on which vaccination has been
often wreck'd; but there is no excuse, as it was so clearly
laid down in the chart.
"I am, Sir, your obedient
"and very humble servant,
"EDWARD JENNER."
Jenner was a bright representative of that class of medical
practitioners--sagacious, well-instructed, courageous, and
self-dependent in intellect--who, at the close of the last century,
began to spring up in all parts of the country, and have rapidly
increased in number; so that now the prejudiced, vulgar, pedantic
doctors of Sterne's and Smollett's pages are extinct--no more to be
found on the face of the earth than are the drunken squires who
patronized and insulted them.
Of such a sort was Samuel Parr, the father of the famous classic
scholar and Whig politician of the same name. The elder Parr was a
general practitioner at Harrow, "a man" (as his son described him) "of
a very robust and vigorous intellect." Educated in his early years at
Harrow School, Samuel Parr (the son) was taken from that splendid
seminary at the age of fourteen years and apprenticed to his father.
For three or four years he applied himself to the mastery of the
elements of surgical and medical knowledge--dispensing medicines,
assisting at operations, and performing all the duties which a country
doctor's pupil was expected to perform. But he had not nerve enough
for the surgical department of the profession. "For a physician," he
used to say, "I might have done well, but for a surgeon never." His
father consequently sent him to Cambridge, and allowed him to turn his
intellects to those pursuits in which Nature had best fitted him to
excel. Dr. Parr's reminiscences of this period of medical instruction
were nearly all pleasant--and some of them were exquisitely droll. At
that early age his critical taste and faculty caused him to subject
the prescriptions that came under his notice to a more exact scrutiny
than the dog-Latin of physicians usually undergoes.
"Father," cried the boy, glancing his eye over a prescription, "here's
another mistake in the grammar!"
"Sam," answered the irritable sire, "d---- the prescription, make up
the medicine."
Laudanum was a preparation of opium just then coming into use. Mr.
Parr used it at first sparingly and cautiously. On one occasion he
administered a small quantity to a patient, and the next day, pleased
with the effects of the dose, expressed his intention (but
hesitatingly) to repeat it.
"You may do that safely, sir," said the son.
"Don't be rash, boy. Beginners are always too bold. How should you
know what is safe?" asked the father.
"Because, sir," was the answer, "when I made up the prescription
yesterday, I doubled the dose."
"Doubled the dose! How dared you do that?" exclaimed the angry senior.
"Because, sir," answered little Sam, coolly, "_I saw you hesitate._"
The father who would not feel pride in such a son would not deserve to
have him.
Though Parr made choice of another profession he always retained a
deep respect for his father's calling and the practitioners of it;
medical men forming a numerous and important portion of his
acquaintance. In his years of ripest judgment he often declared that
"he considered the medical professors as the most learned,
enlightened, moral, and liberal class of the community."
How many pleasant reminiscences this writer has of country surgeons--a
class of men interesting to an observer of manners, as they comprise
more distinct types of character than any other professional body.
Hail to thee, Dr. Agricola! more yeoman than _savant_, bluff, hearty,
and benevolent, hastening away from fanciful patients to thy farm,
about which it is thy pleasure, early and late, to trudge, vigilant
and canny, clad in velveteen jacket and leathern gaiters, armed with
spud-stick or double-barrel gun, and looking as unlike Andrew Borde
or Dr. Slop as it is possible to conceive mortal! What an eccentric,
pious, tyrannical, most humane giant thou art! When thou wast mayor of
thy borough, what lawless law didst thou maintain! With thine own arm
and oaken stick didst thou fustigate the drunken poacher who beat his
wife; and the little children, who made a noise in the market-square
on a Sunday, thou didst incarcerate (for the sake of public morality)
in "the goose-house" for two hours; but (for the sake of mercy) thou
didst cause to be served out to each prisoner one large gingerbread
bun--to soften the hardships of captivity. When the ague raged, and
provisions were scarce in what the poor still refer to as "the bad
year," what prescriptions didst thou, as parish doctor, shower down on
the fever-ridden?--Mutton and gin, beef and wine--such were thy
orders! The parsons said bravo! and clapt thee on the back; but the
guardians of the poor and the relieving officers were up in arms, and
summoned thee before a solemn tribunal at the union-house--"the
board!" in fact. What an indignant oath and scream of ridicule didst
thou give, when an attorney (Sir Oracle of "the board") endeavoured to
instil into thy mind the first principles of supply and demand, and
that grandest law of political economy--to wit, if there are too many
poor people in a neighbourhood, they must be starved out of it into
one where they will not be in the way; and if there are too many poor
people in the entire world, they must be starved out of that also into
another, where there'll be more room for them! And what was thy answer
to the chairman's remark, "Doctor, if mutton and gin are the only
medicines that will cure the sick poor, you must supply them
yourself, in accordance with your contract"? What was thy answer? Why,
a shower of butchers' and vintners' bills, pulled from the pockets of
thy ancient gray coat--bills all receipted, and showing that, before
asking the ratepayers for a doit, thou hadst expended every penny of
thy salary of £150 on mutton and gin, beef and wine--for the sick
poor! What a noble answer to a petty taunt! The chairman blushed. The
attorney hurried away, saying he had to be present at an auction. The
great majority of "the board" came to a resolution, engaging to
support you in your schemes for helping the poor through the bad year.
But the play was not yet at an end. Some rumours of what had occurred
at the board reaching the ears of a few poor peasants, they made bold
to thank thee for thy exertions in their behalf. How didst thou
receive them?--With a violent harrangue against their incorrigible
laziness and dishonesty--an assurance that half their sufferings
sprung from their own vices--and a vehement declaration that, far from
speaking a good word for them to the guardians, thou didst counsel the
sternest and cruellest of measures.
A man of another mould and temper was the writer's dear friend, Felix.
Gentle and ardent, tranquil as a summer evening, and unyielding as a
rock, modest but brave, unobtrusive but fearless, he had a mind that
poets only could rightly read. Delicate in frame, as he was refined in
intellect, he could not endure rude exertion or vulgar pleasure.
Active in mind, he still possessed a vein of indolence, thoroughly
appreciating the pleasure of dreaming the whole day long on a sunny
chair in a garden, surrounded with bright flowers and breathing a
perfumed air. In the hot season the country people used to watch their
doctor traversing the country in his capacious phaeton. Alone, without
a servant by his side, he held the reins in his hands, but in his
reveries altogether forgot to use them. Sometimes he would fall
asleep, and travel for miles in a state of unconsciousness, his great
phlegmatic horse pounding the dust at the rate of five miles an hour.
The somni-driverous doctor never came to harm. His steed knew how to
keep on the left-hand side of the road, under ordinary circumstances
passing all vehicles securely, but never thinking of overtaking any;
and the country people, amongst whom the doctor spent his days, made
his preservation from bodily harm an object of their especial care.
Often did a rustic wayfarer extricate the doctor's equipage from a
perilous position, and then send it onwards without disturbing the
gentleman by waking him. The same placid, equable man was Felix in
society, that he was on these professional excursions--nothing
alarming or exciting him. It was in his study that the livelier
elements of his nature came into play. Those who, for the first time,
conversed with him in private on his microscopic and chemical
pursuits, his researches in history, or his labours in speculative or
natural philosophy, caught fire from his fire and were inspired with
his enthusiasm.
Felix belonged to a class daily becoming more numerous; Miles was of a
species that has already become rare--the army surgeon. The
necessities of the long war caused the enrolment of numbers of young
men in the ranks of the medical profession, whose learning was not
their highest recommendation to respect. An old navy surgeon, of no
small wit, and an infinite capacity for the consumption of strong
liquors--wine, brandy, whisky, usquebaugh (anything, so long as it was
strong)--gave a graphic description to this writer of his examination
on things pertaining to surgery by the Navy Board.
"Well," said the narrator, putting down his empty glass and filling it
again with Madeira--"I was shown into the examination-room. Large
table, and half-a-dozen old gentlemen at it. 'Big-wigs, no doubt,'
thought I; 'and sure as my name is Symonds, they'll pluck me like a
pigeon.'
"'Well, sir, what do you know about the science of your profession?'
asked the stout man in the chair.
"'More than he does of the practice, I'll be bound,' tittered a little
wasp of a dandy--a West End ladies' doctor.
"I trembled in my shoes.
"'Well, sir,' continued the stout man, 'what would you do if a man was
brought to you during action with his arms and legs shot off? Now,
sir, don't keep the Board waiting! What would you do? Make haste!'
"'By Jove, sir!' I answered--a thought just striking me--'I should
pitch him overboard, and go on to some one else I could be of more
service to.'
"By -- --! every one present burst out laughing; and they passed me
directly, sir--passed me directly!"
The examiners doubtless felt that a young man who could manifest such
presence of mind on such an occasion, and so well reply to a
terrorizing question, might be trusted to act wisely on other
emergencies.
Many stories of a similar kind are very old acquaintances of most of
our readers.
"What"--an examiner of the same Board is reported to have said to a
candidate--"would you have recourse to if, after having ineffectually
tried all the ordinary diaphoretics, you wanted to throw your patient,
in as short a time as possible, into a profuse perspiration?"
"I should send him here, sir, to be examined," was the reply.
Not less happy was the audacity of the medical student to Abernethy.
"What would you do," bluntly inquired the surgeon, "if a man was
brought to you with a broken leg?"
"Set it, sir," was the reply.
"Good--very good--you're a very pleasant, witty young man; and
doubtless you can tell me what muscles of my body I should set in
motion if I kicked you, as you deserve to be kicked, for your
impertinence."
"You would set in motion," responded the youth, with perfect coolness,
"the flexors and extensors of my right arm; for I should immediately
knock you down."
If the gentlemen so sent forth to kill and cure were not overstocked
with professional learning, they soon acquired a knowledge of their
art in that best of all schools--experience. At the conclusion of the
great war they were turned loose upon the country, and from their body
came many of the best and most successful practitioners of every
county of the kingdom. The race is fast dying out. A Waterloo banquet
of medical officers, serving in our army at that memorable battle,
would at the present time gather together only a small number of
veterans. This writer can remember when they were plentiful; and, in
company with two or three of the best of their class, he spent many of
the happiest days of his boyhood. An aroma of old camp life hung about
them. They rode better horses, and more boldly, than the other doctors
round about. However respectable they might have become with increased
years and prosperity, they retained the military knack of making
themselves especially comfortable under any untoward combination of
external circumstances. To gallop over a bleak heath, through the cold
fog of a moonless December night; to sit for hours in a stifling
garret by a pauper's pallet; to go for ten days without sleeping on a
bed, without undressing, and with the wear of sixteen hours out of
every twenty-four spent on horseback--were only features of "duty,"
and therefore to be borne manfully, and with generous endurance, at
the time--and, in the retrospect, to be talked of with positive
contentment and hilarity. They loved the bottle, too--as it ought to
be loved: on fit occasions drinking any given quantity, and, in
return, giving any quantity to drink; treating claret and the thinner
wines with a levity at times savouring of disdain; but having a deep
and unvarying affection for good sound port, and, at the later hours,
very hot and very strong whisky and water, _with_ a slice of lemon in
each tumbler. How they would talk during their potations! What stories
and songs! George the Fourth (even according to his own showing) had
scarce more to do in bringing about the victory at Waterloo than
they. Lord Anglesey's leg must have been amputated thrice; for this
writer knew three surgeons who each--separately and by himself--performed
the operation. But this sort of boasting was never indulged in before
the --th tumbler.
May a word not be here said on the toping country doctor? Shame on
these times! ten years hence one will not be able to find a bibulous
apothecary, though search be made throughout the land from Dan to
Beersheba! Sailors, amongst the many superstitions to which they cling
with tenacity, retain a decided preference for an inebrious to a sober
surgeon. Not many years since, in a fishing village on the eastern
coast, there flourished a doctor in great repute amongst the poor; and
his influence over his humble patients literally depended on the fact
that he was sure, once in the four-and-twenty hours, to be handsomely
intoxicated. Charles Dickens has told the public how, when he bought
the raven immortalised in "Barnaby Rudge," the vendor of that
sagacious bird, after enumerating his various accomplishments and
excellences, concluded, "But, sir, if you want him to come out very
strong, you must show him a drunk man." The simple villagers of
Flintbeach had a firm faith in the strengthening effects of looking at
a tipsy doctor. They always postponed their visits to Dr. Mutchkin
till evening, because then they had the benefit of the learned man in
his highest intellectual condition. "Dorn't goo to he i' the mornin',
er can't doctor noways to speak on tills er's had a glass," was the
advice invariably given to a stranger not aware of the doctor's little
peculiarities.
Mutchkin was unquestionably a shrewd fellow, although he did his best
to darken the light with which nature had endowned him. One day,
accompanied by his apprentice, he visited a small tenant farmer who
had been thrown on his bed with a smart attack of bilious fever. After
looking at his patient's tongue and feeling his pulse, he said
somewhat sharply:--
"Ah! 'tis no use doing what's right for you, if you will be so
imprudent."
"Goodness, doctor, what do you mean?" responded the sick man; "I have
done nothing imprudent."
"What!--nothing imprudent? Why, bless me, man, you have had green peas
for dinner."
"So I have, sir. But how did you find that out?"
"In your pulse--in your pulse. It was very foolish. Mind, you mayn't
commit such an indiscretion again. It might cost you your life."
The patient, of course, was impressed with Mutchkin's acuteness, and
so was the apprentice. When the lad and his master had retired, the
former asked:--
"How did you know he had taken peas for dinner, sir? Of course it
wasn't his pulse that told you."
"Why, boy," the instructor replied, "I saw the pea-shells that had
been thrown into the yard, and I drew my inference."
The hint was not thrown away on the youngster. A few days afterwards,
being sent to call on the same case, he approached the sick man, and,
looking very observant, felt the pulse.
"Ah!--um--by Jove!" exclaimed the lad, mimicking his master's manner,
"this is very imprudent. It may cost you your life. Why, man, you've
eaten a horse for your dinner."
The fever patient was so infuriated with what he naturally regarded as
impertinence, that he sent a pathetic statement of the insult offered
him to Mutchkin. On questioning his pupil as to what he meant by
accusing a man, reduced with sickness, of having consumed so large and
tough an animal, the doctor was answered--
"Why, sir, as I passed through from the yard I saw the saddle hanging
up in the kitchen."
This story is a very ancient one. It may possibly be found in one of
the numerous editions of Joe Miller's facetiæ. The writer has,
however, never met with it in print, and the first time he heard it,
Dr. Mutchkin, of Flintbeach, was made to figure in it in the matter
above described.
The shrewdness of Mutchkin's apprentice puts us in mind of the
sagacity of the hydropathic doctor, mentioned in the "Life of Mr
Assheton Smith." A gentleman devoted to fox-hunting and deep potations
was induced, by the master of the Tedworth Hunt, to have recourse to
the water cure, and see if it would not relieve him of chronic gout,
and restore something of the freshness of youth. The invalid acted on
the advice, and in obedience to the directions of a hydropathic
physician, proceeded to swathe his body, upon going to his nightly
rest, with wet bandages. The air was chill, and the water
looked--very--cold. The patient shivered as his valet puddled the
bandages about in the cold element. He paused, as a schoolboy does,
before taking his first "header" for the year on a keen May morning;
and during the pause much of his noble resolve oozed away.
"John," at last he said to his valet, "put into that d---- water half
a dozen bottles of port wine, to warm it."
John having carried out the direction, the bandages, saturated with
port wine and water, were placed round the corpulent trunk of the
invalid. The next morning the doctor, on paying his visit and
inspecting the linen swathes, instead of expressing astonishment at
their discoloration with the juice of the grape, observed, with the
utmost gravity:--
"Ah, the system is acting beautifully. See, the port wine is already
beginning to leave you!"
A different man from Dr. Mutchkin was jovial Ambrose Harvey. Twenty
years ago no doctor throughout his county was more successful--no man
more beloved. By natural strength of character he gained leave from
society to follow his own humours without let, hindrance, or censure.
Ladies did not think the less highly of his professional skill because
he visited them in pink, and left their bedsides to ride across the
country with Lord Cheveley's hounds. Six feet high, handsome, hearty,
well-bred, Ambrose had a welcome wherever there was joy or sickness.
To his little wife he was devotedly attached and very considerate; and
she in return was very fond, and--what with woman is the same
thing--very jealous of him. He was liked, she well knew, by the
country ladies, many of whom were so far her superiors in rank and
beauty and accomplishments, that it was only natural in the good
little soul to entertain now and then a suspicious curiosity about the
movements of her husband. Was it nothing but the delicate health of
Lady Ellin that took him so frequently to Hove Hall? How it came
about, from what charitable whisperings on the part of kind friends,
from what workings of original sin in her own gentle breast, it would
be hard to say; but 'tis a fact that, when Hove Hall was mentioned, a
quick pain seized the little wife's heart and colour left her cheek,
to return again quickly, and in increased quantity. The time came when
she discovered the groundlessness of her fears, and was deeply
thankful that she had never, in any unguarded moment, by clouded brow,
or foolish tears, or sharp reply, revealed the folly of her heart.
Just at the time that Mrs. Ambrose was in the midst of this trial of
her affection, Ambrose obtained her permission to drive over to a town
twelve miles distant, to attend the hunt dinner. The night of that
dinner was a memorable one with the doctor's wife. Ambrose had
promised to be home at eleven o'clock. But twelve had struck, and here
he had not returned. One o'clock--two o'clock! No husband! The
servants had been sent to bed four hours ago; and Mrs. Ambrose sate
alone in her old wainscotted parlour, with a lamp by her side, sad,
and pale, and feverish--as wakeful as the house-dog out of doors, that
roamed round the house, barking out his dissatisfaction at the
prolonged absence of his master.
At length, at half-past two, a sound of wheels was at the door, and in
another minute Ambrose entered the hall, and greeted his little wife.
Ah, Mrs. Ellis, this writer will not pain you by entering into details
in this part of his story. In defence of Ambrose, let it be said that
it was the only time in all his married life that he paid too
enthusiastic homage to the god of wine. Something he mumbled about
being tired, and having a headache, and then he walked, not
over-steadily, upstairs. Poor Mrs. Ambrose! It was not any good asking
_him_, what had kept him out so late. Incensed, frightened, and
jealous, the poor little lady could not rest. She must have one doubt
resolved. Where had her husband been all this time? Had he been round
by Hove Hall? Had she reflected, she would have seen his Bacchic
drowsiness was the best possible evidence that he had not come from a
lady's drawing-room. But jealousy is love's blindness. A thought
seized the little woman's head; she heard the step of Ambrose's man in
the kitchen, about to retire to rest. Ah, he could tell her. A word
from him would put all things right. Quick as thought, without
considering her own or her husband's dignity, the angry little wife
hastened down-stairs, and entered the kitchen where John was paying
his respects to some supper and mild ale that had been left out for
him. As evil fortune would have it, the step she had taken to mend
matters made them worse.
"Oh, John," said the lady, telling a harmless fib, "I have just come
to see if cook left you out a good supper."
John--most civil and trustworthy of grooms--rose, and posing himself
on his heels, made a respectful obeisance to his mistress, not a
little surprised at her anxiety for his comfort. But, alas! the
potations at the hunt-dinner had not been confined to the gentlemen of
the hunt. John had, in strong ale, taken as deep draughts of gladness
as Ambrose had in wine. At a glance his mistress saw the state of the
case, and in her fright, losing all caution, put her question
point-blank, and with imperious displeasure--"John, where have you and
your master been?--tell me instantly."
An admirable servant--honest and well-intentioned at all times--just
then confused and loquacious--John remembered him how often his master
had impressed upon him that it was his duty not to gossip about the
places he stopped at in his rounds, as professional secrecy was a
virtue scarcely less necessary in a doctor's man-servant than in a
doctor. Acting on a muddle-headed reminiscence of his instructions,
John reeled towards his mistress, endeavouring to pacify her with a
profusion of duteous bobbings of the head, and in a tone of piteous
sympathy, and with much incoherence, made this memorable answer to her
question: "I'm very sorry, mum, and I do hope, mum, you won't be
angry. I allus wish to do you my best duty--that I do, mum--and you're
a most good, affable missus, and I, and cook, and all on us are very
grateful to you."
"Never mind that. Where have you and your master been? That's my
question."
"Indeed, mum--I darnatellye, it would bes goodasmeplace wi' master. I
dare not say where we ha' been. For master rekwested me patikler not
to dewulge."
But thou hadst not wronged thy wife. It was not thine to hurt any
living thing, dear friend. All who knew thee will bear witness that to
thee, and such as thee, Crabbe pointed not his bitter lines:--
"But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, bustle and conceit,
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,
With speed that entering speaks his haste to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries Fate and Physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills,
Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.
Paid by the Parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer.
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes to the door;
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man, and mutely hastens to the grave."
THE END.
INDEX.
Abernethy, Dr. John, 48, 158, 159, 180, 213, 214, 216, 375, 407.
Abernethy, Biscuit, 162.
Addington, Dr. Anthony, 394.
Agricola, Dr., 496.
Agrippa, Cornelius, 87.
Aikin, Dr., 48, 428.
Ailhaud's Powder, 102.
Akenside, Dr., 327, 381.
Albemarle, Duke of, 54, 118.
Alexander, William, 320.
Allan, 43.
Alston, Sir Richard, 257.
Alured, Thomas, 274.
Andrew, Merry, 29, 422.
Anne, Queen, 92, 93, 94, 116, 117, 119, 131, 163, 189, 242, 262.
Anthony, Dr. Francis, 467.
Antiochus, 168.
Arbuthnot, Dr., 62, 72, 132, 138, 144, 163, 186, 187, 190, 191, 192.
Archer, Dr. John, 148, 149, 150, 225.
Argent, Dr., 17.
Armstrong, Dr., 426.
Arnold, Dr., 345.
Askew, Dr., 10, 244.
Atkins, Dr. Henry, 66, 204.
Atkins, Will, 15.
Aubrey, John, 25, 464.
Augustus, 13, 168.
Ayliffe, Sir John, 165, 166.
Ayre, William, 74.
Bacon, Lord, 82, 255, 287.
Baillie, Dr., 10, 244, 394.
Baker, Dr., 161, 332.
Ballow, Mr., 381.
Baltrop, Dr. Robert, 29.
Bancroft, Dr. John, 139.
Barber--surgeons, 12.
Baring, Sir F., 178.
Barrowby, Dr., 155, 156.
Barrymore, Lord, 154.
Bartley, Dr., 29.
Barton, Mr. 278.
Bayle, Dr., 78.
Beauclerc, Lady Vere, 289.
Beauford, Dr., 154, 155.
Beauford, Thomas, 474.
Beckford, 45.
Beddoes, Dr. 146.
Bedford, Duke of, 96, 309.
Behn, Afra, 200.
Bennet, Dr., 382.
Bentham, Jeremy, 397.
Bentley, 184, 185, 252.
Berkeley, Bishop, 96.
Berry, Miss, 318.
Betterton, 139.
Bickersteth, Dr. Henry, 396.
Bidloe, Dr., 118.
Blackmore, Sir Richard, 39, 51, 73, 74, 113, 115, 117, 186,
193, 375, 427.
Bleeding, 225.
Blizard, Sir William, 114, 245.
Blood, Mrs., 309.
Blount, Col., 195.
Bohn, Mr., 26.
Bond, John, M. A., 183.
Borcel, William de, 55.
Borde, Andrew, 29, 423, 479.
Boswell, James, 140, 308, 333, 339, 463.
Boulter, Mr., 473.
Bourdier, Dr., 205.
Bouvart, Dr., 169.
Boydell, Mary, 408.
Boyle, Mr., 57, 58, 272, 467.
Brennen, Dr. John, 386.
Brocklesby, Dr., 16, 211, 381.
Brodie, Sir Benjamin, 107, 166, 366, 370.
Bruce, Robert, 193.
Browne, Sir Thomas, 38.
Buckle, Mr., 333.
Buckingham, Duchess of, 152.
Buckingham, Duke of, 47, 58.
Buckinghampshire, Countess of, 370.
Bulleyn, Richard, 37.
Bulleyn, Dr. William, 25, 26, 29, 37, 64, 165, 229.
Bungalo, Prof., 92.
Buns, Dr., 29.
Burke, Edmund, 211, 441.
Burnet, Gilbert, 131.
Burton, Dr., 67.
Burton, Robert, 263, 428.
Burton, Sim, 292.
Busby, Dr., 9.
Butler, Dr., 211.
Butler, Samuel, 260.
Butler, Dr. William, 25, 179.
Butts, Sir William, 25, 164, 166.
Byron, Lord, 193, 328.
Cadogan, Lord, 290, 393.
Cains, 22.
Calfe, Thomas, 29.
Chambre, Dr. John, 21.
Campan, Madame, 283.
Campanella, Thomas, 13, 264.
Cane, 11.
Canker, 33.
Canning, 421.
Cardan, 264.
Caroline, Queen, 174.
Carr, Dr., 29.
Carriages, 17.
Carteret, George, 55.
Case, John, 167.
Cashin, Catherine, 364, 370.
Catherine, Empress, 179.
Cavendish, Lord C., 161.
Chalon, Comtesse de, 349.
Charles I., 23, 42, 173, 204.
" II., 15, 17, 23, 38, 40, 57, 148, 157, 173, 174, 234, 472.
" VI., 221.
" IX., 173.
" XI., 203.
Charleton, Dr., 58.
Chartres, Francis, 191.
Chatham, Earl of, 394.
Chaucer, 20.
Cheke, Sir John, 138.
Chemberline, 79.
Cheselden, Dr., 68, 215, 292.
Chester, Richard, 332.
Chesterfield, Lord, 233, 314.
Cheyne, Dr., 146, 247, 377, 399.
Cholmondley, Miss, 238.
Churchill, General, 180, 290.
Clarke, Mr., 233.
Clarke, Sir James, 18, 107.
Clermont, Lady, 349.
Clopton, Roger, 312.
Coakley, Dr., 339.
Codrington, Col., 195, 199.
Cogan, Dr., 428.
Coke, 11.
Coldwell, Dr., 229.
Coleridge, S. T., 41.
Coles, William, 178.
Collier, Jeremy, 200.
Collington, Sir James, 193.
Colombèire, De la, 380.
Combermer, Lord, 393.
Congreve, 201.
Conolly, Dr., 221.
Conway, Lady, 271, 272.
Conway, Lord, 273.
Cooper, Sir Astley, 13, 70, 177, 362, 375.
Cooper, Bransby, 375.
Cooper, Dr. William, 216.
Cordus, Euricus, 168.
Cordus, Valerius, 65.
Cornwallis, Lord, 290.
Corvisart, Dr., 205.
Cotgrave, 85.
Coytier, Dr., 203.
Crabbe, George, 436.
Cranworth, Lord, 311, 320.
Creswell, Sir Creswell, 485.
Croft, Sir Richard, 394.
Cromwell, 83.
Crossfield, Thomas, 435.
Crowe, Mrs., 290.
Cruikshank, George, 413.
" Dr., 211.
Cudworth, Dr., 272.
Cullum, Sir Thomas Geery, 398.
Cumberland, Earl of, 171.
Curran, John Philpot, 213.
Curray, Dr. "Calomel," 162.
Cutler, Sir John, 472.
Dalmahoy, Colonel, 15.
Darrell, Lady, 33, 165.
Darwin, Dr. Erasmus, 428.
Davy, Sir Humphrey, 59, 60, 61, 62, 429.
Davy, Lady, 62.
Dawson, John, 406.
Dawson, Dr. Thomas, 406.
Dee, Dr., 42.
Delaune, 471.
Denman, Dr. Joseph, 394.
Denman, Lord, 393, 394.
Dennis, 375.
Denton, Dr., 272.
Derby, Edward, Earl of, 44, 165.
De Rothes, Countess, 398.
Derwentwater, Earl of, 111.
Desault, 13.
Desmond, Countess of, 254.
Devonshire, Duchess, 349.
D'Ewes, Sir Symonds, 480.
Diamond, Dr., 41, 321, 434.
Dickens, Charles, 503.
Digby, Sir Everard, 42.
Digby, Sir Kenelm, 38, 57, 58, 282.
Dilly, Charles, 339.
Dimsdale, Dr., 179.
Dioscorides, 64.
Dodds, James, 357.
Dodsley, 328.
Doran, John, 167, 466.
Dorset, Richard, Earl of, 343.
Douglas, Sylvester, 395.
Drake, Dr. James, 125.
Dryden, John, 38, 74, 194, 197, 201, 379.
Dubois, Dr., 205.
Ducrow, Andrew, 372.
Dumény, 381.
Dumoulin, Dr., 104.
Dunoyer, Madame, 380.
Dureux, Madame, 381.
Dwyer, J. W., 277.
Dyson, Dr., 328.
Edmunds, Dr., 29.
Edward I., 40.
" II., 258.
" III., 166, 170, 476.
" VI., 21, 173.
Edwards, Dr., 29.
Edwards, George, 56.
Eliot, Sir John, 402, 403, 408.
Elizabeth, Queen, 40, 164, 173, 203.
Elliot, Sir Thomas, 29, 33, 165, 229.
Elmy, Sarah, 438.
Elton, Sir Marwood, 393.
Embrocations, 30.
Ent, Dr., 58.
Erasistratus, 168.
Erskine, 180, 194.
Eugene, Prince, 153.
Evelyn, John, 57, 174.
Everard, Dr., 150, 225.
Faber, Dr., 272.
Fairclough, Dr. James, 272, 274.
Faire, Thomas, 29.
Fallopius, Gabriel, 144.
Fees, 163.
Ferriar, Dr., 428.
Fielding, Beau, 42, 186.
Fielding, Henry, 96, 316.
Fielding, Sir John, 316.
Flemyng, Dr., 146.
Fludd, Dr. Robert, 422, 436.
Fludd, Dr. Thomas, 435.
Foote, Samuel, 463.
Ford, Charles, 132.
Fordyce, Dr. George, 153.
Forster, Dr., 320.
Fothergill, Dr. John, 207, 335, 337.
Fox, Charles James, 430.
Fox, Simeon, 17.
Francis II., 173.
French, Mrs., 288.
Frere, Dr., 29.
Freind, Dr., 152, 186, 251, 252, 318, 375.
Froissart, 221.
Fuller, Thomas, 25, 180.
Gaddesden, John of, 258.
Galen, 13.
Galileo, 369.
Gardiner, Joseph, 292.
Garrick, David, 314.
Garth, Sir Samuel, 63, 92, 113, 152, 186, 194, 199, 333,
375, 376, 433, 472.
Gascoigne, Sir William, 33, 165.
Gaskin, Dr., 155.
Gay, John, 186.
Geber, 255.
Gee, Dr., 29.
George I., 243.
" III., 160, 173, 174, 340, 350, 431.
" IV., 170, 173.
Germain, Lord George, 402.
Getseus, John Daniel, 265.
Gibbons, Dr., 113, 117, 139, 152, 375.
Gilbert, Dr., 276.
Gisborne, Dr. Thomas, 394.
Gloucester, Duke of, 118.
Glynn, Dr., 162, 208, 400.
Goddard, Dr., 58.
Godolphin, Sir John, 272, 313, 316.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 86, 115, 185, 189, 426.
Good, Dr. Mason, 428.
Goodwin, Mr., 78.
Gordonius, 13.
Gout, 23.
Gower, Lord, 156.
Grafton, Duke of, 317.
Graham, Dr. James, 345, 350, 351.
Grainger, 427.
Grant, Roger, 94, 95.
Gray, Thomas, 333.
Greatrakes, Valentine, 265-273.
Greaves, Sir Edmund, 55.
Green, Richard, 439.
Gregory, Dr. James, 193, 209.
Grenville, Lord, 207.
Grey, Dr., 479.
Griffith, Mrs., 426.
Gungeland, Coursus de, 170.
Guy, Thomas, 466, 470.
Guyllyam, Dr., 221.
Gwynn, Nell, 157.
Gyer, Nicholas, 228.
Hale, Dr., 252.
Hales, Stephen, 291.
Halford, Sir Henry, 173, 393, 421.
Halifax, Charley, 486.
Halley, Dr., 185.
Hamey, Baldwin, 63.
Hamilton, Sir William, 348.
Hancock, The Rev. John, 95.
Handel, 161.
Hannes, Sir Edward, 113, 114, 115, 249, 375, 384.
Harrington, Dr., 429.
Harris, Sir Edward, 265.
Harris, Edmund, 265.
Hartley, Dr. D., 292.
Hartman, George, 45.
Harvey, Dr. John, 24, 369.
Harvey, Dr. Ambrose, 506.
Harward, Simon, 228.
Hastings, Mrs. Sarah, 288.
Hatcher, Dr., 29, 164.
Haveningham, Sir Anthony, 33, 165.
Hawkins, Dr. C., 292.
Hawkins, Sir John, 330.
Haygarth, Dr., 277.
Hearne, Thomas, 225, 423.
Heberden, Dr. W., 51, 53, 161, 211.
Hel, Dr. Maximilian, 283.
Henry III., 40, 173.
" IV., 23, 173.
" VII., 21.
" VIII., 21, 164, 171, 422, 468.
Heraclius, Prince, 303.
Herfurth, Earl of, 166.
Hermes, 9, 11.
Hertford, Marquis of, 235.
Hill, Sir John, 59, 398, 479.
Hill, Sir Rowland, 490.
Hilton, Sir Thomas, 36.
Hilton, William, 36.
Hippocrates, 226.
Hobart, Sir Nathaniel, 272.
Hogarth, 463, 468.
Hook, Mrs., 99.
Horace, 308.
Howe, Dr., 212.
Howell, James, 46.
Hughes, Mary Ann, 99.
Hulse, Dr. Edward, 72, 252.
Hunter, Dr. John, 23, 215, 295, 355, 369, 375, 405, 413.
Hunter, Dr. William, 175.
Huyck, Dr., 29.
Hyatt, Mr., 178.
Ingestre, Lord, 370.
Inverness, Lady, 303.
Ivan, Dr., 205.
James I., 42, 47, 173, 204, 225, 471, 479.
" II., 198.
" IV., 166.
James, Dr., 251.
Jebb, Dr. John, 160.
Jebb, Sir Richard, 159, 160, 205.
Jeffcott, Sir John, 384.
Jeffries, Dr., 383.
Jenkins, Henry, 254.
Jenner, Dr. Edward, 295, 369, 375, 488.
Jermaine, Lady Betty, 289.
Johnson, Samuel, 16, 39, 53, 67, 115, 140, 194, 201, 232,
239, 262, 308, 330, 333, 427, 463.
Jonson, Ben, 42, 44.
Joseph, Emperor, 179.
Jurin, Dr. James, 184.
Katterfelts, Dr., 103.
Kavanaugh, Lady Harriet, 370.
Kaye, John, 22, 29.
Keats, John, 436.
Keill, 184.
Kellet, Alexander, 181.
Kemp, Dr. Mitchell, 415.
Kennix, Margaret, 288.
King, Sir Edmund, 72, 113, 117, 234.
King, Dr., 299.
Kingsdown, Lord, 393, 394.
Kitchener, Dr., 42.
Kahn, Thamas Kouli, 303.
Kneller, Sir Godfrey, 118, 119.
Knightley, Sir Richard, 203.
Kunyngham, Dr. William, 29.
Lambert, Daniel, 145.
Langdale, Lord, 396.
Langton, Dr., 19, 29.
Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 358.
Lax, Mr., 278.
Leake, Robert, 247.
Lettsom, Dr. John Coakley, 178, 207, 335, 375, 385.
Levit, John, 78, 252.
Levitt, William Springall, 438.
Lewis, Jenkin, 115.
Lewis, M. G., 411.
Linacre, 22, 29, 138.
Lloyd, Mrs., 369.
Locke, Dr. John, 421.
Locock, Dr., 287.
Lodge, Edmund, 43.
Long, John St. John, 356, 402.
Louis XIII., 23, 173.
" XIV., 205, 235.
Louis XV., 146.
Loutherbourg, Mr. and Mrs., 97, 98, 99, 100, 101.
Lovell, Dr., 277.
Lovkin, Dr., 29.
Lower, Dr., 157.
Lowther, Sir James, 290.
Ludford, Dr. Simon, 29.
Luff, Dr., 113.
Macartney, Dr., 370.
Macaulay, Catherine, 345.
M'Dougal, Peter, 108, 109, 110.
Macilwain, George, 214, 375.
Mackintosh, Lady, 303.
Macnish, Dr., 436.
Mæcenas, 48.
Mahomet, 83.
Mandeville, 140.
Manfield, Dr., 28.
Manley, Mrs., 200.
Mapletoft, Dr., 52.
Mapp, Mrs., 295.
Marie Louise, 205.
Marlborough, Duke of, 77, 248, 313.
" Duchess of, 140.
Marshall, Dr., 112, 389.
Martial, 186.
Marvel, Andrew, 272.
Mary, Queen, 175.
Marwood, Dr., 393.
Masham, Lady, 132, 137.
Mason, William, 333.
Masters, Dr., 29.
Maupin, 381.
Maxwell, Dr. William, 281.
Mayerne, Sir Theodore, 23, 25, 48, 66, 146, 170.
Mead, The Rev. Matthew, 240.
Mead, Dr. Richard, 10, 68, 81, 97, 134, 136, 137, 142, 152,
207, 239, 292, 377, 403, 434.
Meade, Dr. William G., 254.
Meagrim, Molly, 354.
Mercurius, 11.
Mercury, 9.
Meredith, Sir Amos, 373.
Mesmer, Dr. Frederick Anthony, 256, 264, 265, 275, 280, 345.
Messenger, Elizabeth, 312.
Messenger, Thomas, 312.
Migaldus, 264.
Miller, Joseph, 143.
Millingen, Dr., 382, 429.
Millington, Sir Thomas, 72.
Moir, Dr., 436.
Monsey, Dr. Messenger, 311.
Monsey, Dr. Robert, 312.
Montague, Lord, 42.
" Mrs., 318, 321.
Montaigne, 263.
Moore, Dr. E. D., 491.
Moore, Rev. Giles, 481.
Moore, Dr. John, 428.
Morgan, Hugo, 203.
Morrison, Mr., 83.
Morrison's pills, 373.
Moseley, Dr., 489.
Moussett, Dr., 21.
Munchausen, 236.
Murphy, Arthur, 463.
Musa, Antonius, 13.
Mutchkin, Dr., 503.
Myersbach, Dr., 102.
Myrepsus, Nicholas, 65.
Napoleon, 205.
Nash, Beau, 378.
Nelson, Dr., 178.
Nelson, Lord, 193.
Nesbitt, Dr., 240, 292.
Nesle, Marquise de, 381.
Newton, Sir Isaac, 185, 252, 255.
Nicholson, Anthony, 273.
Noble, J. P., 277.
Northumberland, Earl of, 44.
Nutley, Billy, 125.
Opie, John, 433.
Ormond, Marchioness, 368, 370.
Orrery, Earl of, 266, 271.
Osborn, Jack, 311.
Page, Mr., 438.
Palmery, Dr., 236.
Pannel, Dr. Thomas, 29.
Paracelsus, 226, 256, 257, 264.
Pare, Ambrose, 173.
Park, Judge, 367.
Parnell, 186.
Parr, Samuel, 67, 345, 494.
Paris, Sir Philip, 165.
Paris, Sir William, 33, 66.
Pedagogues, 183.
Peel, Sir Robert, 397.
Pellet, Dr. Thomas, 241, 292.
Pemberton, Dr. Edward, 395.
Penié, Dr., 229.
Pepys, Sir Lucas, 238, 394, 397.
Pepys, Samuel, 465.
Percy, Thomas, 44, 427.
Perkins's tractors, 276, 283.
Pettigrew, Dr., 375.
Phillips, 285.
Phreas, Dr. John, 20.
Pindar, Peter, 430.
Pitcairn, Dr., 20, 244.
Placaton, Johannes, 65.
Plasters, 30.
Polhill, David, 241.
Polignac, Countess, 381.
Pooley, Thomas, 274.
Pope, Alexander, 53, 67, 68, 93, 186, 190, 194, 198, 200,
252, 318, 334, 370, 473.
Popple, W., 274.
Porter, Dr. John, 29.
Portland, Earl of, 118.
Pratt, Mary, 97, 98, 99, 100.
Precious water, 30.
Pringle, Sir John, 59, 161.
Quacks, 82.
Quarin, Dr., 179.
Quarrels, 374.
?., 11.
Radcliffe, Dr. John, 10, 111, 152, 153, 204, 242, 243, 244,
249, 314, 375, 403.
Radnor, Lord, 232, 473.
Rahere, Dr., 468.
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 203.
Ramadge, Dr., 370.
Ranby, Mr., 316.
Ranelagh, Lady, 273.
Ranelagh, Lord, 398.
Read, Henry, 254.
Reade, Sir William, 93, 95.
Redshaw, Mrs. Hannah, 123.
Reynolds, Baron, 96, 180.
Reynolds, Dr. Henry Revel, 13, 394.
Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 427.
Richardson, Daniel, 356, 357.
Richelieu, 381.
Robertson, William, 193.
Robinson, Mr., 317.
Robinson, Thomas, 98.
Rochford, Earl of, 118.
Rock, Dr., 212.
Rogers, Tom, 225.
Rolfe, The Rev. Edmund, 320.
Rolfe, Robert Monsey, 320.
Rose, Mr., 78.
Rushe, Sir Thomas, 25.
Rust, Dean, 273, 274.
Rutland, Duke of, 441.
Saffold, Dr. Thomas, 90, 91.
Sally, Crazy, 296.
Sanders, Dr. Huck, 393.
Saville, Sir George, 290.
Savoy, Duke of, 235.
Saxby, Dr., 330.
Scott, Claude and Co., 363.
Scott, Reginald, 229.
Scott, Sir Walter, 50, 315.
Sedley, Sir Charles, 195.
Seleucus, 168.
Seymour, Algernon, 398.
Shandy, Mrs., 481.
Sharp, Dr. Sam, 292.
Shaw, Peter, 292.
Sheffield, Lady, 238.
Sheldon, Dr. John, 158.
Shenstone, 39, 427.
Sheppard, H. Fleetwood, 479.
Sheridan, R. B., 395.
Shirley, Dr. Thomas, 23.
Short, Dr. Thomas, 117.
Sidmouth, Lord, 393.
Sligo, Lord, 368, 370.
Sloane, Sir Hans, 51, 68, 72, 96, 161, 297, 393, 395, 421.
Slop, Dr., 481.
Smart, Dr., 316.
Smith, Adam, 493.
Smith, Sir William, 272.
Smith, Dr., 383.
Smithson, Sir Hugh, 398.
Smollett, T. G., 69, 233, 333, 426.
Soissons, Chevalier, 152.
Somerset, Duke of, 398.
Southcote, Joanna, 347.
Spencer, Lady, 349.
Sprat, Bishop, 129.
Stafford, Dr., 145, 146.
Standish, Dr., 484.
Stanley, Sir Edward, 44.
Stanley, Venetia, 43.
Steele, Sir Richard, 101, 120, 199, 400, 428, 463.
Stephens, Joanna, 288, 289.
Sterne, Laurence, 193, 428, 481.
Stowe, John, 19, 171.
Strickland, Agnes, 243.
Stuart, Charles Edward, 193.
Stubbe, Dr. Henry, 169, 273.
Sutcliffe, Dr., 335.
Swartenburgh, Dr. Sieur, 153.
Swift, Jonathan, 72, 73, 93, 132, 186, 187, 188, 197, 314, 375, 400.
Sydenham, Dr., 51, 52.
Sydney, Sir Philip, 42.
Sympathetic powder, 45.
Tailor, Lady, 33, 165.
Talbot, Sir G., 58, 381.
Tantley, 378.
Tatler, The, 126.
Taylor, Chevalier, 297, 299, 310, 352, 355.
Taylor, John, Jr., 302.
Thackeray, 401.
Theveneau, Dr., 236.
Thompson, Dr., 67.
Thornton, Bonnel, 14.
Thurlow, Bishop, 355.
Thurlow, Lord, 12.
Tissot, 102.
Tovell, John, 439.
Townsend, Dr., 83.
Trelawny, Sir William, 430.
Trevor, Lord, 429.
Tuke, Col., 37, 58.
Turner, Dr., 29, 229.
Turton, Dr. J., 161.
Tyson of Hackney, 143.
Valleriola, 264.
Van Buchell, Dr., 413.
Vandeput, Sir George, 156.
Vanninus, 264.
Ventadour, M. De, 235.
Vespasian, 261.
Victoria, Dr. Fernandus de, 21.
Victoria, Queen, 173.
Villars, 105, 106, 107, 351.
Von Ellekon, Dr., 283.
Wadd, Dr. William, 174, 228.
Wakley, Mr., 366.
Walker, Obadiah, 129, 130.
Walpole, Horace, 234, 333.
Walpole, Robert, 252, 314.
Walsh, Dr., 380.
Waltham, Mrs. Margaret, 481.
Ward, 248, 295, 297, 308.
Ward's pills, 96.
Warren, Dr., 211, 394.
Watson, Sir William, 161.
Weatherby, Jo., 156.
Wedderburne, 465.
Weld, Charles, 57.
Wellington, Duke of, 193.
Wendy, Dr. Thomas, 29, 164.
Whichot, Dr. Benjamin, 272, 274.
Whistler, Dr., 113, 117.
Whitaker, Dr. Tobias, 148.
Whitefood, The Rev. John, 40.
Wierus, 264.
Wigs, 15.
Wilkes, John, 381.
Wilkins, Dr., 272.
William III., 118, 119, 138, 198.
" IV., 173.
Williams, Dr., 382.
Willis, Dr., 174, 394.
Wilson, 217.
Wingfield, Sir Robert, 37.
Winslow, Dr. Forbes, 53, 321.
Winston, Dr. Thomas, 63.
Wolcot, John, 430.
Wollaston, Dr. William Hyde, 59.
Wolsey, Cardinal, 21.
Wood, Anthony á, 55, 423.
Woodhouse, The Hon. Francis, 298.
Woodhouse, Mrs., 288.
Woodville, Dr., 489.
Woodward, Dr. John, 72, 248, 377.
Wordsworth, William, 59.
Wrench, Sir Benjamin, 313.
Wynter, Dr., 377, 379.
Yaxley, Dr. Robert, 21.