Produced by Chris Curnow, Sue Fleming and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Geoffery Gambado;
OR,
A SIMPLE REMEDY FOR
HYPOCHONDRIACISM
AND
MELANCHOLY SPLENETIC HUMOURS.
BY A HUMORIST PHYSICIAN.
_Honi soit qui mal y pense._
PRINTED, FOR THE AUTHOR, BY DEAN & SON, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON.
[Illustration: GEOFFERY GAMBADO]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE. 3
THE FRONTISPIECE. 8
CHAPTER I. 11
CHAPTER II. 21
CHAPTER III. 30
CHAPTER IV. 34
CHAPTER V. 40
CHAPTER VI. 51
CHAPTER VII. 56
CHAPTER VIII. 60
CHAPTER IX. 62
CHAPTER X. 66
CHAPTER XI. 70
CHAPTER XII. 72
CHAPTER XIII. 79
CHAPTER XIV. 88
CHAPTER XV. 108
Preface.
Some years ago, sixteen original sketches by Henry Bunbury, Esq. were
given to the Author of this Book. This celebrated sketcher and
caricaturist was a gentleman well known in the county of Suffolk for his
public and private virtues, as well as for his superior talents. He was
a lineal descendant of the Rev. Sir William Bunbury, whose baronetcy was
created in 1681. Of a cheerful and lively temper, he sought to infuse
the same spirit through all ranks of society. If we mistake not, his son
became Sir Henry Bunbury, and represented the county of Suffolk, as his
uncle, Sir Thomas Charles Bunbury, had done before him.
His descendants still occupy the mansion and estates in Suffolk, where
they have been, and are still, the great benefactors to the poor, and
the parish of Great Barton near Bury St. Edmund's.
But we have to speak more particularly of Henry Bunbury, Esq. and his
talents. To this day, his accurate delineations of the political and
social customs of the age he lived in, and of the characters who came
under his observation, are remarkable for their truthful force. It is
very seldom that men of high life and good education, possess the
artistic power of graphic delineation: at least, we have but few amateur
delineators who can stand the test of the invidious sneers and jeers of
those empty possessors of wealth and station, who consider themselves
degraded even by the acquaintance of an artist, a poet, or a literary
character. Now, if a man is not a degraded man, but lives himself after
the law of God, he need never mind the scoffs or ridicule of any man;
but may say, as Henry Bunbury did to those who ridiculed him,--"Evil be
to him who evil thinks."
In the Sketches contained in this work, the difficulty was to make out
what kind of story they told; for though some persons might see in them
nothing more than ridicule upon the _Annals of Complete Horsemanship_,
yet those who knew the man, and knew the disposition he always
entertained, namely, a desire to do evil to no man, but good to all,
thought that his intention was to cure some over-sensitive minds of
morbid and melancholy feelings, which ought not, unreasonably and
unseasonably, to overwhelm them, and destroy their energies.
It was not that he ridiculed real affliction, or ever, in any one of his
drawings, sought to give a pang to the real mourner; but he really loved
a cheerful disposition; and could not bear that man should be afflicting
himself with imaginary diseases, when a little self-exertion, or
diversion, would restore his right tone of bodily health, and be the
means of doing him good.
We have adopted these views of our celebrated talented Suffolk
gentleman, and have endeavoured to turn his pictures to this profitable
account. They represent horses, and costume of fashion or fiction, long
since exploded; but they represented real persons, whom he knew, and
many were reckoned inimitable likenesses. Caricature is itself a species
of broad, or excessive resemblance of fact; let it be represented by
Shakspeare's Falstaff,--Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode,--Dickens' Pickwick
Papers,--Macaulay's Stories of Historical Persons, (introduced into his
popular History of England),--or of Punch,--or of that greatest of all
powerful pencil delineators of character, George Cruikshank. We leave
out the popular novelists, or poets, who have written funny as well as
serious things;--all, more or less, have taken advantage of caricature
skill, to prove their acquaintance with the ridiculous.
Cowper is generally looked upon as a serious poet, yet he wrote "Johnny
Gilpin." But we will make no more excuses for our present work. We will
only add that it was originally conceived for a charitable purpose, and
is now made use of as such.
The Author of the Illustrations has long since departed this mortal
life; and the Author of the Narrative, not seeking the reputation of
his own name, does not give it to the world; but, apologizing for his
interpretation of the sketches, desires only to do good. If any should
be entertained, and will kindly send any mark of their favour to the
Publisher, for the Author, the word of a Gentleman is given, that,
whatever it may be, it shall be strictly devoted to public good.
THE FRONTISPIECE.
"Reader! did you ever see an angel on horseback?" "No!" No more did I,
that I know of! We read of one in (II. Maccabeus, c. 3); but then he was
clad in armour of gold, and rode a most powerful animal, who smote with
his forelegs the avaricious Heliodorus. But here we see a very different
representation, both as to horse and rider, and engaged in trumpeting
forth the praises of the celebrated
DOCTOR GAMBADO.
"Gambado! Sempre viva! Encora! Encora!" In fact, it is termed "The
Apotheosis of Geoffery Gambado, Esq. M.D. F.R.S."
Now this angel might be a daughter of Doctor Gambado's, or she might be
his scullery-maid. She is represented on a horse, which, instead of
being a winged Pegasus, stands well upon his pegs, and seems to have
lent his wings to the damsel herself, to bear both himself and her
"in nubibus." She holds a medallion of the Doctor, a striking portrait,
in her right hand; and in her left, the celebrated brazen trumpet of
Fame; and, no doubt, whether his angelic daughter or his faithful
domestic, she was one who knew so well the admirable worth of the good
physician, that she simply means to say,--"May the cheerful spirit of
such good men as Doctor Gambado live for ever, and drive out of all
splenetic patients, the tormenting stings of the Blue Devils."
[Illustration: THE APOTHEOSIS OF GEOFFERY GAMBADO, MD]
If he can do this, his canonization will indeed be immortal, though it
be trumpeted forth by so humble an instrument as the angel we here see
represented on a wooden horse.
Reader, the humblest instrument in the world may, in the hand of wisdom,
be used as an angel for your own good. The poor fellow who lifts you up
from the ground, should you happen to fall, may be the helping hand
provided you. The messenger who finds you in suffering, and sends the
doctor to your relief, may be the unknown angel for your deliverance.
A poor boy, or a poor girl, who snatches you, in your infant days, from
the peril of a pond, may be used as an angel for your welfare.
Do not always expect to see angels in golden armour for your
deliverance; though the generous and charitably-good Samaritan, the
friend in need, may be the friend indeed at the hour you most require
him,--only be humble, only be thankful, and even this poor picture may
be a message of comfort to your spirit; for
"Reproof is better than a great man's gold;
And he is good who loves a thing well told:
Then 'evil be to him who thinks the same,'
And would destroy Gambado's honest fame."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
_Gambado himself seeing the world in a six miles' tour._
It is time we should speak something of this celebrated person, and
account for his present position and appearance. He is very unlike any
modern physician. A hundred years ago, however, we have no doubt that
such was a fac-simile of this noble specimen of an equestrian medical
proficient. It is a hundred years ago since the original sketch of him
was made, which we have endeavoured to copy. We have to account for
finding him in such a position. First, Who was he? What was he? Where
did he live? What did he do? And how came he into notice at all?
Most men are born somewhere! and except they become noted for something
they have done, it is very seldom that any inquiry is made about them at
all. Neither the place of their birth, nor the locale of their fame, or
name, or habitation, of their death, or marriage, is made of any moment
whatsoever.
Alas! those who are most ambitious of fame, seldom get it whilst they
live; and very few, ever, as literary men, are exalted to a title, like
Lord Macaulay; whilst those often feel they are praised for what they
own they do not deserve, are more humbled by their reputation, than they
are exalted.
It was said to Gambado, in the day of his greatest reputation, "We will
certainly have you in Westminster Abbey?"
"Thank you, my dear fellow," was his reply; "I would rather eat a mutton
chop with you at the Mermaid Tavern, in the street I was born in, than
lie along with John Milton, (who was born in the next street to mine),
or with any of those worthies, Shakspeare, Raleigh, or Ben Jonson; who
can no longer eat a mutton chop with us at their old Tavern:
"'I seek no fame, I want no name,
My bread in Bread-street is:
Gambado has sufficient fame;
This is sufficient bliss!'"
He was born in Bread-street, in Cheapside: and in the first year of the
reign of George the Third, A.D. 1760, he was in full practice and
celebrity, and could not be less than forty years of age. As to whom he
married, and what became of his wife and one lovely daughter, we know
not. They appear conspicuously only in the last pages of this narrative,
and were evidently in the enjoyment of all their great master's
reputation, as well as in the keeping up with him in partaking of his
own favourite panacea for all complaints, viz.--the riding on horseback.
But how came he to take up this exercise? to stick to it? and to
recommend it as he did upon every occasion? Simply, as he told every
one, because he found in it a sure and certain remedy for that dreadful
nervous disease, commonly known by the name of the "Blue Devils."
Few things gave greater offence in that day to the Faculty, than Dr.
Gambado's system of practice. He prescribed very little, if any,
medicine: he certainly gave none to those whom he considered did not
require it. He knew the power of a strong mind over a weak body, and
what too great fatigue of either would produce. He knew well, moreover,
the danger of entertaining too much imagination upon any complaint. He
was acknowledged by all to be well versed in the physical construction
of the human frame; and especially of that most complicated portion, the
nervous system, to which he had paid such scientific attention that his
_Vocabulary of Nervous Constitutions_ was his great work, that won
for him much scientific fame, and got him the honour of being elected
F.R.S. before he attained such practical success as made his fortune. He
did make a great fortune; and he was honest enough to confess that he
owed the enjoyment of it, if not the possession of it, entirely to a
Horse-dealer.
He was, himself, at one period of his life, so completely prostrated in
his own nervous system, that, from the crown of his head to the sole of
his feet, he was completely unstrung. He was constantly in the habit of
going to church with his wife and daughter, at St. Stephen's, Walbrook,
one of Sir Christopher Wren's most beautiful specimens of architecture;
but in his depression he shunned the company of those he loved best on
earth, and almost forsook his God and his duty, imagining himself
totally forsaken of Him and every friend. He had no pleasure in any
thing. His very profession was a burthen to him, and night and day he
did nothing but mope. What would have become of him, his wife and
daughter, his practice, his home, and his society, had he not, as he
used to say, met with an angel, in the shape of a horse-dealer?
He was strolling, one evening, in a very melancholy mood, down
Friday-street, not far from his own home, as he passed by the livery
stables of John _Tattsall_, as the name was then spelt. John knew the
doctor, and capped him with "A beautiful evening, sir."
The Doctor stopped, and looking very woefully in his face, said, "Yes,
John, very beautiful to those who are well."
"Yes sir, and to those who are sick, too; and I wish they could enjoy
it."
"John, I am very ill myself, and have been so for some time. I shall not
write many more prescriptions!"
"I hope you won't, sir; I hope you won't."
"Why so, John? why so?"
"Because you gentlemen prescribe so much advice, and so seldom follow
any good advice yourselves, that you are sure to die sooner than any
other men. You all know too much about other people, and very little
about yourselves."
"You are a blunt fellow, John; but I do not like you the less for that.
You once consulted me, did you not?"
"Yes, sir, and you told me the truth; and I liked you all the better for
it. You told me plainly there was nothing the matter with me. 'Go home,'
you said, 'drink a glass of cold water just before you get into bed; and
if that do not do you more good than any medicine I can give you, then
come to me again, bring me another guinea, and I will give you the same
advice.' I did as you advised, and it was the best cold water cure that
ever was effected: I have never been ill since. But, Doctor, I have
heard that you are out of sorts. One good turn deserves another, and if
you will follow my advice, only for one week, you shall be a different
man to what you now are. You shall soon earn your hundreds; and only
give me one guinea in the hundred, and you will make my fortune and your
own too."
"What is your advice? I will agree to the terms."
"Well, Doctor, let me tell you the truth. You have done too
much,--studied too much,--wrote too much,--thought too much,--and have
overdone everything, and now find you can do nothing. You are fast
sinking into that lapsed condition in which you will soon become an
inmate of Bedlam, if you go on as you have done of late. You grow
enormously fat, and are getting like the pig in my stye, and will soon
be snoring, snoring, snoring, all day long, a plague to yourself and
everyone else. If you do not follow my advice, you will be a dead man
before you ever eat another Christmas turkey."
"What is it, John?"
"Ride out six miles on horseback, every morning at six o'clock,--and six
miles back again,--and that for six days; and if, at the end of that
time, your lethargic state is not improved, then say, John Tattsall is a
good-for-nothing humbug, and deserves to be well horsewhipped."
"But, John, I never rode on horseback in my life: never was in the habit
of it. I do not think I ever could."
"_Master, you must try, if you would not die._"
Now the Doctor did not like the thought of dying, though he had seen so
much of it when it touched others. A strange kind of nervous sensation
ran through him,--not through his veins, for he was one who wrote
against "vasicular nerves,"--but it ran through his system, as he
thought of John's words, "_Master, you must try, if you would not die._"
"Well John,--I will try,--but you must teach me!" "Come, master, that's
right; nothing like trying to amend our ways before it's too late, as
good Doctor Cassock said. So a good beginning, well followed up, and,
barring accident, I see no reason, Doctor, why you should not live for
forty years longer. You know well, that a man overworked, like any other
animal, is soon worn out; and a man who does no work, very soon dies.
Just come and look at a nice little Norway cob I have in my stable;
quiet and gentle as a lamb. A very few turns down my ride, will give you
a seat in the saddle, and you shall be again a happy man."
The Doctor got into the saddle that very evening; and nobody saw him,
but John; and if the stable boys peeped out and smiled, they got a
little back-handed tip with their master's whip, and were glad to hide
their diminished heads in the straw. He went home a little more
cheerful; played a game of backgammon with his wife, and kissed the
cheek of his only child Kate, and seemed a little better. To the
surprise of his family, he ordered hot water into his dressing-room, at
half-past five in the morning; and, of course, it was thought he was
going to take a journey. He did so; but when he went out, he said, "I
shall breakfast at half-past eight o'clock."
So the Doctor took a six miles' tour every morning, for six days. He
improved daily; and though he rode very awkwardly at first, holding on
by the reins, and keeping his brow bent and his eye intent upon the
Norway Cob's ears, his daily exercise did him a world of good; and
before the week was out, he began to find himself a different creature.
At the end of the week, he gave John Tattsall fifty guineas for the Cob;
and a friendship, founded upon mutual accommodation, subsisted between
them, to the day of their deaths.
So was a horse-dealer made an angel or messenger of health to the
mournful spirit or unstrung nerves of Doctor Geoffery Gambado. He had
the honesty to own it. The Doctor perfectly recovered his right mind and
bodily health; and, like a wise man, who well knows that the same thing
which does him good may do others the same, he took more patients to
John Tattsall's livery stables than he ever sent to the sea side, to
Madeira, to Buxton, or to Margate, Ramsgate, or any other gate
whatsoever. John kept horses to suit all comers and all customers, and
found Doctor Gambado the most grateful of all, because he always owned
that, beneath a good Providence, he did him great good.
The Doctor's fame rapidly increased with the increase of his health. He
soon became the very first Physician in nervous complaints. He knew the
cause of nervous degeneracy,--no man better. He recommended Tattsall to
all such patients as he found likely to be benefitted by him; and they
were not a few. His letters, if they could be collected, would be found
as direct to the point as the Wellington despatches.
"John,--I want just such a horse as cured me, to cure an old fool
like myself.
Yours, &c.--GAMBADO."
John, like a well-tutored chemist, understood the peculiar character of
the Doctor's prescriptions, which, unlike a quack's, were generally
written in a plain, legible hand, without any _ad captandum_ humbug.
John had horses from twenty-five to five-hundred guineas each.
But as the Doctor's fame increased, so, it might be truly said, the
follies of "hypochondriacism" began to be exposed. People, and
especially those of the Great Faculty, were jealous of the Doctor's
reputation. It is always a sign of a little mind to be envious, or
jealous of another man's celebrity. Take it for granted, when you hear a
man speak slightingly of another, set that man down, whoever he is, for
a conceited ass himself, or an ambitious, if not an envious and wretched
man. Better speak nothing, than speak evil of another; better correct an
evil thought, than have to repent of an evil act. Some called the Doctor
a mere visionary practitioner, or a mere veterinary surgeon, or a quack,
or anything else. But he kept on his course. We have selected a few of
the strange cases that came before him a hundred years ago.
What changes in a hundred years!
What fashions, and what dress!
What troubles, woes, and bloody tears,
The world must now confess!
Avoid them all,--seek peace and love,--
Be humble and be wise;
May this poor book some comfort prove
To friends, and enemies.
[Illustration]