Read Ebook: A Book About Doctors by Jeaffreson John Cordy

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 342 lines and 43924 words, and 7 pages

Amongst other plans Sir John resorted to, to scare away his patients and patronesses, he had a death's-head painted on his carriage-panels; but the result of this eccentric measure on his practice and on his sufferings was the reverse of what he desired. One lady--the daughter of a noble member of a Cabinet--ignorant that he was otherwise occupied, made him an offer, and on learning to her astonishment that he was a married man, vowed that she would not rest till she had assassinated his wife.

Poor Radcliffe's loves were of a less flattering sort, though they resembled Sir John Eliot's in respect of being instances of reciprocity all on one side. But the amorous follies of Radcliffe, ludicrous though they became under the touches of Steele's pen, are dignified and manly when compared with the senile freaks of Dr. Mead, whose highest delight was to comb the hair of the lady on whom, for the time being, his affections were set.

Dr. Cadogan, of Charles the Second's time, was, like Sir John Eliot, a favourite with the ladies. His wont was to spend his days in shooting and his evenings in flirtation. To the former of these tastes the following lines refer:--

"Doctor, all game you either ought to shun, Or sport no longer with the unsteady gun; But like physicians of undoubted skill, Gladly attempt what never fails to kill, Not lead's uncertain dross, but physic's deadly pill."

Whether he was a good shot we cannot say; but he was sufficiently adroit as a squire of dames, for he secured as his wife a wealthy lady, over whose property he had unfettered control. Against the money, however, there were two important points figuring under the head of "set-off"--the bride was old and querulous. Of course such a woman was unfitted to live happily with an eminent physician, on whom bevies of court ladies smiled whenever he went west of Charing Cross. After spending a few months in alternate fits of jealous hate and jealous fondness, the poor creature conceived the terrible fancy that her husband was bent on destroying her with poison, and so ridding his life of her execrable temper. One day, when surrounded by her friends, and in the presence of her lord and master, she fell on her back in a state of hysterical spasms, exclaiming:--

"Ah! he has killed me at last. I am poisoned!"

"Poisoned!" cried the lady-friends, turning up the whites of their eyes. "Oh! gracious goodness!--you have done it, doctor!"

"What do you accuse me of?" asked the doctor, with surprise.

"I accuse you--of--killing me--ee," responded the wife, doing her best to imitate a death-struggle.

John Hunter administered a scarcely less startling reproof to his wife, who, though devoted in her attachment to him, and in every respect a lady worthy of esteem, caused her husband at times no little vexation by her fondness for society. She was in the habit of giving enormous routs, at which authors and artists, of all shades of merit and demerit, used to assemble to render homage to her literary powers, which were very far from common-place. A lasting popularity has attested the excellence of her song:--

"My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue; Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my boddice blue.

"'For why,' she cries, 'sit still and weep, While others dance and play?' Alas! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away.

"'Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love are near; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear.

"And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away."

"I knew nothing," was his brief address to the astounded crowd--"I knew nothing of this kick-up, and I ought to have been informed of it beforehand; but, as I have now returned home to study, I hope the present company will retire."

Mrs Hunter's drawing-rooms were speedily empty.

The day that Abernethy was married he went down to the lecture-room to deliver his customary instruction to his pupils. His selection of a wife was as judicious as his marriage was happy; and the funny stories for long current about the mode in which he made his offer are known to be those most delusive of fabrications, fearless and extreme exaggerations of a little particle of the truth. The brutality of procedure attributed to the great surgeon by current rumour was altogether foreign to his nature. The Abernethy biscuit was not more audaciously pinned upon his reputation, than was the absurd falsehood that when he made his offer to his future wife he had only seen her once, and then wrote saying he should like to marry her, but as he was too busy to "make love," she must entertain his proposal without further preliminaries, and let him know her decision by the end of the week.

The mournful love-story of Dr. John Elliot made a deep impression on the popular mind. It is found alluded to in ballads and chap-books, and more than one penny romance was framed upon it. Not improbably it suggested the composition of the following parody of Monk Lewis's "Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene," which appeared at the close of the last century, during the first run of popularity which that familiar ballad obtained:--

"GILES BOLUS THE KNAVE AND BROWN SALLY GREEN.

"A ROMANCE BY M. G. LEWIS.

"A Doctor so grave and a virgin so bright, Hob-a-nobbed in some right marasquin; They swallowed the cordial with truest delight, Giles Bolus the knave was just five feet in height, And four feet the brown Sally Green.

"'And as,' said Giles Bolus, 'to-morrow I go To physic a feverish land, At some sixpenny hop, or perhaps the mayor's show, You'll tumble in love with some smart city beau, And with him share your shop in the Strand.'

"'Lord! how can you think so?' Brown Sally Green said, 'You must know mighty little of me; For if you be living, or if you be dead, I swear, 'pon my honour, that none in your stead, Shall husband of Sally Green be.

"'And if e'er I by love or by wealth led aside Am false to Giles Bolus the knave; God grant that at dinner so amply suppli'd, Over-eating may give me a pain in the side, May your ghost then bring rhubarb to physic the bride, And send her well-dosed to the grave.'

"To Jamaica the doctor now hastened for gold, Sally wept till she blew her nose sore; Yet scarce had a twelvemonth elaps'd, when behold! A brewer quite stylish his gig that way roll'd, And stopped it at Sally Green's door.

"His barrels, his bungs, and his brass-headed cane, Soon made her untrue to his vows; The stream of small beer now bewildered her brain; He caught her while tipsy--denials were vain-- So he carried her home as his spouse.

"And now the roast-beef had been blest by the priest, To cram now the guests had begun; Tooth and nail, like a wolf, fell the bride on the feast Nor yet had the clash of her knife and fork ceased, When a bell toll'd one.

"Then first, with amazement, brown Sally Green found, That a stranger was stuck by her side. His cravat and his ruffles with snuff were embrown'd; He ate not--he drank not--but, turning him round, Sent some pudding away to be fried.

"His wig was turned forwards, and wort was his height, His apron was dirty to view; The women were hushed at the sight, The cats as they eyed him drew back , For his body was pea-green and blue.

"Now, as all wish'd to speak, but none knew what to say, They look'd mighty foolish and queer: At length spoke the lady with trembling--'I pray, Dear sir, that your peruke aside you would lay, And partake of some strong or small beer.'

"The bride shuts her fly-trap--the stranger complies, And his wig from his phiz deigns to pull. Adzooks! what a squall Sally gave through surprise! Like a pig that was stuck, how she opened her eyes, When she recognized Giles's bare skull.

"Each miss then exclaimed, while she turn'd up her snout, 'Sir, your head isn't fit to be seen!'-- The pot-boys ran in, and the pot-boys ran out, And couldn't conceive what the noise was about, While the doctor addressed Sally Green.

"'Behold me, thou jilt-flirt! behold me!' he cri'd-- 'I'm Bolus, whom some call the 'knave!' God grant, that to punish your falsehood and pride, You should feel at this moment a pain in your side. Quick, swallow this rhubarb!--I'll physic the bride, And send her well-dosed to the grave!'

"Thus saying, the physic her throat he forced down, In spite of whate'er she could say: Then bore to his chariot the maiden so brown, Nor ever again was she seen in that town, Or the doctor who whisked her away.

"Not long lived the brewer, and none since that time To inhabit the brew-house presume; For old women say that by order sublime There Sally Green suffers the pain of her crime, And bawls to get out of the room.

"At midnight four times in each year does her sprite With shrieks make the chamber resound. 'I won't take the rhubarb!' she squalls in affright, While a cup in his left hand, a draught in his right, Giles Bolus pursues her around.

"With wigs so well powdered, twelve doctors so grave, Dancing hornpipes around them are seen; They drink chicken-broth, and this horrible stave Is twanged through each nose, 'To Giles Bolus the knave, And his patient the sick Sally Green.'"

In the court of love, Dr. Van Buchell, the empiric, may pass muster as a physician. When that droll charlatan lost his first wife, in 1775, he paid her the compliment of preserving her body with great care. Dr. Hunter, with the assistance of Mr. Cruikshank, injected the blood-vessels of the corpse with a carmine fluid, so that the cheeks and lips had the hue of healthy life; the cavities of the body were artistically packed with the antiseptics used by modern embalmers; and glass eyes were substituted in place of the filmy balls which Death had made his own. Decked in a dainty apparel of lace and finest linen, the body was then placed in a bed of thin paste of plaster of Paris, which, crystallizing, made a most ornamental couch. The case containing this fantastic horror had a glass lid, covered with a curtain; and as Van Buchell kept it in his ordinary sitting-room, he had the pleasure of introducing his visitors to the lifeless form of his "dear departed." For several years the doctor lived very happily with this slough of an immortal soul--never quarrelling with it, never being scolded by it--on the whole, enjoying an amount of domestic tranquility that rarely falls to one man's lot. Unwisely he made in advanced years a new alliance, and manifested a desire to be on with the new and the old love at the same time. To this Mrs. Van Buchell strongly objected, and insisted that the quaint coffin of Mrs. Van Buchell should be removed from the parlour in which she was expected to spend the greatest part of her days. The eccentric mode in which Buchell displayed his affection for his first wife was scarcely less repulsive than the devotion to the interests of anatomical science which induced Rondeletius to dissect the dead body of his own child in his theatre at Montpelier.

Are there no more loves to be mentioned? Yes; let these concluding pages tell an interesting story of the last generation.

Holmnook is unlike most other English towns of its size, abounding as it does in large antique mansions, formerly inhabited by the great officers and dependents on the ducal household, who in many cases were blood relations of the duke himself. Under the capacious windows of these old houses, in the streets, and round the market-square, run rows of limes, spreading their cool shade over the pinnacles of gabled roofs, and flinging back bars across the shining shingle which decorates the plaster walls of the older houses. In the centre of the town stands an enormous church, large enough to hold an entire army of Christians, and containing many imposing tombs of earls and leaders, long since gone to their account.

Think of this old town, its venerable dwellings--each by itself suggesting a romance. Hear the cooing and lazy flapping of pigeons, making continual holiday round the massive chimneys. Observe, without seeming to observe, the mayor's pretty daughter sitting at the open oriel window of the Guild-hall, merrily singing over her needle-work, and wondering if her bright ribbon has a good effect on passers below. Heed the jingle of a harpsichord in the rector's parlour. Be pleased to remember that the year is 1790--not 1860. Take a glass of stinging ale at "The Knight of Armour" hostelry--and own you enjoy it. Take another, creaming good-naturedly up under your lip, and confess you like it better than its predecessor. See the High Sheriff's carriage pass through the excited town, drawn by four enormous black horses, and having three Bacchic footmen hanging on behind. Do all this, and then you'll have a faint notion of Holmnook, its un-English picturesqueness, its placid joy, and experience of pomp.

Who is the gentleman emerging from the mansion on the causeway, in this year 1790--with white peruke and long pig-tail, snuff-coloured coat and velvet collar, tight dark nether garments, silk stockings, and shoes with buckles, volumes of white shirt-frill rising up under his chin? As he taps his shoes on his doorstep you can see he is proud of his leg, a pleasant pride, whether one has reason for it or not!

Michael Kemp's youth had been spent away from Holmnook. Doubtless so polite and dignified a gentleman had once aimed at a brighter lot than a rural physician's. Doubtless he had a history, but he kept it to himself. He had never married! The rumour went that he had been disappointed--had undertaken the conquest of a high-born lady, who gave another ending to the game; and having conquered him, went off to conquer others. Ladies could do such things in the last century--when men had hearts.

Anyhow, Michael Kemp, M.D., was an old bachelor, of spotless honour, and a reputation that scandal never dared to trifle with.

A lady, much respected by the simple inhabitants of Holmsnook, kept his house.

Let us speak of her--fair and forty, comely, with matronly outlines, but graceful. Pleasant of voice, cheerful in manner, active in benevolence, Mistress Alice was a great favourite; no christening or wedding could go off without her for miles around. The doctor's grandest patients treated her as an equal; for apart from her personal claims to respect and good-will, she was, it was understood, of the doctor's blood--a poor relation, gentle by birth as she was by education. Mistress Alice was a great authority amongst the Holmnook ladies, on all matters pertaining to dress and taste. Her own ordinary costume was an artistic one. A large white kerchief, made so as to sit like a jacket, close and high round the throat, concealed her fair arms and shoulders, and reached down to the waist of her dress, which, in obedience to the fashion of the time, ran close beneath her arms. In 1790 a lady's waist at Holmnook occupied just about the same place where the drapery of a London belle's Mazeppa harness offers its first concealment to its wearer's charms. But it was on her foot-gear that Mistress Alice devoted especial care. The short skirts of that day encouraged a woman to set her feet off to the best advantage. Mistress Alice wore natty high-heeled shoes and clocked stockings--bright crimson stockings with yellow clocks.

Do you know what clocked stockings were, ladies? This writer is not deeply learned on such matters, but having seen a pair of Mistress Alice's stockings, he can tell you that they had on either side, extending from the heel upwards some six inches, flowers gracefully embroidered with a light yellow silk on the crimson ground. And these wreaths of broidery were by our ancestors called clocks. This writer could tell something else about Mistress Alice's apparel. She had for grand evenings of high festivity white kid gloves reaching up to the elbow, and having a slit at the tips of the forefinger and thumb of each hand. It was an ordinary fashion long syne. So, ladies could let out the tips of those digits to take a pinch of snuff!

One night Michael Kemp, M.D., Oxon., was called up to come with every possible haste to visit a sick lady, urgently in want of him. The night-bell was rung violently, and the messenger cried to the doctor over and over from the pavement below to make good speed. The doctor did his best to comply; but, as ill-luck would have it, after he had struck a light the candle illumined by it fell down, and left the doctor in darkness. This was very annoying to the good man, for he could not reconcile it to his conscience to consume time in lighting another, and yet it was hard for such a decorous man to make his hasty toilet in the dark.

He managed, however, better than he expected. His peruke came to hand all right; so did the tight inexpressibles; so did the snuff-coloured coat with high velvet collar; so did the buckled shoes. Bravo!

In another five minutes the active physician had groped his way down-stairs, emerged from his stately dwelling, and had run to his patient's house.

In a trice he was admitted; in a twinkle he was up the stairs; in another second he was by the sick lady's bedside, round which were seated a nurse and three eminent Holmnook gossips.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet