Chapter VI: Part 6

This very curious book consists of a "poem in twelve cantos, or 'Capitoli,' as from the fifteenth century downwards it was the Italian fashion to call them, on the physical poet--a sort of medical _ars poetica_; and followed by a hundred and seventy-two sonnets on all diseases, drugs, parts of the body, functions of them, and curative means. Each sonnet is printed on one page, while that opposite is occupied by a compendious account in prose of the subject in hand. We have a sonnet on the stomach-ache, a sonnet on apoplexy, a sonnet on purges, another on blisters, and many others on far less mentionable subjects. The author's poetical view of the action of a black-dose compares it to that of a tidy and active housemaid, who, having swept together all the dirt in the room, throws it out of the window. Mystic virtues are attributed to a variety of substances, animal, vegetable, and mineral."

That delightful work, The Memoirs of the Verney Family, by Lady Verney, affords some very striking examples of the medical treatment of poor suffering humanity in the 17th century. Our selections are from the third volume.

One of the most extraordinary medicines of this, or of any age, was without doubt that known as Venice Treacle. In 1651, Sir Ralph Verney was in Venice, and the Memoirs furnish the following graphic account of this terrible drug, which was a concoction of the most disgusting materials. Sir Ralph sends it to Mrs. Isham, for her family medicine chest, and says "hee that is most famous for Treacle is called Sig{r} Antonio Sgobis, and keepes shopp at the Strazzo, or Ostridge, sopra il ponte de'Baretteri, on the right hand going towards St. Mark's. His price is 19 livres (Venize money) a pound, and hee gives leaden Potts with the Ostridge signe uppon them, and Papers both in Italian and Lattin to show its virtue." "This celebrated and incredibly nasty compound," adds Lady Verney, "traditionally composed by Nero's physician, was made of vipers, white wine, and opium, 'spices from both the Indies,' liquorice, red roses, tops of germander, juice of rough aloes, seeds of treacle mustard, tops of St. John's wort, and some twenty other herbs, to be mixed with honey 'triple the weight of all the dry species' into an electuary." The recipe is given as late as 1739, in Dr. Quincey's "English Dispensatory," published by Thomas Longman, at the Ship in Paternoster Row. "Vipers are essential, and to get the full benefit of them 'a dozen vipers should be put alive into white wine.' The English doctor, anxious for the credit of British vipers, proves that Venice treacle may be made as well in England, 'though their country is hotter, and so may the more rarify the viperime juices'; yet the bites of our vipers at the proper time of year, which is the hottest, are as efficacious and deadly as them. But he complains that the name of Venice goes so far, that English people 'please themselves much with buying a Tin Pot at a low price of a dirty sailor ... with directions in the Italian tongue, printed in London,' and that some base druggists 'make this wretched stuff of little else than the sweepings of their shops.' Sir Ralph could pride himself that his leaden pots contained the genuine horror. It was used as 'an opiate when some stimulus is required at the same time'; an overdose was confessedly dangerous, and even its advocates allowed that Venice treacle did not suit everyone, because, forsooth, 'honey disagrees with some particular constitutions.'" For centuries this medical "horror" was taken by our drastically treated forefathers.

The treatment was indeed drastic, and we might truly add cruel. Tom Verney had "a tertian ague and a feaver," and for this he had "only a vomit, glister, a cordiall, and breathed a vane"--that is, was bled. Another patient, Sir George Wheler, who had caught a chill after dancing, had all sorts of "Applications of Blisters and Laudanums," so that his Christmas dinner at Dr. Denton's cost him "the best part of 100 pounds." For an eruption in the leg, Sir Ralph Verney was advised to apply a lotion "so virulent, a drop would fech of the skin when it touched."

Young Edmund Verney was ill in 1657, and writes to his father, "Truly I might compare my afflictions to Job's. I have taken purges and vomits, pills and potions, I have been blooded, and I doe not know what I have not had, I have had so many things." In 1657-58 the epidemic known as "The New Disease," proved very fatal, and created quite a panic. The treatment adopted by the doctors may be gathered from a prescription of Dr. Denton's, one of the most famous physicians of the time. He writes to Sir Ralph Verney, "I see noe danger of Wm. R., and if he had followed your advice by taking of a vomit, and if that had not done it, then to have beene blooded, I beleeved he had beene well ere this." Then he adds "It is the best thinge and the surest and the quickest he can yet doe, therefore I pray lett him have one yett. 3 full spoonfulls of the vomitage liquor in possitt drinke will doe well, and he may abide 4 the same night when he goes to rest; let him take the weight of vi{ds} of diascordium the next day or the next but one; he may be blooded in the arm about 20 ounces."

Some of the ladies of the time did not, however, approve of this kind of treatment, and preferred their own remedies, or their own notions of remedies, to the doctor's prescriptions. We select two examples. Lady Fanshawe described the disease as "a very ill kind of fever, of which many died, and it ran generally through all families." While she suffered from it she ate "neither flesh, nor fish, nor bread, but sage possett drink, a pancake or eggs, or now and then a turnip or carrott." But Lady Hobart ventured to prescribe. She writes, "If you have a new dises in your town pray have a car of yourself, and goo to non of them; but drink good ale for the gretis cordall that is: I live by the strength of your malt." Few, we anticipate, would object to her ladyship's advice, and most would prefer her "good ale" to Dr. Denton's "vomitts," and the loss of 20 ounces of blood.

Our illustrations might be indefinitely multiplied, but those given will amply suffice to show the way in which our fathers were physicked.

Medical Folk-Lore.

BY JOHN NICHOLSON.

To ease pain and endeavour to effect a cure, man will try every suggested remedy, likely and unlikely, and when numberless things have been tried, each of which was alleged to be a certain cure, he reverts to some simple thing, taught him by his old grandmother, or the "wise woman" of his early days; and which, by reason of its simplicity, had been at first contemptuously rejected in favour of more complex but inefficacious compounds. There is scarcely a market but has a stall kept by a herb woman, who, in warm old-fashioned hood, with a little shawl round her shoulders, her ample waist encircled by broad tapes from which is suspended a pocket, capacious and indispensable, lays out with great care her stock of simples--roots, leaves, or flowers, studiously gathered at the proper time, when their virtue is strongest. Here may be seen poppy heads for fomentation, dandelion roots for liver complaint, ground ivy for rheumatism, celandine for weak eyes, and other herbs, all "for the service of man," to alleviate or cure some of the "ills that flesh is heir to." She can relate wondrous tales of marvellous cures wrought by her wares, of cases, long standing, and given up by the duly qualified medical fraternity, a brotherhood she holds in contempt because of their new-fangled remedies and methods.

This chapter, however, deals chiefly with superstitious remedies, or at least those remedies which seem to have no scientific bearing on the case; thus, a person having a sty on the eye, will have it rubbed with a wedding ring, or the gold ring of a young maiden; or cause it to be well brushed seven times with a black cat's tail, if the cat were willing. Another cure is more efficacious if administered as a surprise. The patient is placed in front of the operator, who unexpectedly spits on the eye affected; which action often leads to angry remonstrance, met by derisive laughter, which causes, it may be, broken friendship and general unpleasantness for a time.

It is a common belief, almost world-wide in its extent, that toothache is caused by a little worm which gnaws a hole in the tooth. Not long ago I was shewn a large molar, which when _in situ_ had caused its owner great pain, and he pointed to the nerve apertures, saying, "That's where the worm was!" Shakespeare, in "Much Ado About Nothing,"[3] speaks of this curious belief:--

"_D. Pedro._ What! sigh for the toothache?

_Leon._ Where is but a humour or a worm."

"This superstition was common some years ago in Derbyshire, where there was an odd way of extracting, as it was thought, the worm. A small quantity of a mixture, consisting of dried and powdered herbs, was placed in a tea-cup or other small vessel, and a live coke from the fire was dropped in. The patient then held his or her open mouth over the cup, and inhaled the smoke as long as it could be borne. The cup was then taken away, and a fresh cup or glass, containing water, was then put before the patient. Into this cup the patient breathed hard for a few moments, and then, it was supposed, the grub or worm could be seen in the water."[4]

The following was communicated to the _Folk Lore Journal_ by Wm. Pengelly, Esq., Torquay, February 1st, 1884:--

"Upwards of sixty years ago, a woman at Looe, in south-east Cornwall,
complained to a neighbouring woman that she was suffering from
toothache, on which the neighbour remarked that she could give a charm
of undoubted efficacy. It was to be in writing, and worn constantly
about the person; but, unfortunately, it would be valueless if the
giver and receiver were of the same sex. This difficulty was obviated
by calling in my services, and requesting me to write from dictation
the following words:--

'Peter sat in the gate of Jerusalem. Jesus cometh unto him and saith,
"Peter, what aileth thee?" He saith, "Lord, I am grievously tormented
with the toothache." He saith, "Arise, Peter, and follow me." He did
so, and immediately the toothache left him; and he followed him in the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'

The charm, being found to be correctly written, was held to have been
presented to me by the dictator. I at once gave it to the sufferer,
who placed it in a small bag and wore it round her neck."

A Roumanian charm against toothache is to sit beside an anthill, masticate a crust of bread, spit it out over the anthill, and as the ants eat the bread the toothache will cease.

Some believe that if you pick the aching tooth with the nail of an old coffin, or drink the water taken from the tops of three waves, the wearying pain may be relieved or cured. In Norfolk, the toothache is called the "love pain," and the sufferer does not receive much sympathy.

Some time ago, a man wished to shew me some antiquity he had found, but his jacket pocket was so filled with odds and ends ("kelterment," he called it) that he turned all out in order to better prosecute his search. Among the miscellaneous collection I noticed a potato, withered, dry, hard, and black; and was informed it was kept as a preventive and cure for rheumatism. For the same distressing, disabling disease, some people spread treacle on brown paper, and apply hot to the part affected.

The following curious passages have been transcribed by my friend, Mr. George Neilson, solicitor, Glasgow, from the Kirk Session Records of the parish of Gretna, and are here inserted by his consent, most freely given:--

"GRAITNEY KIRK, _Feb. 11, 1733_.

Session met after Sermon.

It was represented by some of the members that the Charms and Spells
used at Watshill for Francis Armstrong, Labouring under distemper of
mind, gave great offence, and 'twas worth while to enquire into the
affair and publickly admonish the people of the evil of such a course,
that a timely stop be put to such a practice.

Several of the members gave account that in Barbara Armstrang's they
burned Rowantree and Salt, they took three Locks of Francis's hair,
three pieces of his shirt, three roots of wormwood, three of mugwort,
three pieces of Rowantree, and boiled alltogether, anointed his Legs
with the water, and essayed to put three sups in his mouth, and
meantime kept the door close, being told by Isabel Pott, at Cross, in
Rockcliff commonly called the Wise Woman, that the person who had
wronged him would come to the door, but no access was to be given.
Francis, tho' distracted, told them they were using witch-craft and
the Devils Charms that would do no good. It is said they carried a
candle around the bed for one part of the inchantment. John Neilson,
in Sarkbridge, declared before the Session this was matter of fact
others then present. Mary Tate, Servant to John Neilson in Sarkbridge
is to be cited as having gone to the Wise Woman for Consultation."

"GRAITNEY KIRK, _Feb. 25, 1733_.

Session met after Sermon

Mary Tate having been summoned was called on, and compearing confessed
that she had gone to Isabel Pot, in the parish of Rockcliff, and
declared that the s{d} Isabell ordered South running water to be
lifted in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and to be boiled
at night in the house where Francis Armstrong was, with nettle roots,
wormwood, mugwort, southernwood and rowantree, and his hands, legs and
temples be stroaked therewith, and three sups to be put in his mouth,
and withal to keep the door close: She ordered also three locks of his
hair to be burnt in the fire with three pieces clipt out of his shirt,
and a Slut, _i.e._, a rag dipt in tallow to be lighted and carried
round his bed, and all to be kept secret except from near friends:
Mary Tate declared that the said Francis would allow none to touch him
but her, and at last Helen Armestrange, Spouse to Archibald Crighton,
Elder, assisted her, and after all the said Francis, tho' distracted,
told them they were using witchcrafts and the Devil's Charms that
would do no good: Mary Tate being admonished of the Evil of such a
course was removed: Notwithstanding her acknowledgments of her fault
she is to be suspended _a sacris_, and others her accomplices, and
that none hereafter pretend Ignorance the Congregation is to be
cautioned against such a practice from the Pulpit."

Ague used to be much more prevalent than it now is. Drainage and sanitation have banished many evils, and with the evil, the exorcists' charm for the banishment of the evil. Charms, rather than medical remedies, for the cure of ague, are very prevalent. Rider's _British Merlin_ for 1715 lies before me. It is a thin 16mo. booklet of 48 printed pages and 42 blank pages, but some of the blank inter-leaves have been torn out. It is bound in parchment with gilt edges, and has had a clasp, which has disappeared. One of the interleaves bears this written charm:--"And Peter sat at the gate of Jerusalem and prayed, and Jesus called Peter, and Peter said, Lord, I am sick of an ague, and the evil ague being dismissed, Peter said, Lord, grant that whosoever weareth these lines in writing, the evil ague may depart from them, and from all evil ague good Lord deliver us." The following charm is taken from an old diary of 1751[5]:--"When Jesus came near Pilate, He trembled like a leaf, and the judge asked Him if He had the ague. He answered, He had neither the ague, nor was He afraid; and whosoever bears these words in mind shall never fear ague or anything else." A strange charm for this dreaded disease was to be spoken up the wide cavernous chimney by the eldest female of the family on St. Agnes' Eve. Thus spake she:--

"Tremble and go!
First day shiver and burn;
Tremble and quake!
Second day shiver and learn;
Tremble and die!
Third day never return."

A curious anecdote is related of Lord Chief Justice Holt. When a young man, he, with companions who were law students like himself, ran up a score at an inn, which they were not able to pay. Mr. Holt observed that the landlord's daughter looked very ill, and, posing as a medical student, asked what ailed her. He was informed she suffered from ague. Mr. Holt, continuing to play the doctor, gathered sundry herbs, mixed them with great ceremony, rolled them up in parchment, scrawled some characters on the same, and to the great amusement of his companions, tied it round the neck of the young woman, who straightway was cured of her ague. After the cure, the pretending doctor offered to pay the bill, but the grateful landlord and father would not consent, and allowed the party to leave the house with hearts as light as their pockets.

Many years after, when on the Bench, a woman was brought before him accused of witchcraft. She denied the charge, but said she had a wonderful ball, which never failed to cure the ague. The charm was handed to the judge, who recognised it as the very ball he had made for the young woman at the inn, to help himself and his companions out of a difficult position.[6]

In the west of England a live snail is sewn up in a bag and worn round the neck as an antidote for ague; though others in the same district imprison a spider in a box, and, as it pines away, so will the disease depart.

It is a common belief in the north of England that a person bitten by a dog is liable to madness, if the dog which bit them goes mad. In order to secure the bitten one from such a terrible fate, the owner of the dog is often compelled to destroy it. Should he refuse to do so, the friends of the injured party would probably poison it, The condition peculiar to the morning following a night of debauchery, is said to need "a hair of the dog that bit you," which doubtless refers to the means taken to prevent ill effects following a dog bite. A wise saw from the Edda tells us that "Dog's hair heals dog's bite." The following incident recorded in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, Oct. 12th, 1866, shews most gross superstition in this Victorian age. "At an inquest, held on the 5th of October, at Bradfield, (Bucks.), on the body of a child of five years of age, which had died of hydrophobia, evidence was given of a practice almost incredible in civilised England. Sarah Mackness stated that at the request of the mother of the deceased, she had fished out of the river the body of the dog by which the child had been bitten, and had extracted its liver, a slice of which she had frizzled before the fire, and had then given it to the child to be eaten with some bread. The dog had been drowned nine days before. The child ate the liver greedily, drank some tea afterwards, but died, in spite of this strange specific."

Erysipelas in Donegal is known as the "rose." It is very common, but can be cured by a stroker. The following is said to have happened. A nurse of a Rector had the "rose," and the doctor was called in. After he was gone, the woman's friends brought in a stroker, who rubbed the nurse with bog moss, and then threw a bucket of bogwater over her in bed. This treatment cured the woman, and is said to be generally in vogue, but is not efficient except the right person does it.[7] In some parts of Yorkshire, sheep's dung is applied as a poultice for the cure of erysipelas.

What is more distressing, both to patient and nurse, than whooping cough, or king-cough, as it is sometimes called? A change of air is deemed beneficial to the afflicted one, so the mothers of Hull take their suffering children across the Humber to New Holland and back again. Some call it "crossing strange water." Other people procure a "hairy worm," and suspend it in a flannel cover round the neck of the sufferer, in the belief that as the creature dies and wastes away, so will the cough depart. This custom seems to be the relic of an old belief that something of the nature of a hairy caterpillar was the cause of the cough, and Mr. Tylor, in his _Primitive Culture_,[8] speaks of the ancient homoeopathic doctrine that what hurts will also cure. In Gloucestershire roasted mouse is considered a specific for whooping cough; though in Yorkshire the same diet cure is adopted for croup, while rat pie is the one to be used for whooping cough. The Norfolk peasants tie up a common house spider in a piece of muslin, and when the luckless long-legged spinner dies, the cough will soon disappear. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ states that when staying in a village in Oxfordshire, he was informed by an old woman that she and her brothers were cured of whooping cough in the following way. They were required to go, the first thing in the morning, to a hovel at a little distance from their house, where a fox was kept. They carried with them a large can of milk, which was set down before the fox, and when he had taken as much as he cared to drink, the children shared among them what was left. The _Aberdeen Evening Gazette_ of 24th August, 1882, tells of a curious superstition in Lochee:--

"Hooping-cough being rather prevalent in Lochee at the present time,
various cures are resorted to with the view of allaying the distress.
Amongst these the old 'fret' of passing a child beneath the belly of a
donkey has come in for a share of patronage. A few days ago, two
children living with their parents in Camperdown Street, were
infected with the malady. A hawker's cart, with a donkey yoked to it,
happening to pass, the mothers thought this an excellent opportunity
to have their little ones relieved of their hacking cough. The donkey
was accordingly stopped, the children were brought forth, and the
ceremony began. The mothers, stationed at either side of the donkey,
passed and repassed the little creatures underneath the animal's
belly, and with evident satisfaction appeared to think that a cure
would in all probability be effected. Nor was this all; a piece of
bread was next given to the donkey to eat, one of the women holding
her apron beneath its mouth to catch the crumbs which might fall.
These were given to the children to eat, so as to make the cure
effectual. Whether these strange proceedings have resulted in
banishing the dreaded cough or not, has not been ascertained, and
probably never will be. A few years ago, the custom was quite common
in this quarter, but with the spread of education the people generally
know better than to attempt to cure hooping-cough through the agency
of a donkey."

The _North British Mail_ for 20th March 1883, among other superstitions in Tiree, says, "On the west side of the island there is a rock with a hole in it, through which children are passed when suffering from whooping-cough or other complaints."

It is a common belief that if you wash your hands in water in which eggs have been boiled, warts will make their appearance; also, that the blood of a wart will cause other warts. Anyhow, if the warts be there, they can either be cured or charmed away. The writer once had a row of warts, thirteen in number, on his left arm. He was told by an aged dame, who sat on a three-legged stool before her cottage door, smoking a short black pipe, to take thirteen bad peas, throw them over his left shoulder, never heeding where they went, all the while repeating some incantation, which has been forgotten.

Cures are effected by rubbing the warts with something, which is afterwards allowed to decay. Some rub the warts with a grey snail or slug, and then impale the poor creature on a thorn; others steal a bit of beef, not so much as Taffy made off with, rub the beef on the warts, and then bury the beef. Lord Bacon, in his _Natural History_, says:--"I had from my childhood a wart upon one of my fingers; afterwards, when I was about sixteen years old, being then at Paris, there grew upon both my hands a number of warts, at the least an hundred in a month's space. The English Ambassador's lady, who was a woman far from superstitious, told me one day she would help me away with my warts: whereupon she got a piece of lard with the skin on, and rubbed the warts all over with the fat side; and among the rest, the wart which I had from my childhood; then she nailed the piece of lard, with the fat towards the sun, upon a post of her chamber window, which was to the south. The success was, that within five weeks' space all the warts went quite away; and that wart which I had so long endured, for company.... They say the like is done by the rubbing of warts with a green elder stick, and then burying the stick to rot in muck."

In Withal's _Dictionary_ (1608) there is the following couplet:--

"The bone of a haire's foot closed in a ring,
Will drive away the cramp whenas it doth wing,"

but Pepys, who tells us the whole of his experience, with comments thereon, used a hare's foot as a charm for colic. He says:--(20 Jan. 1664-5) "Homeward, in my way buying a hare and taking it home, which arose upon my discourse to-day with Mr. Batten in Westminster Hall, who showed me my mistake, that my hare's foot hath not the joynt in it, and assures me he never had the cholique since he carried it about him; and it is a strange thing how fancy works, for I no sooner handled his foot but I became very well, and so continue."

(22nd.) "Now mighty well, and truly I can but impute it to my fresh hare's foot."

(March 26) "Now I am at a loss to know whether it be my hare's foot which is my preservation; for I never had a fit of collique since I wore it, or whether it be my taking a pill of turpentine every morning."

The following newspaper cutting from the _Boston Herald_, 7th February, 1837, is worth preserving:--

"Nothing could be more absurd than the notions regarding some of these
supposed cures; a ring made of a hinge of a coffin had the power of
relieving cramps, which were also mitigated by having a rusty old
sword hanging up by the bedside. Nails driven in an oak tree prevented
the toothache. A halter that had served in hanging a criminal was an
infallible remedy for a head-ache when tied round the head; this
affection was equally cured by the moss growing upon the human skull
taken as cephalic snuff dried and pulverised. A dead man's hand could
dissipate tumours of the glands, by stroking the part nine times; but
the hand of a man who had been cut down from the gallows was the most
efficacious. The chips of a gallows on which several had been hanged,
when worn in a bag round the neck would cure the ague. A stone with a
hole in it, suspended at the head of a bed, would effectually stop the
night-mare, hence it was called a hag-stone, as it prevents the
troublesome witches from sitting upon the sleeper's stomach. The same
amulet, tied to the key of the stable door, deterred witches from
riding horses over the country."

Our forefathers firmly believed in planetary influence on the minds and bodies of men, and no operation could be performed on any part of the body unless the planet, ruling that particular part, were propitious. Rider's _British Merlin_ for 1715, places the name of some part of the body--face, neck, arms, breast, etc., opposite the days of the month, indicating that the influence of the planets on that day is favourable to that particular part or organ. An old proverb says:--

"Friday hair, Sunday horn,
You'll go the devil afore Monday morn,"

shewing that these days were unlucky for clipping hair and cutting nails. The _York Fabric Rolls_[9] tell us that Maundy Thursday, the day before Good Friday, was termed Shere Thursday, because "in olde faders dayes the people wold that day _sheer_ theyr heddes and clype theyr berdes and poll theyr heedes and so make them honest ayenst Easter Day." The same interesting volume[10] gives the following account of charming away fevers:--

"1528. Bishopwilton. Isabel Mure presented. She took fier, and ij yong
women w{t} hirr, and went to a rynnyng water, and light a wypse of
straw and sett it on the water, and said thus, 'Benedicite, se ye what
I see. I se the fier burne, and water rynne and the gryse grew, and
see flew and nyght fevers and all unkowth evils flee, and all other,
God will,' and after theis wordes said xv Pater Noster, xv Ave Maria
and thre credes."

The following is a reproduction of a receipt for Yellow Jonus (Jaundice) copied from an old book in my possession. "A quart of whine (wine), a penoth of Barbary barck, a penoth of Tormorch (Turmerich), a haporth of flour of Brimstone for Jonous."

Of Physicians and their Fees,

WITH SOME PERSONAL REMINISCENCES.

BY ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON, F.R.S.N.A.

In the whole range of professional life, or in any section of the community, there is no set of men so self-denying, sympathetic, philanthropic, liable to be called at any hour, day or night, and so hard-worked, as medical practitioners. To begin with, there is first, a long and expensive course of study, and, often, several years pass, before a practice becomes even self-sustaining. Those at the head of the profession attain to large incomes, and make their L20,000 a year. Noted specialists, in particular, such as the late Dr. Mackenzie, get large fees; but the majority of the profession conscientiously perform their laborious and kindly ministrations ungrudgingly and with moderate remuneration, which, in most cases, is certainly far short of their deserts.

This state of matters has prevailed for many centuries, and, taking the different value of money into account, notwithstanding the advance of medical science, there is but little change in the scale of remuneration, whether as to large fees paid by Royal or titled personages, fees by the middle classes, or by the rural or working population.

It has been well said, that "the theory and practice of medicine is the noblest and most difficult science in the world; and that there is no other art for the practice of which the most thorough education is so essential."

Whittier observes:--"It is the special vocation of the doctor to grow familiar with suffering--to look upon humanity disrobed of its pride and glory--robbed of all its fictitious ornaments--weak, hopeless, naked--and undergoing the last fearful metempsychosis, from its erect and god-like image, the living temple of an enshrined divinity, to the loathsome clod and the inanimate dust! Of what ghastly secrets of moral and physical disease is he the depository!"

Sir Thomas Browne, in his "Religio Medici," says:--"Men, that look no further than their outsides, think health an appurtenance unto life, and quarrel with their constitutions for being sick; but I, that have examined the parts of man, and know upon what tender filaments that fabrick hangs, do wonder that we are not always so; and, considering the thousand doors that lead to death, do thank my God that we can die but once."

This model physician, who said, "I cannot go to cure the body of my patient, but I forget my profession and call unto God for his soul," in the same work, finely says of charity:--"Divinity hath wisely divided the act thereof into many branches, and hath taught us, in this narrow way, many paths unto goodness; as many ways as we may do good, so many ways we may be charitable. There are infirmities not only of the body, but of soul and fortunes, which do require the merciful hand of our abilities. I cannot contemn a man for ignorance, but behold him with as much pity as I do Lazarus. It is no greater charity to clothe his body than apparel the nakedness of his soul."

His distinguished position, as a physician and an author, demands very special and reverential mention in these pages.

Sir Thomas Browne was born in London on the 19th of October, 1605. He died at Norwich on the 19th of October, 1682, having reached exactly the age of seventy-seven. His father was a wealthy merchant, of a good Cheshire family, but died when his more illustrious son was a boy, and his mother shortly afterwards married Sir Thomas Dutton. After travelling on the Continent, he settled as a practising physician at Shipley Hall, near Halifax, for a time, and then moved to Norwich, where the remaining forty-two years of his life were spent. His library contained vast stores of learned works on antiquities, languages, and the curiosities of erudition. He corresponded with the best men of his day, and was often able to assist them in their various investigations. His friend Evelyn, alluding to Browne's home, at Norwich, tells us "His whole house and garden being a paradise and cabinet of rarities, and that of the best collections, especially medals, books, plants, and natural things." He was knighted by Charles II. in 1671.

Throughout the troublous times of the Civil War, the Commonwealth, and the Restoration, he led a quiet studious life, issuing volume after volume full of profound, penetrating, and far-reaching thought, set forth in stately, sonorous, and musical language, the perfect form or style of which, at times, is only equalled but not excelled by the best cadenced prose of Milton or Jeremy Taylor.

His "Religio Medici," "Hydrotaphia or Urn Burial," and "The Garden of Cyrus," have been my favourites for more than half a century. Of the latter work, John Addington Symonds has finely and truly said, that "the rarer qualities of Sir Thomas Browne's style (are) here displayed in rich maturity and heavy-scented blossom. The opening phrase of his dedication to Sir Thomas Le Gros--'When the funeral pyre was out, and the last valediction over, men took a lasting adieu of their interred friends, little expecting the curiosity of future ages should comment on their ashes;'--this phrase strikes a key-note to the sombre harmonies which follow, connecting the ossuaries of the dead, the tears quenched in the dust of countless generations, with the vivid sympathy and scrutinizing sagacity of the living writer.... I will only call attention to the unique feeling for verbal tone, for what may be called the musical colour of words, for crumbling cadences, and the reverberation of stationary sounds in cavernous recesses, which is discernable at large throughout the dissertation. How simple, for example, seems the collocation of vocables in this phrase--'Under the drums and tramplings of three conquests!' And yet with what impeccable instinct the vowels are arranged; how naturally, how artfully, the rhythm falls! Take another, and this time a complete sentence,--'But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men, without distinction to merit of perpetuity.' Take yet another--'The brother of death daily haunts us with dying mementoes.'"

I take leave of this, the most notable of English Physicians, by transcribing the following grand, suggestive, and characteristic passage from his "Fragment on Mummies":--"Yet in these huge structures and pyramidial immensities of the builders, whereof so little is known, they seemed not so much to raise sepulchres or temples to death, as to contemn and disdain it, astonishing heaven with their audacities, and looking forward with delight to their interment in those eternal piles. Of their living habitations they made little account, conceiving of them but as _hospitia_, or inns, while they adorned the sepulchres of the dead, and planting them on lasting basis, defied the crumbling touches of time and the misty vaporousness of oblivion. Yet all were but Babel vanities. Time sadly overcometh all things, and is now dominant, and sitteth upon a sphinx, and looketh unto Memphis and old Thebes, while his sister Oblivion reclineth semisomnous on a pyramid, gloriously triumphing, making puzzles of Titanian erections, and turning old glories into dreams. History sinketh beneath her cloud. The traveller, as he paceth amazedly through those deserts, asketh of her, who builded them? and she mumbleth something, but what it is he heareth not."

The medical profession is a noble and pleasant one, though laborious and often full of anxiety, straining mind and body. The good physician is the sympathizing, confidential, and comforting _friend_ of the family. He values the humble gifts and testimonials of gratitude from the poor, even more than the costly presents of the rich.

The virtuous poor are always grateful. It can truly be said of the physician's kind and often gratuitous services to them, in the language of scripture:--

"When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me it
gave witness to me; because I delivered the poor that cried, and the
fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him
that was ready to perish came upon me; and I caused the widow's heart
to sing for joy."

Among savages, sorcerers, and magicians, are the medicine men; these are still represented, in civilisation, by impostors and quacks. Members of the profession, as a rule, keep themselves posted up in the medical science of the day, honestly and unselfishly do everything that can be done for their patients, and rejoice in being the means of their recovery, far more than in their fee.

Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," treating of "Physician, Patient, and Physick," when astrology, ignorance, and queer nostrums, were then more in vogue than practical science, says:--"I would require Honesty in every Physician, that he be not over careless or covetous, Harpylike to make a prey of his patient, or, as an hungry Chirurgeon, often produce and wire-draw his cure, so long as there is any hope of pay. Many of them, to get a fee, will give physic to every one that comes, when there is no cause, thus, as it often falleth out, stirring up a silent disease, and making a strong body weak." Burton then quotes the following sensible Aphorism from Arnoldus:--"A wise physician will not give physick, but upon necessity, and first try medicinal diet, before he proceedeth to medicinal cure."

Latimer thus severely censured the mercenary physicians of his day:--"Ye see by the example of Hezekiah that it is lawful to use physick. But now in our days physick is a remedy prepared only for rich folks, and not for the poor, for the poor man is not able to wage the Physician. God indeed hath made physick for rich and poor, but Physicians in our time seek only their own profits, how to get money, not how they might do good unto their poor neighbour. Whereby it appeareth that they be for the most part without charity, and so consequently not the children of God; and no doubt but the heavy judgment of God hangeth over their heads, for they are commonly very wealthy, and ready to purchase lands, but to help their neighbour, that they cannot do. But God will find them out one day I doubt not."

"Empirics and charlatans are the excrescences of the medical profession; they have obtained in all ages, yet the healing art is not necessarily the occasion for deception; nor the operations of witchcraft, charms, amulets, astrology, alchemy, necromancy, or magic; although it has its mysteries like other branches of occult science."

Paracelsus, the prince of charlatans, styled himself "King of Physic," but, though he professed to have discovered the _elixir of life_, he humbly died at the early age of forty-eight years.

We are told of a patient who, instead of the medicine prescribed, swallowed the prescription! and _Punch_ records an extraordinary case of a voracious individual who bolted a door, and threw up a window!

Sydney Smith, on being told by his doctor to take a walk on an empty stomach, asked--"Upon whose!" But a truce to stories suggested by the queer nostrums of quacks.

Empirics, however, often believed in their nostrums, and were, sometimes, amiable and unselfish.

In the year 1776, we are told, there lived a German doctor, who styled himself, or was called, "the Rain-water doctor;" all the diseases to which flesh is heir he professed to cure by this simple agent. Some wonderful cures were, it is said, achieved by means of his application of this fluid, and his reputation spread far and wide; crowds of maimed and sickly folk flocked to him, seeking relief at his hands. What is yet more remarkable still, he declined to accept any fee from his patients!

Dr. Haygarth, of Bath, had a pair of wooden tractors made in precisely the same shape and appearance as Perkin's metallic ones; and the same results followed as when the others, which cost five guineas a pair, were used.

The story is well known of the condemned criminal in Paris, who was laid on a dissecting table, strapped down, with his eyes bandaged, and slightly pricked, when streamlets of water set a-trickling made him think, as he had been told, that he was being bled to death. His strength gradually ebbed away, and he actually died, although he did not lose a drop of blood.

I knew of a gentleman who, when pills to procure sleep were ordered to be discontinued, lay awake. The doctor made up a box of bread pills, which were administered as the others had been, and the patient slept, and recovered rapidly.

A young medical man fell in love with a young lady patient, and, when he had no longer any pretext for continuing his visits, he sent her a present of a pair of spring ducks. Not reciprocating his attentions, she did not acknowledge the present, upon which he ventured to call, asking if the birds had reached her. Her reply was--"Quack, quack!"

Dr. Lettsom, a quaker in the time of George III., near the close of the last century, had such an extensive practice that his receipts in some years were as much as L12,000; and this although half his services were entirely gratuitous, and rendered with unusual solicitude and care to necessitous clergymen and literary men. Generosity was the ruling feature of his life. On one occasion he attended an old American merchant whose affairs had gone wrong, and who grieved over leaving the trees he had planted. The kind hearted doctor purchased the place from the creditors, and presented it to his patient for life.

Pope, a few days before his decease, bore the following cordial testimony to the urbanity and courtesy of his medical friends:--"There is no end of my kind treatment from the Faculty; they are in general the most amiable companions, and the best friends, as well as the most learned men I know."

And Dryden, in the postscript to his translation of Virgil, speaks in the same way of the profession. "That I have recovered," says he, "in some measure the health which I had lost by too much application to this work, is owing, next to God's mercy, to the skill and care of Dr. Guibbons and Dr. Hobbs, the two ornaments of their profession, whom I can only pay by this acknowledgment."

When Dr. Dimsdale, a Hertford physician and member of Parliament, went over to Russia to inoculate the Empress Catherine and her son, in the year 1768, he received a fee of L12,000, a pension for life of L500 per annum, and the rank of Baron of the Empire.

Dr. Henry Atkins was sent for to Scotland by James the Sixth to attend Charles the First (then an infant), ill of a dangerous fever. The King gave him a fee of L6000, with which he purchased the manor of Clapham.

Louis XIV. after undergoing an operation, gave his physician and his surgeon 75,000 crowns each.

Dr. Glynn once attended the only son of a poor peasant woman, ministering to his wants with port wine, bark, and delicacies. After the lad's recovery, his mother waited on the doctor, bringing a large wicker basket with an enormous magpie, which was her son's pet, as a fee to show their gratitude.

A thousand pounds were ordered to be paid to Sir Edmund King for promptly bleeding Charles the Second, but he never received this fee.

Dr. Mead, in the time of George the First, was generous to a degree, and like many of his brethren, would not accept fees from curates, half-pay officers, and men of letters. At home his fee was a guinea. When he visited patients of means, in consultation or otherwise, he expected two guineas or more. But to the apothecaries who waited on him at his coffee houses of call he charged only half a guinea for prescriptions, written without his having seen the patient. He had an income one year of L7,000, and for several years received between L5,000 and L6,000, which, considering the value of money at that time, is as much as that of any living physician.

The physicians who attended Queen Caroline had five hundred guineas, and the surgeons three hundred guineas each; Dr. Willis was rewarded for his attendance on George III. by L1,500 per annum for twenty years, and L650 per annum to his son for life. The other physicians, however, had only thirty guineas each visit to Windsor, and ten guineas each visit to Kew.

Dr. Abernethy was annoyed by a lady needlessly consulting him about her tongue. One morning she came, as he was descending the steps from his door and putting on his gloves. She said:--"Doctor, I'm so glad I have caught you!" The doctor asked if it were the old trouble. On her saying "Yes," he told her to put out her tongue. She did so, and he said, "Stand there till I come," and left her so, in the street, setting out on his round of visits.

Once when prescribing nutritious and expensive diet for a young man in consumption, he observed the look of despair on the young wife's face, and the evidence of straitened circumstances around; when the lady appealed to him, asking if there was really nothing else he could suggest for her husband. He replied:--"When I think of it, I'll send along a box of pills in the afternoon!" A messenger brought the box. On the lid was written "One every day," and, on being opened, it was found to contain twenty guineas!

He once bluntly told a _bon-vivant_ gentleman to "Live on sixpence a day, and earn it!"

Long ago, a friend told me of a lady in Devonshire, belonging to a family she knew, who read medical books, and at length imagined she had every disease under the sun. Whenever she discovered what she believed to be a new symptom, she at once went off to consult different medical men regarding it, spending several hundreds a year in this way, and all quite needlessly. At length she confided to her friends that since doctors differed so widely, and she could obtain no satisfaction as to what ailed her, she had resolved to go to town and consult one of the Queen's physicians.

A consultation was held in the family, and her nephew was sent to explain matters to the physician, in the hope of his being able to cure her hypochondria. When she reached town, the street in which the physician lived was blocked with the carriages of patients. After waiting hours, her turn at last came. The physician examined her, asked a few questions, then enquired if she had any friends in town, as he would rather call to see her when under their roof, and there tell her what he had got to say. She protested that she was quite prepared to hear the worst--that she had for long years looked death in the face--that the notices of her death were lying in her desk, all written out and addressed, only requiring the date to be filled in, etc. The physician said he was busy--more than twenty patients were still waiting in the street--he was averse to scenes, and would much prefer to see her at her friend's house. She still persisted, and begged of him to tell her all, there and then, on which he said:--"Madam, it is my melancholy duty to inform you--that there is nothing whatever the matter with you!"

This interview fortunately effected her cure, to the great delight of her friends, who paid the physician a handsome fee.

Sir Astley Cooper one year received in fees L21,000. This sum was exceptional, but for many years his income was over L15,000. His great success was achieved very gradually. "His earnings for the first nine years of his professional career progressed thus:--In the first year he netted five guineas; in the second, twenty-six pounds; in the third, sixty-four pounds; in the fourth, ninety-six pounds; in the fifth, a hundred pounds; in the sixth, two hundred pounds; in the seventh, four hundred pounds; in the eighth, six hundred and ten pounds; and in the ninth--the year in which he secured his hospital appointment--eleven hundred pounds."

On one occasion when he had performed a perilous surgical operation on a rich West Indian merchant, the two physicians who were present were paid three hundred guineas each; but the patient, addressing Sir Astley, said:--"But you, sir, shall have something better. There, sir, take _that_," upon which he flung his nightcap at the skilful operator. "Sir," replied Sir Astley, picking up the cap, "I'll pocket the affront." On reaching home, he found in the cap a draft for a thousand guineas from the grateful but eccentric old man.

A cynical lawyer once advised a young doctor to collect his fees as he went along, quoting the following verse to back his recommendation:--

"God and the doctor we alike adore,
But only when in danger, not before;
The danger o'er, both are alike requited--
God is forgotten, and the doctor slighted."

The following story illustrates the too frequent weary waiting, when hope makes the heart sick, and also shows on what curious casual incidents the success of a career may sometimes turn. It has been told in different ways, and attributed to different men, such as to Dr. Freind, and others; but, quite possibly, the same or a similar incident may have repeatedly occurred. I simply give it as it was narrated to me. A young doctor having graduated with honours, took a house at a high rent in Harley Street, London. The brass plate attracted no patients; months passed idly and drearily, and the poor fellow took to drink. One night the door-bell rang--a servant man, from a lady of title round the corner, begged him to come at once, as his mistress was dangerously ill, lying on the floor; her own doctor was out, and he was sent to fetch the first doctor he could find. The young doctor regretfully thought what a fool he was, for here was his chance, when he could not avail himself of it; but he would go, and try hard to pull himself together.

When he reached the room, he had enough conscience or sense left to know that he was not in a fit state to prescribe, and exclaiming, "Drunk, by George!" took his hat and bolted from the house. Next morning he received a scented note from the lady, entreating him not to expose her, inviting him to call, and offering to introduce him professionally to her circle! Before the season was ended, his practice was yielding him at the rate of some L1500 a year!

Curiously enough, it is recorded of a British doctor that he once actually took a fee from a _dead_ patient. Entering the bedroom immediately after death had taken place, he observed the right hand tightly clenched. Opening the fingers, he found in them a guinea. "Ah, that was clearly for me," said the doctor, putting the gold into his pocket.

It may be remembered here, that the Royal College of Physicians, London, was founded by Thomas Linacre, physician to Henry VIII., in 1518; and that the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh was incorporated by Charter of Charles II., November 20th, 1681.