"_Honi soit qui mal y pense_."

G.o.d bless thee, Holmnook! The bells of thy old church-tower are jangling in my ears though thou art a hundred miles away. I see the blue heavens kissing thy limes!

CHAPTER XXIV.

LITERATURE AND ART.

The old proverb says, "Every man is a physician or a fool by forty."

Sir Henry Halford happening to quote the old saw to a circle of friends, Canning, with a pleasant humour smiling in his eyes, inquired, "Sir Henry, mayn't he be both?"

John Locke, according to academic registration, was not a physician till he was past forty. Born in 1632, he took his M.B. degree Feb.

6th, 1674. To what extent he exercised his profession is still a matter of dispute; but there is no doubt that he was for some period an active pract.i.tioner of it. Of his letters to Hans Sloane, that are still extant, the following is one:--

"DEAR SIR,--

"I have a patient here sick of the fever at this season. It seems not violent; but I am told 'tis a sort that is not easily thrown off. I desire to know of you what your fevers in town are, and what methods you find most successful in them? I shall be obliged by your favour if you will give me a word or two by to-morrow's post, and direct it to me, to be left at Mr Harrison's, in the 'Crown,' at Harlow.

"I am, Sir, "Your most humble servant, "J LOCKE."

Popularly the name of Locke is as little a.s.sociated with the profession of medicine as that of Sir James Mackintosh, who was a practising physician, till ambition and poverty made him select a more lucrative vocation, and turn his energies to the bar.

Distinguished amongst literary physicians was Andrew Borde, who studied Medicine at Oxford and Montpelier, and it is said acted as a physician in the service of Henry the Eighth. Borde's career has. .h.i.therto been a puzzle to antiquaries who, though interested in it, have been able to discover only little about it. It was his whim to sign himself Andrew Perforatus (his name really signifying "a cottage,"--"bordarius=a cottager"). In the same way after him Robert Fludd, the Rosicrucian doctor, adopted for his signature Robertus de Fluctibus. In his works he occasionally gives the reader a glimpse of his personal adventures; and from contemporary literature, as well as tradition, we learn enough to feel justified in believing that he created the cant term "Merry Andrew."

Of his freaks, about the most absurd was his conduct when acting as foreman of a jury in a small borough town. A prisoner was charged with stealing a pair of leather breeches, but though appearances were strongly against the accused (who was a notorious rogue), the evidence was so defective that to return a verdict of guilty on the charge was beyond the logic and conscience of the twelve good men and true. No course seemed open to them but to acquit the knave; when Andrew Borde prevailed on them, _as_ the evidence of stealing the leather breeches was so defective, to bring him in guilty of manslaughter.

It is needless to say that the jurymen took Andrew's advice, and finding a verdict to the best of those abilities with which it had pleased G.o.d to bless them, astonished the judge and the public, not less than the prisoner, with the strange conclusion at which they had arrived.

Anthony ? Wood and Hearne tell us the little that has. .h.i.therto been known of this eccentric physician. To that little an important addition may be made from the following letter, never before published, the original of which is in the State-Paper Office. The epistle is penned to Henry the Eighth's minister, Thomas Cromwell.

"Jesus.

"Offering humbly salutacyon with dew reverance. I certyffy yor mastershepp that I am now in Skotlonde in a lyttle universite or study namyd Glasko, where I study and practyce physyk as I have done in dyverse regyons and servyces for the sustentacyon off my lyvyng, a.s.sewring you that in ye parts that I am yn ye king's grace hath many hundred and in manner all men of presence (except some skolastycall men) that be hys adversarys. I resortt to ye Skotysh king's howse and to ye erle of Aryn, namyd Hamylton, and to ye Lord Evyndale, namyd Stuerd, and to many lords and lards as well spyrytuall as temporal, and truly I know their mynds, for they takyth me for a Skotysh man's sone, for I name my selff Karre, and so ye Karres kallyth me cosyn, thorow ye which I am in the more favor. Shortly to conclude; trust you no Skott for they wyll yowse flatterying wordes and all ys falshold. I suppose veryly that you have in Ynglond by hundred and thowsand Skotts and innumerable other alyons, which doth (specyally ye Skotts) much harme to the king's leege men throw their evyll wordes, for as I went thorow Ynglond I mett and was in company off many rurall felows, Englishmen that love nott our gracyose kyng. Wold to Jesu that some were ponyshed to geve others example. Wolde to Jesu also that you had never an alyen in yor realme, specyally Skotts, for I never knew alyen good for Ynglond except they knew proffytt and lucre should come to them so.

In all parts of Chrystyndome that I have travylled in I know nott V Englishmen inhabytants except only scholers for learning. I pray to Jesu that alyens do in Ynglond no more harme to Ynglonde, and yff I myght do Ynglonde any servyce, specyally to my soveryn lord the kyng and to you, I would do ytt to spend and putt my lyfe in danger and jeberdy as far as any man. G.o.d be my judge. You have my hartt and shall be sure of me to the uttermost of my pore power. for I am never able to make you amends, for when I was in greatt thraldom, both bodyly and goastly, you of yor gentylnes sett me att liberte. Also I thank yor mastershepp for yor grett kyndnes that you have shewed me att Bysshopps Waltham, and that you gave me lycense to come to you ons in a qwarrtter. as sone as I come home I intende to come to you to submytt my selff to you to do with me what you wyll. for for lak of wytt paradventter I may in this wrettyng say that shall nott content you. but G.o.d be my judge I mene trewly both to my sovereyngne lord the kyng and to you. when I was kept in thrawldom in ye charterhouse and know neither ye kyngs n.o.ble acts nor you, then stultycyusly throw synstrall wordes I dyd as man of the others doth, b.u.t.t after I was att lyberte manyfestly I apa.r.s.evyd ye ignorance and blyndnes that they and I wer yn. for I could never know no thynge of no maner of matter b.u.t.t only by them, and they wolde cawse me wrett full incypyently to ye prior of London when he was in ye tower before he was putt to exicuyon. for ye which I trustt yor mastershepp hath pardonyd me, for G.o.d knoweth I was keppt in prison straytly, and glad I was to wrett att theyr request, but I wrott nothyng that I thought shold be agenst my prince nor you nor no other man. I pray G.o.d that you may provyde a good prior for that place of London, for truly there be many wylfull and obstynatt yowng men that stondeth to much in their owne consaytt and wyll nott be reformyd b.u.t.t playth ye chyldryn, and a good prior wolde so serve them lyke chyldryn. News I have to wrett to you b.u.t.t I yntende to be with ou shortly. for I am half wery off this baryn contry, as Jesu Chryst knowth, who ever keppe you in helthe and honor. a myle from Edynborough, the fyrst day off Apryll, by the hand of yor poer skoler and servantt,--Andrew Boorde Preest."

Literary physicians have, as a rule, not prospered as medical pract.i.tioners. The public harbour towards them the same suspicious and unfavourable prejudices as they do to literary barristers. A man, it is presumed, cannot be a master of two trades at the same time, and where he professes to carry on two it is usually concluded that he understands neither. To display the injustice of such views is no part of this writer's work, for the task is in better hands--time and experience, who are yearly adding to the cases that support the converse proposition that if a man is really a proficient in one subject, the fact is of itself a reason for believing him a master of a second.

Still, the number of brilliant writers who have enrolled themselves in the medical fraternity is remarkable. If they derived no benefit from their order, they have at least generously conferred l.u.s.tre upon it.

Goldsmith--though no one can say on what his claim to the t.i.tle of doctor rested, and though in his luckless attempts to get medical employment he underwent even more humiliation and disgrace than fell to his lot as the drudge of Mrs. Griffiths--is one of the most pleasant a.s.sociations that our countrymen have in connection with the history of "the Faculty." Smollett, like Goldsmith, tried ineffectually to escape from literary drudgery to the less irksome and more profitable duties that surround the pestle and mortar. Of Garth, Blackmore, Arbuthnot, and Akenside, notice has already been taken.

Anything like a complete enumeration of medical men who have made valuable contributions to _belles lettres_ would fill a volume, by the writing of which very little good would be attained. By no means the least of them was Armstrong, whose portrait Thomson introduced into the "Castle of Indolence."

"With him was sometimes joined in silken walk (Profoundly silent--for they never spoke), One shyer still, who quite detested talk; If stung by spleen, at once away he broke To grove of pine and broad o'ershadowing oak.

There, inly thrilled, he wandered all alone, And on himself his pensive fury woke: He never uttered word, save when first shone The glittering star of eve--'Thank Heaven, the day is done.'"

His medical writings, and his best known poem, "The Art of Health,"

had he written nothing else, would in all probability have brought him patients, but the licentiousness of "The Economy of Love" effectually precluded him from ever succeeding as a family physician. Amongst Armstrong's poet friends was Grainger, the amiable and scholarly physician who enjoyed the esteem of Percy and Samuel Johnson, Shenstone and Sir Joshua. Soon after the publication of his translation of the "Elegies of Tibullus," (1758), Grainger went to the island of St. Christopher's, and established himself there as a physician. The scenery and industrial occupations of the island inspired him to write his most important poem, "The Sugar-Cane,"

which, in escaping such derision as was poured on Blackmore's effusions, owed its good fortune to the personal popularity of the author rather than its intrinsic merits. The following sample is a fair one:--

"Destructive on the upland groves The monkey nation preys: from rocky heights, In silent parties they descend by night, And posting watchful sentinels, to warn When hostile steps approach, with gambols they Pour o'er the cane-grove. Luckless he to whom That land pertains! in evil hour, perhaps, And thoughtless of to-morrow, on a die He hazards millions; or, perhaps, reclines On luxury's soft lap, the pest of wealth; And, inconsiderate, deems his Indian crops Will amply her insatiate wants supply.

"From these insidious droles (peculiar pest Of Liamigia's hills) would'st thou defen Thy waving wealth, in traps put not thy trust, However baited: treble every watch, And well with arms provide them; faithful dogs, Of nose sagacious, on their footsteps wait.

With these attack the predatory bands; Quickly, th' unequal conflict they decline, And chattering, fling their ill-got spoils away.

So when, of late, innumerous Gallic hosts, Fierce, wanton, cruel, did by stealth invade The peaceable American's domains, While desolation mark'd their faithless rout; No sooner Albion's martial sons advanc'd, Than the gay dastards to their forests fled, And left their spoils and tomahawks behind.

"_Nor with less haste the whisker'd vermin race, A countless clan, despoil the low-land cane._ "These to destroy, &c."

When the poem was read in MS. at Sir Joshua's house, the lines printed in italics were not part of the production, but in their place stood--

"Now, Muse, let's sing of _rats_."

The immediate effect of such _bathos_ was a burst of inextinguishable laughter from the auditors, whose sense of the ridiculous was by no means quieted by the fact that one of the company, slyly overlooking the reader, discovered that "the word had originally been _mice_, and had been altered to _rats_, as more dignified."

Above the crowd of minor medical _litterateurs_ are conspicuous, Moore, the author of "Zeluco"; Dr. Aikin, one of whose many works has been already referred to; Erasmus Darwin, author of "The Botanic Garden"; Mason Good, the translator of "Lucretius," and author of the "Study of Medicine"; Dr. Ferriar, whose "Ill.u.s.trations of Sterne" just doubled the value in the market of "Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy"; Cogan, the author of "Life and Opinions of John Buncle, jun."; Dr.

Harrington, of Bath, editor of the "Nug? Antiqu?"; Millingen, who wrote "The Curiosities of Medical Practice," and "The History of Duelling"; Dr. Paris, whose "Life of Sir Humphrey Davy,"

unsatisfactory as it is in many places, is still a useful book, and many of whose other writings will long remain of great value; Wadd, the humourous collector of "Medical Ana"; Dr. Merriman, the late contributor to the _Gentleman's Magazine_ and _Notes and Queries_; and Pettigrew, the biographer of Lettsom. If the physicians and surgeons still living, who have openly or anonymously written with good effect on subjects not immediately connected with their profession, were placed before the reader, there would be found amongst them many of the most distinguished of their fraternity.

_Apropos_ of the Dr. Harrington mentioned above, a writer says--"The Doctor for many years attended the Dowager Lady Trevor, relict of Lord Trevor, and last surviving daughter of Sir Richard Steele. He spoke of this lady as possessing all the wit, humour, and gaiety of her father, together with most of his faults. She was extravagant, and always in debt; but she was generous, charitable, and humane. She was particularly partial to young people, whom she frequently entertained most liberally, and delighted them with the pleasantry and volubility of her discourse. Her person was like that which her pleasant father described himself in the _Spectator_, with his short face, &c. A little before her death (which was in the month of December) she sent for her doctor, and, on his entering her chamber, he said, 'How fares your Ladyship!' She replied, 'Oh, my dear Doctor, ill fare! I am going to break up before the holidays!' This agreeable lady lived many years in Queen's Square, Bath, and, in the summer months, at St. Ann's Hill, Surrey, the late residence of Rt. Hon. Chas. James Fox."

Wolcot, better known as Peter Pindar, was a medical pract.i.tioner, his father and many of his ancestors having followed the same calling in Devonshire and Cornwall, under the names of Woolcot, Wolcott, Woolacot, Walcot, or Wolcot. After acquiring a knowledge of his profession in a somewhat irregular manner Wolcot found a patron in Sir William Trelawny, Bart., of Trelawny, co. Cornwall, who, on going out to a.s.sume the governorship of Jamaica, took the young surgeon with him to act as medical officer to his household. In Jamaica Wolcot figured in more characters than one. He was the governor's grand-master of the ceremonies, private secretary, and chaplain. When the King of the Mosquitoes waited on the new governor to express his loyal devotion to the King of England's representative, Wolcot had to entertain the royal guest--no difficult task as long as strong drink was in the way.

His Majesty--an enormously stout black brute--regarded intoxication as the condition of life most fit for kings.

"Champagne the courtier drinks, the spleen to chase, The colonel Burgundy, and port his Grace."

The autocrat of the Mosquitoes, as the greatest only are, in his simplicity sublime, was contented with rum or its equivalent.

"Mo' drink for king! Mo' drink for king!" he would bellow, dancing round the grand-master of the governor's household.

"King," the grand-master would reply, "you are drunk already."

"No, no; king no drunk. Mo' drink for king! Broder George" (_i. e._ George III.) "love drink!"

_Grand-Master._--"Broder George does not love drink: he is a sober man."

_Autocrat._--"But King of Musquito love drink. Me will have mo' drink.

Me love drink like devil. Me drink whole ocean!"

The different meagre memoirs of Peter Pindar are conflicting as to whether he ever received ordination from the hands of the Bishop of London. It seems most probable that he never did. But, consecrated or not, there is no doubt that he officiated as a colonial rector for some time. Droll stories of him as a parish priest used to circulate amongst his friends, as well as amongst his enemies. He read prayers and preached whenever a congregation appeared in his church, but three Sundays out of every four not a soul came to receive the benefit of his ministrations.

The rector was an admirable shot, and on his way from his house to church used to amuse himself with shooting pigeons, his clerk--also an excellent shot--walking behind with a fowling-piece in his hand, and taking part in the sport. Having reached the sacred edifice, his reverence and attendant opened the church door and waited in the porch ten minutes for the advent of worshippers. If none had presented themselves at the end of ten minutes, the pastor beat a retreat. If only a few black Christians straggled up, the rector bought them off with a few coins and then went home. One cunning old negro, who saw that the parson's heart was more with the wild-fowl of the neighboring bay than bent on the discharge of his priestly functions, after a while presented himself every Sunday, when the following interview and arrangement were regularly repeated:--

"What do you come here for, blackee?" the parson would exclaim.