A Book about Doctors Part 13

Arbuthnot's epitaph on Colonel Chartres (almost as well known as Martinus Scriblerus) is a good specimen of his humour:--

"Here continueth to rot, The Body of Francis Chartres.

Who, with an indefatigable constancy, And inimitable Uniformity of life, Persisted, In spite of Age and Infirmities, In the practice of every Human Vice, Excepting Prodigality and Hypocrisy: His insatiable Avarice exempting him from the First, His matchless impudence from the Second.

Nor was he more singular in the Undeviating Pravity Of his manners, than successful In acc.u.mulating Wealth: For, without Trade or Profession, Without trust of public money, And without bribe-worthy service, He acquired, or more properly created, A ministerial estate.

He was the only person of this time Who could cheat without the Mask of Honesty, Retain his prim?val meanness when possessed of Ten thousand a-year: And having duly deserved the Gibbet for what he did, Was at last condemned to it for what he could not do.

Oh, indignant reader!

Think not his life useless to mankind: Providence connived at his execrable designs, To give to After-age a conspicuous Proof and Example Of how small estimation is exorbitant Wealth In the sight of G.o.d, by His bestowing it on The most unworthy of Mortals."

The history of the worthy person whose reputation is here embalmed is interesting. Beginning life as an ensign in the army, he was drummed out of his regiment, banished Brussels, and ignominiously expelled from Ghent, for cheating. As a miser he saved, and as a usurer he increased, the money which he won as a blackleg and card-sharper.

Twice was he condemned to death for heinous offences, but contrived to purchase pardon; and, after all, he was fortunate enough to die in his own bed, in his native country, Scotland, A. D. 1731, aged sixty-two.

At his funeral the indignant mob, feeling that justice had not been done to the dear departed, raised a riot, insulted the mourners, and, when the coffin was lowered into the grave, threw upon it a magnificent collection of dead dogs!

In a similar and scarcely less magnificent vein of humour, Arbuthnot wrote another epitaph--on a greyhound:--

"To the memory of Signor Fido, An Italian of Good Extraction: Who came into England, Not to bite us, like most of his countrymen, But to gain an honest livelihood: He hunted not after fame, Yet acquired it: Regardless of the Praise of his Friends, But most sensible of their love: Tho' he liv'd amongst the great, He neither learn'd nor flatter'd any vice: He was no Bigot, Tho' he doubted of none of the thirty-nine articles; And if to follow Nature, And to respect the laws of Society, Be Philosophy, He was a perfect Phi losopher, A faithful Friend, An agreeable Companion, A loving Husband, Distinguished by a numerous Offspring, All of which he lived to see take good _courses_; In his old age he retired To the House of a Clergyman in the Country, Where he finished his earthly Race, And died an Honour and an Example to the whole Species.

Reader, This stone is guiltless of Flattery, For he to whom it is inscribed Was not a man, But a Greyhound."

In the concluding lines there is a touch of Sterne. They also call to mind Byron's epitaph on his dog.

These epitaphs put the writer in mind of the literary ambition of the eminent Dr. James Gregory of Edinburgh. His great aim was to be _the_ Inscriptor (as he styled it) of his age. No distinguished person died without the doctor promptly striking off his characteristics in a mural legend. For every statue erected to heroes, real or sham, he composed an inscription, and interested himself warmly to have it adopted. Amongst the public monuments on which his compositions may be found are the Nelson Monument at Edinburgh, and the Duke of Wellington's shield at Gibraltar. On King Robert Bruce, Charles Edward Stuart, his mother, Sir James Foulis de Collington, and Robertson the historian, he also produced commemorative inscriptions of great excellence. As a very fair specimen of his style the inscription on the Seott Flagon is transcribed:--

"Gualterum Scott, De Abbotsford, Virum summi Ingenii Scriptorem Elegantem Poetarum sui seculi facile Principem Patri? Decus Ob varia ergo ipsam merita In civium suorum numerum Grata adscripsit Civitas Edinburgensis Et hoc Cantharo donavit A. D. MDCCCXIII."

Sir Richard Blackmore, the other pedagogue physician, was one of those good, injudicious mortals who always either praise or blame too much--usually the latter. The son of a Wiltshire attorney, he was educated at Westminster School and Oxford, taking his degree of M.A.

June, 1676, and residing, in all, thirteen years in the university, during a portion of which protracted period of residence he was (though Dr. Johnson erroneously supposed the reverse) a laborious student. On leaving Oxford he pa.s.sed through a course of searching poverty, and became a schoolmaster. In this earlier part of his life he travelled in France, Germany, the Low Countries, and Italy, and took his doctor's degree in the University of Padua. On turning his attention to medicine, he consulted Sydenham as to what authors he ought to read. "Don Quixote," replied the veteran. A similar answer has been attributed to Lord Erskine on being asked by a law student the best literary sources for acquiring legal knowledge and success.

The scepticism of the reply reminds one of Garth, who, to an anxious patient inquiring what physician he had best call in in case of his (Garth's) death, responded, "One is e'en as good as t'other, and surgeons are not less knowing."

As a poet, Blackmore failed, but as a physician he was for many years one of the most successful men in his profession. Living at Sadler's Hall, Cheapside, he was the oracle of all the wealthiest citizens, and was blessed with an affluence that allowed him to drive about town in a handsome equipage, and make an imposing figure to the world.

Industrious, honourable, and cordially liked by his personal friends, he was by no means the paltry fellow that Dryden and Pope represented him. Johnson, in his brilliant memoir, treated him very unfairly, and clearly was annoyed that his conscience would not allow him to treat him worse. On altogether insufficient grounds the doctor argued that his knowledge of ancient authors was superficial, and for the most part derived from secondary sources. Pa.s.sages indeed are introduced to show that the ridicule and contempt showered on the poet by his adversaries, and re-echoed by the laughing world, were unjust; but the effect of these admissions, complete in themselves, is more than counterbalanced by the sarcasms (and some of them vulgar sarcasms too) which the biographer, in imitation of Colonel Codrington, Sir Charles Sedley, and Colonel Blount, directs against the city knight.

A sincerely religious man, Blackmore was offended with the gross licentiousness of the drama, and all those productions of the poets which const.i.tuted the light literature of the eighteenth century. To his eternal honour, Blackmore was the first man who had the courage to raise his voice against the evil, and give utterance to a manly indignation at the insults offered nightly in every theatre to public decency. Unskilled in the use of the pen, of an age when he could not hope to perfect himself in an art to which he had not in youth systematically trained himself, and immersed in the cares of an extensive practice, he set himself to work on the production of a poem, which should elevate and instruct, not vitiate and deprave youthful readers. In this spirit "Prince Arthur" was composed and published in 1695, when the author was between forty and fifty years of age. It was written, as he frankly acknowledged, "by such catches and starts, and in such occasional uncertain hours as his profession afforded, and for the greatest part in coffee-houses, or in pa.s.sing up and down streets." The wits laughed at him for writing "to the rumbling of his chariot-wheels," but at this date, ridicule thrown on a man for doing good at odd sc.r.a.ps of a busy day, has a close similarity to the laughter of fools. Let any reader compare the healthy gentlemanlike tone of the preface to "Prince Arthur," with the mean animosity of all the virulent criticisms and sarcasms that were directed against the author and his works, and then decide on which side truth and good taste lie.

Blackmore made the fatal error of writing too much. His long poems wearied the patience of those who sympathized with his goodness of intention. What a list there is of them, in Swift's inscription, "to be put under Sir Richard's picture!"

"See, who ne'er was, or will be half read, Who first sung Arthur, then sung Alfred,[7]

Praised great Eliza[8] in G.o.d's anger, Till all true Englishmen cried, hang her!

Then hiss'd from earth, grown heavenly quite, Made every reader curse the light.[9]

Mauled human wit in one thick satire;[10]

Next, in three books, spoil'd human nature;[11]

Ended Creation[12] at a jerk, And of Redemption[13] made d.a.m.n'd work: Then took his muse at once, and dipp'd her Full in the middle of the Scripture.

What wonders there the man grown old did!

Sternhold himself he out-sternholded; Made David[14] seem so mad and freakish, All thought him just what thought king Achish.

No mortal read his Solomon,[15]

But judged R'oboam his own son.

Moses[16] he served, as Moses Pharaoh, And Deborah as she Sisera: Made Jeremy[17] full sore to cry, And Job[18] himself curse G.o.d and die."

[7] Two heroic Poems, folio, twenty books.

[8] An heroic Poem, in twelve books.

[9] Hymn to Light.

[10] Satire against Wit.

[11] Of the Nature of Man.

[12] Creation, in seven books.

[13] Redemption, in six books.

[14] Translation of all the Psalms.

[15] Canticles and Ecclesiastes.

[16] Canticles of Moses, Deborah, &c.

[17] The Lamentations.

[18] The Whole Book of Job, in folio.

Nor is this by any means a complete list of Sir Richard's works; for he was also a voluminous medical writer, and author of a "History of the Conspiracy against the Person and Government of King William the Third, of glorious memory, in the year 1695."

Dryden, unable to clear himself of the charge of pandering for gain to the licentious tastes of the age, responded to his accuser by calling him an "a.s.s," a "pedant," a "quack," and a "canting preacher."

"Quack Maurus, though he never took degrees In either of our universities, Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks, Because he play'd the fool, and writ three books.

But if he would be worth a poet's pen, He must be more a fool, and write again; For all the former fustian stuff he wrote Was dead-born doggerel, or is quite forgot: His man of Uz, stript of his Hebrew robe, Is just the proverb, and 'as poor as Job.'

One would have thought he could no longer jog; But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.

There though he crept, yet still he kept in sight; But here he founders in, and sinks downright.

At leisure hours in epic song he deals, Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels.

Well, let him go--'tis yet too early day To get himself a place in farce or play; We know not by what name we should arraign him, For no one category can contain him.

A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack, Are load enough to break an a.s.s's back.

At last, grown wanton, he presumed to write, Traduced two kings, their kindness to requite; One made the doctor, and one dubbed the knight."

The former of the kings alluded to is James the Second, Blackmore having obtained his fellowship of the College of Physicians, April 12, 1687, under the new charter granted to the college by that monarch; the latter being William the Third, who, in recognition of the doctor's zeal and influence as a Whig, not less than of his eminence in his profession, made him a physician of the household, and knighted him.

Pope says:--

"The hero William, and the martyr Charles, One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles."

The bard of Twickenham had of course a few ill words for Blackmore. In the Dunciad he says:--

"Ye critics, in whose heads, as equal scales, I weigh what author's heaviness prevails; Which most conduce to soothe the soul in slumbers, My H----ley's periods, or my Blackmore's numbers."

Elsewhere, in the same poem, the little wasp of poetry continues his hissing song:--