The Funny Side of Physic Part 76

He should have been a man of importance, since Swift was pitted against him in "brutal verse." Steele and Pope scribbled about the pedagogue Blackmore. Dryden, who was unable to answer him, called him "a pedant, an a.s.s, a quack, and a cant preacher," and he was ridiculed by the whole set of "petty scribblers, professional libellers, coffee-house rakes, and literary amateurs of the Temple who formed the rabble of the vast army against which the doctor had pitted himself in defence of public decency and domestic morality." We have already referred to the "forty sets of ribald verses taunting him of his early poverty, which caused him to become a schoolmaster."

Amongst his works were "Alfred," a poem of twenty books; another of twelve books; "Hymn to Light," "Satire against Wit," "The Nature of Man;"

"Creation," in seven books; "Redemption," in six books, etc.

Dr. Johnson says of Dr. Blackmore, "And let it be remembered for his honor that to have been a schoolmaster is the only reproach which all the perspicacity of malice animated by wit has ever fixed upon his private life."

Heinrich Stilling, "a pseudonyme adopted by Heinrich Jung, in one of the most remarkable autobiographies ever written," was born about the year 1740, in Na.s.sau. He was bred a tailor, and with his father followed his occupation until the son, by his own efforts and by the aid of his remarkable natural abilities, raised him to a more exalted position. By great efforts and diligent study he acquired a knowledge of Latin and Greek, and something of medicine, when he proceeded to the University of Strasburg. Here he remained prosecuting his studies with much diligence and zeal until he obtained not only his degree, but succeeded to the appointment of a professorship, and raised himself to eminence both by his ability as a lecturer and as an operator.

He was also an author of considerable renown, not only on medical subjects, but as a miscellaneous writer. His novel named "Theobold" is still read. He wrote a treatise on minerals.

His most remarkable production, however, was his autobiography ent.i.tled "Jugend, Junglingjahre, Wanderschaft und Alter Von Heinrich Stilling."

Cabanis, physician to Napoleon I., was a writer of note, particularly on physiology and philosophy. His complete works were recently published in Paris, and a portion of them have been translated into English.

Bard (Samuel), physician to Washington, was an author, but his writings were princ.i.p.ally on medicine. His father was Dr. John Bard, who, with Dr.

Middleton, made at Poughkeepsie the first dissection in America.

Dr. Valentine Mott, of New York, was not only the first surgeon in America, but he was an excellent lecturer and a voluminous writer, but, as far as I can learn, having before me a complete list of his writings, almost entirely on medical subjects. Having been to Europe repeatedly, a book of travels ought to have been added to the list.

One day, in Paris, the celebrated surgeon Dr. R. ---- asked Dr. Mott to visit his hospital and see him perform his peculiar operation. Dr. Mott a.s.sured the surgeon that he accepted with great pleasure.

"But," said the Frenchman, "on reflection I find there is no patient there requiring such an operation. However, that makes no difference, my dear sir. You shall see. There is a poor devil in one of the wards who is of no use to us, himself, or friends; and so come along, and I will operate upon him beautifully, beautifully," said the famous butcher. Dr. Mott, being a humane man, declined seeing the operation on such barbarous terms.

A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.

In "Surgeons of New York" Dr. Francis gives the following:--

"On asking Dr. Batchelder (then eighty-one years of age), if he had to live over his eventful life, if he would again be a doctor, he replied,--

"Yes, sir;" most positively.

Dr. Hosack's favorite branch of practice has been general surgery. On asking him the question if he would again be a surgeon, his reply was condensed into a comprehensive

"Never!"

Dr. Hosack was present as examining physician to Colt, who committed suicide in the city prison. It is believed to this day, in certain circles, that Colt escaped, leaving another body smuggled into prison over night to represent him. The writer was induced once in Hartford to believe this to be true, as persons stated that they had really seen Colt in California. Dr. Hosack's testimony makes the case clear. Colt did not escape. "It seems that when the prisoner found, at the last moment, that there was neither possibility of escaping nor the least probability of a reprieve, he induced some friend to send him a coffee-pot of hot coffee in which the dagger was concealed, and which he drove into his heart even _beyond the handle_."

Dr. Hosack (Alex. Eddy) was also physician to Aaron Burr.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FRANKLIN'S EXPERIMENTS WITH ETHER.]

"Do you never experience any contrition, at times, for the deed?" (viz., shooting Hamilton), asked Dr. H. of his patient.

"No, sir; I could not regret it. Twice he crossed my path. He brought it upon himself," was Burr's reply.

Mrs. H., the doctor's mother, not unfrequently took tea and played chess of an evening with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin was a funny old gentleman.

He used to amuse himself by giving ether to the children of the neighborhood and letting them out under its influence to laugh at their fellow-playmates.

SOME PURITANIC EPITAPHS.

The most ingenious of the Puritan poets was the Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, whose "Day of Doom" is the most remarkable curiosity in American literature. "He was as skilled," says one of his biographers, "in physic and surgery as in diviner things;" and when he could neither preach nor prescribe for the physical sufferings of his neighbors,--

"In costly verse, and most laborious rhymes, He dished up truths right worthy our regard."

He was buried in Malden, near Boston, and his epitaph was written by Mather.

THE EXCELLENT MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH.

_Remembered by some good tokens._

"His pen did once _meat from the eater fetch_; And now he's gone beyond the _eater's_ reach.

His body, once so _thin_, was next to _none_; From hence he's to _unbodied spirits_ flown.

Once his rare skill did all _diseases_ heal; And he does nothing now uneasy feel.

He to his Paradise is joyful come, And waits with joy to see his _Day of Doom_."

The last epitaph for which we have now s.p.a.ce is from the monument of Dr.

Clark, a grandson of the celebrated Dr. John Clark, who came to New England in 1630.

"He who among physicians shone so late, And by his wise prescriptions conquered Fate, Now lies extended in the silent grave; Nor him alive would his vast merit save.

But still his fame shall last, his virtues live, And all sepulchral monuments survive: Still flourish shall his name: nor shall this stone Long as his piety and love be known."

And

"Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined-- _The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind_."

THE ONE-HOSS SHAY.

Mr. Mundella, of the British Parliament, recently said,--

"American authors are now among the best writers in the English language.

Among the poets were Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Bryant, and Lowell--five men whom no other country in the same generation could surpa.s.s, if, indeed, they could match. Never were purer or n.o.bler men than they." He had the honor of knowing some of the greatest literary men in England, and could say that the American authors could compare with them in every way. O. W. Holmes was the most brilliant conversationalist it was ever his good fortune to meet.

As a poet, "his style is brilliant, sparkling, and terse," says Hillard.

I can only find s.p.a.ce for the following from the pen of Dr. Holmes:--

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way, To run a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay: Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, Have you heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, _Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive!

That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake day, That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot; In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel or cross-bar, or floor or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, Above or below, or within or without; And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.

But the deacon swore (as deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou") He would build one shay to beat the taown, 'n' the keounty, 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it _couldn't_ break down: "Fur," said the deacon, "'tis mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."