Part 2 (1/2)
In spite of this mortifying reception, however, Sydenham afterwards took the greatest interest in Dr. Sloane, frequently taking the young man with him in his chariot on going his rounds.
In ”Lives of English Physicians,” the author, in writing of Dr. Sydenham, says, ”At the commencement of his practice, it is handed down to us, that it was his ordinary custom, when consulted by patients for the first time, to hear attentively their story, and then reply, ”Well, I will consider your case, and in a few days will prescribe something for you;” thereby gaining time to look up such a case. He soon learned that this deliberation would not do, as some forgot to return after ”a few days,”
and to save his fees he was obliged, _nolens volens_, to prescribe on the spot.
A further proof of his contemptible opinion of deriving knowledge from books, as expressed above to Dr. Blackmore, is exemplified and corroborated in an address to Dr. Mapletoft (1675).
”The medical art could not be learned so well and surely as by use and experience, and that he who would pay the nicest and most accurate attention to the symptoms of distempers, would succeed best in finding out the true means of cure.”
”Riding on horseback,” he says, in one of his books, ”will cure all diseases except confirmed consumption.” How about curing gout?
A very amusing, though painful picture, is drawn by Dr. Winslow, a reliable author of the seventeenth century, in his book, ”Physic and Physicians:”--
”Dr. Sydenham suffered extremely from the gout. One day, during the latter part of his life, he was sitting near an open window, on the ground floor of his residence in St. James Square, inspiring the cool breeze on a summer's afternoon, and reflecting, with a serene countenance and great complacency on the alleviation of human misery that his skill enabled him to give. Whilst this divine man was enjoying this delicious reverie, and occasionally sipping his favorite beverage from a silver tankard, in which was immersed a sprig of rosemary, a sneak thief approached, and seeing the helpless condition of the old doctor, stole the cup, right before his eyes, and ran away with it. The doctor was too lame to run after him, and before he could stir to ring and give alarm the thief was well off.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY.]
This reminds one of a story of an old man who stood in a highway, leaning on his staff, and crying, in a feeble, croaking voice, ”Stop thief! stop thief!”
”What is the matter, sir?” inquired a fellow, approaching.
”O, a villain has stolen my hat from my head, and run away.”
”Your hat!” looking at the bare head; ”why didn't you run after him?”
”O, my dear sir, I can't run a step. I am very lame.”
”Can't run! then here goes your wig.” And so saying, the fellow caught the poor old man's wig, and scampered away at the top of his speed.
Dr. Sydenham died December 29, 1689. He could not be termed a quack, but certainly he was a consummate humbug.
An author, before quoted, after copying a description of the ”poor physician” of the age, adds,--
”How it calls to mind the image of Dr. Oliver Goldsmith, when, with a smattering of medical knowledge and a German diploma, he tried to pick out of the miseries and ignorance of his fellow-creatures the means of keeping soul and body together! He, too, poet and doctor, would have sold a pot of rouge to a faded beauty, or a bottle of hair dye, or a nostrum warranted to cure the bite of a mad dog.”
”Set a rogue to catch a rogue.” And to this principle we are indebted for the exposition of many fallacies and humbugs pursued by early physicians in order to gain practice.
”Dr. Radcliffe,” says Dr. Hannes, ”on his arrival in London, employed half of the porters in town to call for him at the coffee-houses (a famous resort of physicians of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries) and places of public resort, so that his name might become known.”
On the other hand, Radcliffe accused Dr. Hannes of the same trick a few years later. Doctors were doctors' own worst enemies. Instead of standing by each other of the same school, in lip service, or pa.s.sing by each other's errors and imperfections in silence, as they do nowadays, they quarrelled continually, accusing each other of the very tricks they practised themselves.
Of Dr. Meade it was confidently a.s.serted, that without practice at first, he opened extensive correspondence with all the nurses and midwives in his vicinity, a.s.sociated and conversed with apothecaries and gossips, who, hoping for his trade, would recommend him as a skilful pract.i.tioner. The ruse worked, and soon the doctor found his calls were _bona fide_. This is a trick that some American physicians we know of may have learned from Dr.
Meade. Certainly they know and practise the deception.
When Dr. Hannes went to London, he opened the campaign with a coach and four. The carriage was of the most imposing appearance, the horses were the best bloods, sleek and high-spirited, the harnesses and caparisons of the richest mountings of silver and gold, with the most elegant tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.
”By Jove, Radcliffe!” exclaimed Meade, ”Dr. Hannes' horses are the finest I have ever seen.”
”Umph,” growled Radcliffe, ”then he will be able to sell them for all the more.” But Dr. Radcliffe's _prognosis_ was at fault for once; and notwithstanding all the prejudice that Radcliffe and his friends could bring to bear against Hannes, and the lampooning verses spread broadcast against him, he kept his ”fine horses,” and rode into a flouris.h.i.+ng business.
To make his name known, Dr. Hannes used to send liveried footmen running about the streets, with directions to poke their heads into every coach they met, and inquire anxiously, ”Is Dr. Hannes here?” ”Is this Dr.