Fifteen Chapters of Autobiography
class of men, have determined the course and condition of my life. I
believe that I know, by personal experience, more about Doctors and
Doctoring than any other man of my age in England. I am, in my own
person, a monument of medical practice, and have not only seen, but
felt, the rise and fall of several systems of physic and surgery. To
have experienced the art is also to have known the artist; and the
portraits of all the practitioners with whom at one time or another I
have been brought into intimate relations would fill the largest album,
and go some way towards furnishing a modest Picture-Gallery. Broadly
speaking, the Doctors of the 'fifties and 'sixties were as Dickens drew
them. The famous consultant, Dr. Parker Peps; the fashionable physician,
Sir Tumley Snuffim; the General Practitioner, Mr. Pilkins; and the
Medical Officer of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life
Insurance Company, Dr. Jobling; are in the highest degree representative
and typical; but perhaps the Doctor--his name, unfortunately, has
perished--who was called to the bedside of little Nell, and came with "a
great bunch of seals dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin,"
is the most carefully finished portrait. Such, exactly, were the Family
Physicians of my youth. They always dressed in shiny black,--trousers,
neckcloth, and all; they were invariably bald, and had shaved upper lips
and chins, and carefully-trimmed whiskers. They said "Hah!" and "Hum!"
in tones of omniscience which would have converted a Christian
Scientist; and, when feeling one's pulse, they produced the largest and
most audibly-ticking gold watches producible by the horologist's art.
They had what were called "the courtly manners of the old school"; were
diffuse in style, and abounded in periphrasis. Thus they spoke of "the
gastric organ" where their successors talk of the stomach, and referred
to brandy as "the domestic stimulant." When attending families where
religion was held in honour, they were apt to say to the lady of the
house, "We are fearfully and wonderfully made"; and, where classical
culture prevailed, they not infrequently remarked--
Crescit indulgens sibi dirus hydrops.
By the way, my reference to "the domestic stimulant" reminds me that on
stimulants, domestic and other, this school of Physicians relied with an
unalterable confidence. For a delicate child, a glass of port wine at
11 was the inevitable prescription, and a tea-spoonful of bark was often
added to this generous tonic. In all forms of languor and debility and
enfeebled circulation, brandy-and-water was "exhibited," as the phrase
went; and, if the dose was not immediately successful, the brandy was
increased. I myself, when a sickly boy of twelve, was ordered by a
well-known practitioner, called F. C. Skey, to drink mulled claret at
bedtime; and my recollection is that, as a nightcap, it beat bromide and
sulphonal hollow. In the light of more recent science, I suppose that
all this alcoholic treatment was what Milton calls "the sweet poyson of
misused wine," and wrought havoc with one's nerves, digestion, and
circulation. It certainly had this single advantage, that when one grew
to man's estate, and passed from "that poor creature, small beer," to
the loaded port and fiery sherry of a "Wine" at the University, it was
impossible to make one drunk. And thereby hangs a tale. I was once
writing the same sentiment in the same words for a medical journal, and
the compositor substituted "disadvantage" for "advantage," apparently
thinking that my early regimen had deprived me of a real happiness in
after-life.
Such were the Doctors of my youth. By no sudden wrench, no violent
transition, but gently, gradually, imperceptibly, the type has
transformed itself into that which we behold to-day. No doubt an inward
continuity has been maintained, but the visible phenomena are so
radically altered as to suggest to the superficial observer the idea of
a new creation; and even we, who, as Matthew Arnold said, "stand by the
Sea of Time, and listen to the solemn and rhythmical beat of its waves,"
even we can scarcely point with confidence to the date of each
successive change. First, as to personal appearance. When did doctors
abandon black cloth, and betake themselves (like Newman, when he seceded
to the Church of Rome) to grey trousers? Not, I feel pretty sure, till
the 'seventies were well advanced. Quite certainly the first time that I
ever fell into the hands of a moustached Doctor was in 1877. Everyone
condemned the hirsute appendage as highly unprofessional, and when, soon
after, the poor man found his way into a Lunatic Asylum, the
neighbouring Doctors of the older school said that they were not
surprised; that "there was a bad family history"; and that he himself
had shown marked signs of eccentricity. That meant the moustache, and
nothing else. Then, again, when was it first recognized as possible to
take a pulse without the assistance of a gold chronometer? History is
silent; but I am inclined to assign that discovery to the same date as
the clinical thermometer, a toy unknown to the Doctors of my youth, who,
indeed, were disposed to regard even the stethoscope as new-fangled.
Then "the courtly manners of the old school"--when did they go out? I do
not mean to cast the slightest aspersion on the manners of my present
doctor, who is as polite and gentlemanlike a young fellow as one could
wish to meet. But his manners are not "courtly," nor the least "of the
old school." He does not bow when he enters my room, but shakes hands
and says it's an A1 day and I had better get out in the motor. Whatever
the symptoms presented to his observation, he never says "Hah!" or
"Hum!" and he has never once quoted the Bible or Horace, though I have
reason to believe that he has read both. Then, again, as a mere matter
of style, when did Doctors abandon the majestic "We," which formerly
they shared with Kings and Editors? "We shall be all the better when we
have had our luncheon and a glass of sherry," said Sir Tumley Snuffim.
"We will continue the bark and linseed," murmured Dr. Parker Peps, as
he bowed himself out. My Doctor says, "Do you feel as if you could
manage a chop? It would do you pounds of good"; and "I know the peroxide
dressing is rather beastly, but I'd stick it another day or two, if I
were you." Medical conversation, too, is an art which has greatly
changed. In old days it was thought an excellent method of lubricating
the first interview for the Doctor to ask where one's home was, and to
state, quite irrespective of the fact, that he was born in the same
neighbourhood; having ascertained that one was, say, a Yorkshireman, to
remark that he would have known it from one's accent; to enlarge on his
own connexions, especially if of the territorial caste; to describe his
early travels in the South of Europe or the United States; and to
discourse on water-colour drawing or the flute. "We doctors, too, have
our hobbies; though, alas! the demands of a profession in which _Ne
otium quidem otiosum est_ leave us little time to enjoy them."
Quite different is the conversation of the modern doctor. He does not
lubricate the interview, but goes straight to business--enquires,
examines, pronounces, prescribes--and then, if any time is left for
light discourse, discusses the rival merits of "Rugger" and "Soccer,"
speculates on the result of the Hospital Cup Tie, or observes that the
British Thoroughbred is not deteriorating when he can win with so much
on his back; pronounces that the Opera last night was ripping, or that
some much-praised play is undiluted rot. Not thus did Dr. Parker Peps
regale Mrs. Dombey, or Sir Tumley Snuffim soothe the shattered nerves of
Mrs. Wititterly. The reaction against alcoholic treatment can, I
believe, be definitely dated from the 10th of January, 1872, when the
heads of the medical profession published their opinion that "alcohol,
in whatever form, should be prescribed with as much care as any powerful
drug, and the directions for its use should be so framed as not to be
interpreted as a sanction for excess." This was a heavy blow and deep
discouragement to the school of Snuffim and Pilkins, and the system of
port at 11, and "the domestic stimulant" between whiles, died hard.
But this is a long digression. I return to the Family Physician who
prescribed for my youth. He was Dr. T. Somerset Snuffim, son of the
celebrated Sir Tumley, and successor to his lucrative practice. His
patients believed in him with an unquestioning and even passionate
faith, and his lightest word was law. It was he who in 1862 pronounced
me physically unfit for a Private School, but held out hopes that, if I
could be kept alive till I was fourteen, I might then be fit for a
Public School. Four years passed, and nothing particular happened. Then
the time arrived when the decision had to be made between Public School
and Private Tutor. After a vast amount of stethoscoping and
pulse-feeling, Snuffim decided peremptorily against a Public School. My
parents had a strong and just detestation of "private study" and its
products, and they revolved a great many schemes for avoiding it.
Suddenly my mother, who was not only the kindest but also the wisest of
mothers, bethought herself of making me a Home-boarder at Harrow. She
was one of those persons who, when once they are persuaded that a
certain course is right, do not let the grass grow under their feet, but
act at once. We did not desert our old home in Bedfordshire, and my
father had still his official residence in Speaker's Court; but my
parents took a house at Harrow, at the top of Sudbury Hill, and there we
established ourselves in September, 1867.
On the 4th of November in that year, Matthew Arnold, who was
contemplating a similar move, wrote to Lady de Rothschild:--"What you
tell me is very important and interesting. I think Lady Charles Russell
has a boy who, like my eldest boy, is an invalid, and I dare say you
will some time or other be kind enough to ascertain from her whether the
school life is at all trying for him, or whether she has any difficulty
in getting him excused fagging or violent exercises."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The L.C.C., which placed this slab, made a topographical error.
James Wright, in his _Compendious View of the late Tumults and Troubles
in this Kingdom_ (1683), says: "The Lord Russel ... was on the day
following, viz. Saturday the 21st of July, Beheaded in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. For which purpose a Scaffold was erected that Morning on that
side of the Fields next to the Arch going into Duke Street, in the
middle between the said Arch and the corner turning into Queen Street."
[2]
To the Editor of _The Times_.
SIR--As Links with the Past seem just now to be in fashion, permit
me to supply two which concern my near relations.
1. My uncle, Lord Russell (1792-1878) visited Napoleon at Elba in
December, 1814, and had a long conversation with him, which is
reported in Spencer Walpole's "Life of Lord John Russell." There
must be plenty of people now alive who conversed with my uncle, so
this Link cannot be a very rare one.
2. My second Link is more remarkable. My father (1807-1894)
remembered an old Highlander who had been "out" with Prince Charles
Edward in 1745. Of course, this "linking" took place at the extremes
of age, my father being a little boy and the Highlander a very old
man. My grandfather, the sixth Duke of Bedford, was one of the first
Englishmen who took a shooting in the Highlands (on the Spey), and
the first time that my father accompanied him to the north, Prince
Charlie's follower was still living near the place which my
grandfather rented.