LETTER VII.

PROFESSIONS—PHYSIC.

[Jam mala finissem letho; sed credula vitam

Spes fovet, et fore cras semper ait melius.]

Tibullus [Lib. II. vi. vv. 19-20].

He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat——

For as those fowls that live in water

Are never wet, he did but smatter;

Whate'er he labour'd to appear,

His understanding still was clear.

A paltry wretch he had, half-starved,

That him in place of zany served.

Butler's Hudibras [Part II. Canto iii].

The Worth and Excellence of the true Physician—Merit not the sole Cause of Success—Modes of advancing Reputation—Motives of medical Men for publishing their Works—The great Evil of Quackery—Present State of advertising Quacks—Their Hazard—Some fail, and why—Causes of Success—How Men of Understanding are prevailed upon to have Recourse to Empirics, and to permit their Names to be advertised—Evils of Quackery: to nervous Females; to Youth; to Infants—History of an advertising Empiric, &c.

LETTER VII.

PROFESSIONS—PHYSIC.

Next, to a graver tribe we turn our view,

And yield the praise to worth and science due;

But this with serious words and sober style,

For these are friends with whom we seldom smile:

Helpers of men[51] they're call'd, and we confess

Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess.

We own that numbers join with care and skill

A temperate judgment, a devoted will:

Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel

The painful symptoms they delight to heal;

Patient in all their trials, they sustain

The starts of passion, the reproach of pain;

With hearts affected, but with looks serene,

Intent they wait through all the solemn scene;

Glad, if a hope should rise from nature's strife,

To aid their skill and save the lingering life.

But this must virtue's generous effort be,

And spring from nobler motives than a fee:

To the physicians of the soul, and these,

Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease.

But as physicians of that nobler kind

Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind;

So among these for knowledge most renown'd,

Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found.

Some, too, admitted to this honour'd name,

Have, without learning, found a way to fame;

And some by learning:—young physicians write,

To set their merit in the fairest light;

With them a treatise is a bait that draws

Approving voices; 'tis to gain applause,

And to exalt them in the public view,

More than a life of worthy toil could do.

When 'tis proposed to make the man renown'd,

In every age convenient doubts abound;

Convenient themes in every period start,

Which he may treat with all the pomp of art;

Curious conjectures he may always make,

And either side of dubious questions take.

He may a system broach, or, if he please,

Start new opinions of an old disease;

Or may some simple in the woodland trace,

And be its patron, till it runs its race;

As rustic damsels from their woods are won,

And live in splendour till their race be run;

It weighs not much on what their powers be shown,

When all his purpose is to make them known.

To show the world what long experience gains,

Requires not courage, though it calls for pains;

But, at life's outset to inform mankind,

Is a bold effort of a valiant mind.

The great good man, for noblest cause, displays

What many labours taught, and many days;

These sound instruction from experience give,

The others show us how they mean to live;

That they have genius, and they hope mankind

Will to its efforts be no longer blind.

There are, beside, whom powerful friends advance,

Whom fashion favours, person, patrons, chance;

And merit sighs to see a fortune made

By daring rashness or by dull parade.

But these are trifling evils; there is one

Which walks uncheck'd, and triumphs in the sun:

There was a time, when we beheld the quack,

On public stage, the licensed trade attack;

He made his labour'd speech with poor parade;

And then a laughing zany lent him aid.

Smiling we pass'd him, but we felt the while

Pity so much, that soon we ceased to smile;

Assured that fluent speech and flow'ry vest

Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd.

But now our quacks are gamesters, and they play

With craft and skill to ruin and betray;

With monstrous promise they delude the mind,

And thrive on all that tortures human-kind.

Void of all honour, avaricious, rash,

The daring tribe compound their boasted trash—

Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill;

All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;

And twenty names of cobblers turn'd to squires,

Aid the bold language of these blushless liars.

There are among them those who cannot read,

And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed;

Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,—

For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid?

With cruel avarice still they recommend

More draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end:

"I feel it not;"—"Then take it every hour."—

"It makes me worse;"—"Why, then it shows its power."—

"I fear to die;"—"Let not your spirits sink,

You're always safe, while you believe and drink."

How strange to add, in this nefarious trade,

That men of parts are dupes by dunces made:

That creatures nature meant should clean our streets

Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and seats;

Wretches with conscience so obtuse, they leave

Their untaught sons their parents to deceive;

And, when they're laid upon their dying-bed,

No thought of murder comes into their head,

Nor one revengeful ghost to them appears,

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To fill the soul with penitential fears.

Yet not the whole of this imposing train

Their gardens, seats, and carriages obtain;

Chiefly, indeed, they to the robbers fall,

Who are most fitted to disgrace them all.

But there is hazard—patents must be bought,

Venders and puffers for the poison sought;

And then in many a paper through the year

Must cures and cases, oaths and proofs appear;

Men snatch'd from graves, as they were dropping in,

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Their lungs cough'd up, their bones pierced through their skin;

Their liver all one scirrhus, and the frame

Poison'd with evils which they dare not name;

}

Men who spent all upon physicians' fees,

}

Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease,

}

Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as bees.

If the sick gudgeons to the bait attend,

And come in shoals, the angler gains his end;

But, should the advertising cash be spent,

Ere yet the town has due attention lent,

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Then bursts the bubble, and the hungry cheat

Pines for the bread he ill deserves to eat:

It is a lottery, and he shares perhaps

The rich man's feast, or begs the pauper's scraps.

From powerful causes spring th' empiric's gains,

Man's love of life, his weakness, and his pains;

These first induce him the vile trash to try,

Then lend his name, that other men may buy.

This love of life, which in our nature rules,

To vile imposture makes us dupes and tools;

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Then pain compels th' impatient soul to seize

On promised hopes of instantaneous ease;

And weakness too with every wish complies,

Worn out and won by importunities.

Troubled with something in your bile or blood,

You think your doctor does you little good;

And, grown impatient, you require in haste

The nervous cordial, nor dislike the taste;

It comforts, heals, and strengthens; nay, you think

It makes you better every time you drink;

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"Then lend your name"—you're loth, but yet confess

Its powers are great, and so you acquiesce.

Yet, think a moment, ere your name you lend,

With whose 'tis placed, and what you recommend;

Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel,

But will he to the med'cine set his seal?

Wait, and you'll find the cordial you admire

Has added fuel to your fever's fire.

Say, should a robber chance your purse to spare,

Would you the honour of the man declare?

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Would you assist his purpose? swell his crime?

Besides, he might not spare a second time.

Compassion sometimes sets the fatal sign,

The man was poor, and humbly begg'd a line;

Else how should noble names and titles back

The spreading praise of some advent'rous quack?

But he the moment watches, and entreats

Your honour's name—your honour joins the cheats;

You judged the med'cine harmless, and you lent

What help you could, and with the best intent;

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But can it please you, thus to league with all

Whom he can beg or bribe to swell the scrawl?

Would you these wrappers with your name adorn,

Which hold the poison for the yet unborn?

No class escapes them—from the poor man's pay

The nostrum takes no trifling part away;

See! those square patent bottles from the shop,

Now decoration to the cupboard's top;

And there a favourite hoard you'll find within,

Companions meet! the julep and the gin.

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Time too with cash is wasted; 'tis the fate

Of real helpers to be call'd too late;

This find the sick, when (time and patience gone)

Death with a tenfold terror hurries on.

Suppose the case surpasses human skill,

There comes a quack to flatter weakness still;

What greater evil can a flatterer do,

Than from himself to take the sufferer's view?

To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers,

And rob a sinner of his dying hours?

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Yet this they, dare and craving to the last,

In hope's strong bondage hold their victim fast:

}

For soul or body no concern have they,

}

All their inquiry, "Can the patient pay?

}

And will he swallow draughts until his dying day?"

Observe what ills to nervous females flow,

When the heart flutters, and the pulse is low;

If once induced these cordial sips to try,

All feel the ease, and few the danger fly;

For, while obtain'd, of drams they've all the force,

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And when denied, then drams are the resource.

Nor these the only evils—there are those

Who for the troubled mind prepare repose;

They write: the young are tenderly address'd,

Much danger hinted, much concern express'd;

They dwell on freedoms lads are prone to take,

Which makes the doctor tremble for their sake;

Still, if the youthful patient will but trust

In one so kind, so pitiful, and just;

If he will take the tonic all the time,

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And hold but moderate intercourse with crime:

The sage will gravely give his honest word,

That strength and spirits shall be both restored;

In plainer English—if you mean to sin,

Fly to the drops, and instantly begin.

Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh,

To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry?

That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note,

Which came with vigour from the op'ning throat;

When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes,

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And there was life and spirit in the cries;

Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep

Is all we hear; sensation is asleep.

The boy was healthy, and at first express'd

His feelings loudly, when he fail'd to rest;

When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb,

To cry aloud, was what pertain'd to him;

Then the good nurse, (who, had she borne a brain,

Had sought the cause that made her babe complain,)

Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied,

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To set the cry, and not the cause, aside;

She gave her powerful sweet without remorse,

The sleeping cordial—she had tried its force,

Repeating oft; the infant, freed from pain,

Rejected food, but took the dose again,

Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express'd,

That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest:

Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt

Remains but quickly he will rest without.

This moves our grief and pity, and we sigh

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To think what numbers from these causes die;

But what contempt and anger should we show,

Did we the lives of these impostors know!

Ere for the world's I left the cares of school,

One I remember who assumed the fool:

A part well suited—when the idler boys

Would shout around him, and he loved the noise;

They call'd him Neddy;—Neddy had the art

To play with skill his ignominious part;

When he his trifles would for sale display,

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And act the mimic for a schoolboy's pay.

For many years he plied his humble trade,

And used his tricks and talents to persuade;

The fellow barely read, but chanced to look

Among the fragments of a tatter'd book,

Where, after many efforts made to spell

One puzzling word, he found it oxymel:

A potent thing, 'twas said, to cure the ills

Of ailing lungs—the oxymel of squills.

Squills he procured, but found the bitter strong,

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And most unpleasant; none would take it long;

But the pure acid and the sweet would make

A med'cine numbers would for pleasure take.

There was a fellow near, an artful knave,

Who knew the plan, and much assistance gave;

He wrote the puffs, and every talent plied

To make it sell: it sold, and then he died.

Now all the profit fell to Ned's control,

And Pride and Avarice quarrell'd for his soul;

When mighty profits by the trash were made,

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Pride built a palace, Avarice groan'd and paid;

Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about,

And Avarice barr'd his friends and children out.

Now see him doctor! yes, the idle fool,

The butt, the robber of the lads at school;

Who then knew nothing, nothing since acquired,

Became a doctor, honour'd and admired;

His dress, his frown, his dignity were such,

Some who had known him thought his knowledge much;

Nay, men of skill, of apprehension quick,

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Spite of their knowledge, trusted him when sick.

}

Though he could never reason, write, nor spell,

}

They yet had hope his trash would make them well;

}

And while they scorn'd his parts, they took his oxymel.

Oh! when his nerves had once received a shock,

Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Rock[52]:

Hence impositions of the grossest kind;

Hence thought is feeble, understanding blind;

Hence sums enormous by those cheats are made,

And deaths unnumber'd by their dreadful trade.

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Alas! in vain is my contempt express'd;

To stronger passions are their words address'd:

To pain, to fear, to terror their appeal,

To those who, weakly reasoning, strongly feel.

What then our hopes?—perhaps there may by law

Be method found, these pests to curb and awe;

Yet in this land of freedom, law is slack

With any being to commence attack;

}

Then let us trust to science—there are those

}

Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose,

}

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All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks expose.

Perhaps their numbers may in time confound

Their arts—as scorpions give themselves the wound:

For, when these curers dwell in every place,

While of the cured we not a man can trace,

Strong truth may then the public mind persuade,

And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.

FOOTNOTES:

[51]

Opiferque per orbem

Dicor.

[Ovid, Metam. Lib. I. vv. 521-2.]

[52] An empiric who flourished at the same time with this great man.