The Battle of the Wigs An Additional Canto to Dr. Garth's Poem of the Dispensary. Occasioned by The Disputes between the Fellows and Licentiate of the College of Physicians, in London. By Bonnell Thornton |
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 | The Battle of the Wigs |  |
III. PART THE THIRD.
“To arms, to arms,” on ev'ry side they bawl.
Each grave bashaw, that bears three deathful tails,
Rous'd from his torpor joins in fierce assails;
Foregoes his wonted solemness of mein,
While wig meets wig, and cane encounters cane.
Like quills on hedge-hog, when he roll'd up lies;
Their knots on either side the tyes unfold,
And pendent midmost stands erectly bold.
Curl'd like the Têtes our dames of fashion wear,)
Their folds untwisting, with amaze and dread
They struck the foe, and instant star'd him dead.
With head of amber, or with head of gold,)
Sage nurse of thought, that gently kiss'd the nose,
On the crack'd cranium deals descending blows.
With modest hilt just peeping through the slit,
From peaceful scabbard starts a warring blade,
“By a mere bodkin the Quietus made.”
Of galligaskins to repair the slits,
Tormented by the foe, he vengeance vows,
And with his spear, a needle, pricks a louse.
“To arms, to arms,” on ev'ry side they bawl.
So loud the din, so terrible the roar,
It pierc'd the earth to Lethe's farthest shore;
Shook Pluto's throne,—who trembled for his friends,
So skill'd, so prompt to serve their mutual ends.
Enters the room, in solemn vest bedight.
And in his left four flaming torches blaze;
Rings on his fingers for departed friends;
Athwart his breast a silken scarf descends;
Plumes on his head, and on his back he bore,
Like herald's coat, a robe escutcheon'd o'er.
An Undertaker aptly he appears:—
Black is the constant dress Hell's Monarch wears.
Grim Pluto through the trap-door come from Styx;
Black and all black, all dismal is his suit,
And powder'd seems the peruke's self with soot:
His legs alone, with emblematic aim,
In scarlet-colour'd hose affect to flame.
“Will ye yourselves instead of others slay?
“The air in vain does Influenza taint?
“What! no acute, no chronical disease,
“No fevers want your aid? No pleurisies,
“No coughs, consumptions, atrophies, catarrhs?
“No foul mishaps from love's intemp'rate wars?
“If ye neglect Your business, there will be,
“Alas! I fear, but little work for Me.
“By any other name would look as big.
“The same the Latin in your Recipes:
“The scrawl, illegible to vulgar eyes,
“Denotes you deeply learn'd, and wond'rous wise.
“The glitt'ring meed, no Doctor can withstand.
“Though some the purge prefer, and some the pipe;
“Or in th' intestines raise the sharp commotion,
“Some with a pill, and others with a potion;
“Though, to apply the flayer of the skin,
“Some hold a virtue, others hold a sin;
“In Antimony some their trust repose,
“And some in Mercury,—to save a nose;
“In this one point ye never disagree,—
“Ye're all unanimous—about the fee.
“A mild complacency in ev'ry eye,)
“Think on the meed, that tickles sweet your hand,
“The glitt'ring meed, no Doctor can withstand.
“Ye quit the substance, and embrace the shade.
“Licentiato Licence has—to kill:
“Can Socio boast a greater pow'r, or skill?
Behold! your patients are to health restor'd.
Be friends, and social join in consultation;
Each shake his loaded noddle with the other,
And brother gravely smell his cane with brother.”
A car triumphal in the form of hearse:
Six coal-black steeds “drag'd it's slow length along”,
Deaf to Aight, Aight, and heedless of the thong.
(Laid flat upon his back, and hid from view,)
In awful pomp, slow, solemn, sad, and still,
Through Warwick Lane, and on, (down Ludgate Hill,)
To the Fleet Market,—whose stupendous ditch
A lazy current rolls, as black as pitch;
From whence a passage, dismal, dark, and dank,
Leads underneath to Acheron's gloomy bank.
Twelve sable imps the vehicle surround,
And with lethiferous nightshade strew the ground:
A strong perfume, as in his car he rode,
Of Assa Fœtida proclaim'd the God.
And rev'rent awe, on the procession gaze.
These preposterous ornaments of false hair, twisted and twirled into a thousand unnatural shapes, may indeed be very properly called Medusa Têtes, though it must be confessed they are (in the language of Enamoratos) not quite so killing. For the story of Medusa, see the end of the Latin Dictionary, under the letter M.
Beaume de Vie. A medicine so called, which is advertised as a sovereign remedy against autumnal complaints.
Influenza. A distemper which rages in Italy, in the Summer months. The term has been adopted in England.
The two trades are so intimately connected, that an eminent Apothecary, whose eldest son is brought up to his father's profession, has, with a prudent forecast, bound his youngest son apprentice to an Undertaker.
A parody on the following lines;
By any other name would smell as sweet.
Romeo and Juliet.
To corroborate the truth of this maxim, we shall take the liberty of setting down the two following short stories, by way of illustration. The circumstances require the stile of the narration to be more familiar than would suit with the dignity of the rest of the poem, to have them interwoven in the body of it.
From Oxford, Leyden, Cam, or Aberdeen,)
Was call'd to visit one with utmost speed;
But, when he came, behold! the patient's dead.
“What! dead?”—“Yes, doctor,—dead,—but here's your fee.”—
“Oh, very well;—'tis all the the same to me.”
Lest doctor Somebody be much in wrath,)
Soon as he saw the sick man, shook his head,—
No pulse—no breath—the man, in short, was dead.
Now as our doctor kept his silent stand,
The tempting shiner in the dead man's hand
He saw, he touch'd—and seizing, “'Tis for me,”
He cried, and took his farewell,—and the fee.
It is very remarkable, that the Decrease of Burials within the bills of morality for the year 1767 is not less than 1299, owing, (it may perhaps be supposed) to the physicians having been so much taken up with squabbles among themselves.
See the General Bill of Mortality, set forth by the parish clerks, from December 15, 1766, to December 16, 1767.
An imitation of the following lines:
And shakes his empty noddle at his brother.
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
And like a wounded snake, “drags its slow length along.”
| The Battle of the Wigs | |