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 |
The Battle of the Wigs | ||
I. PART THE FIRST.
Where feuds unheard of, and new uproars reign;
Where Fellows with Licentiates hold debate;—
These, (to preserve their dignity of state,)
Admit no partners in their councils grave,
Who titles only from Diplomas have;
Alike their fortunes, and alike their fame:—
Each Æsculapian breast fell discord warms,
And for awhile the gown gives place to arms.
Among thy sons, the arbiters of fate?
Thy great upholders, whose unsparing pen
Crowds Pluto's realm, and thins the race of men?
Rever'd by sages skill'd in purge or puke;—
When in mute state the grave assembly meet,
To hear profound oration ,—and to eat;—
To fast without, while others feast within.
Hungry and dry, he mourn'd his hapless fate,
With Socio not allow'd to foul a plate;
Forbid to cheer his heart, and warm his throttle,
With Haustus repetendus of the bottle.
Which nothing but admittance could assuage,
“Open your gates, he cries, and let us enter,
“Or else to force them open we'll adventure.”
Of A. B. A. M. M. B. and M. D.
Nor deigns he to unfold the sacred gate.
“Shall Scots, he cries, or Leyden doctors dare
“With sapient Regulars to claim a chair?
“How can Diplomatists have equal knowledge?
“No, no—they must not mess with Graduates of a College.”
By force to gain what stubborn pride denies.
And now the pond'rous pestle beats to arms,
And the huge mortar rings with loud alarms;
On barber's pole a peruke they display
With triple tail, a signal for the fray.
To emulate one spark of Homer's fire,
From Clumsy Tunbelly to John o' Gaunt.
Are Socio's bands, and force repel with force.
Of neighb'ring Butchers stands an awful guard;
Each with an azure apron strung before,
And snow-white sleeves, as yet unstain'd with gore:
The foe the whetting-iron hears dismay'd,
Grating harsh musick from the sharp'ning blade.
With marrow-bones and cleavers in their hands,
Fram'd to split skulls, and deal destructive knocks,
To fell a doctor, or to fell an ox;—
A peal of triumph,—Ding dong, ding dong, ding.
The same their practice, nor unlike their trade:
And what alliance more exactly suits?
Man-killers leagued with those who slaughter brutes.
But they prepare a mask'd artillery.
A water engine, charg'd with beastly gore,
Stands ready on the foe its filth to pour.
And what than this can cast a greater dread,
Design'd to change the sable coat to red?
When from the puncture spouts the crimson tide.
Thou tyrant-monarch of the midnight hour,—
(If haply, when thou tread'st thy watchful round,
Some kind-inviting vagrant nymph be found;)
Hight Constable, wast there;—Thy magic staff,
With royal standard down emblazon'd half;—
Ensign of might, to make wild uproar cease,
And bid tumultuous riot be at peace.
Cedunt Arma Togæ, is a well known expression. In the universities the doctors of physick are invested with a Scarlet Gown; and it may be a question with some perhaps, whether that or the Scarlet Coat has been productive of most destruction among mankind.
On St. Luke's day there is a Latin speech pronounced by a Fellow in the college of physicians, called (from Doctor Harvey, the original institutor of this ceremony) Oratio Harveiana.
The medical gentry, however they may recommend abstinence to others, are many of them no enemies to the bottle, if taken in Moderation, as they term it. A certain witty physician was advising a friend of his, who had been used to be too free with his bottle, to take a chearful Pint with his meals, and no more: “but, says he, the “whole secret consists in knowing how much your Pint should hold. I myself take “my Pint constantly after dinner and supper; but mine is a Scots Pint,”—that is, two quarts.
A. B. Artium Baccalaureus, batchelor of arts, A. M. Artium Magister, master of arts, M. B. Medicinæ Baccalaureus, batchelor of physick, M. D. Medicinæ Doctor, doctor of physick.
Newgate Market is contiguous to Warwick Lane. The Butchers are therefore called (in V. 50.) neighb'ring butchers.
In the Ode on St. Cæcilia's Day, adapted to the ancient British musick, is the following AIR.
Make clanging cleavers ring,
With a ding dong, ding dong,
Ding dong, ding dong,
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding.
Raise your uplifted arms on high,
In long-prolonged tones,
Let cleavers sound
A merry merry round,
By banging marrow-bones.
The Battle of the Wigs | ||