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.
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.
II. PART THE SECOND.
Striving to force a passage through the gates,
In vain he strives;—then, drooping with despair,
To Venus he addrest his humble pray'r.
“If they approve my lotion or my pill;—
If Drury, and The Garden, sound my fame;—
If many a mother, that would pass for maid,
In secret calls for my obstetric aid;—
If, to prevent th' affected sneer of prude,
My juice of S--- can the shame preclude;—
If with my Drops I rouse the enervate rake,
And wives unfruitful happy mothers make;—
O help!—Let Mars's arms awhile be staid,
And send your cuckold to my instant aid.”
With protestations and repeated vows
Of strict fidelity in time to come,
(“No more she'd wander, but would cleave to home,”)
Prevail'd upon her fond and easy dear
On earth in form of Blacksmith to appear.
The tedious hours of absence to beguile,
'Tis said, with Mars she solac'd all the while.
By the black bristles of his beard and breast;
A leathern apron tyed about his waist,
And on his head a woollen night-cap plac'd;
A massy hammer in his hand he held,
Which scarce two men of modern strength could weild.
Forthwith th' inhospitable bars he broke:
To quaff the earthly nectar of Butt Beer.
In rush'd Licentiato with his band;
Through constables, through butchers onward prest
To Fuming Chamber , an unwelcome guest;
Where, from intrusion (as they thought) secure,
In lolling posture, and with look demure,
Immers'd in politicks and sober chat
The Dons serenely o'er their bottle sat;
Save that the peruke whitens down the back.
Slow from their lips proceeds the puff'd perfume,
And sleep-inviting vapours cloud the room.
Each was struck dumb, as Mute at funeral.—
So sat the Roman Curules, dully wise,
When Gauls rush'd in, and view'd them with surprize,
Taking their awful forms for deities.
The solemn silence, and thus coughing spoke.
“Give us, (hem, hem,) one drop to clear our lungs,
“(Hem, hem,) one little drop to cool our tongues.”
“No; not a single drop”, stern Socio roar'd,
And up he snatch'd the bottle from the board.
“How dares Licentiato force our gate?”
He said, and hurl'd the bottle at his pate.
The glass, less hard, quick from his front rebounds,
Scarce leaving on the skin some superficial wounds.
In thickest case, by leaden skull secur'd!
Drug-venders else had rued th' adventure cross,
And callous undertakers mourn'd thy loss.
Stun'd,—from the floor unable to arise;
And, as when cupping-utensil's applied,
The trickling streams from narrow sluices glide,
So down his face slow flows a purple flood:—
The muse affirms not, whether wine or blood.
Richard Rock, a very noted practitioner. We have not been able to learn the import of those two significant letters M. L. which constantly accompany his name. Flugger. Dr. Flugger, no less noted, but not of so long standing.
Drury Lane, of antient renown. Covent Garden is emphatically stiled The Garden, as the principal singers in the Opera are called The Guarducci, The Lovatini &c.
Doctor Mead, in his essay on poison says, “I had once in my possession, given me by an ingenious chemist, a clear liquor, which though ponderous, was so volatile, that it would all fly away in the open air, without being heated, and so corrosive, that a glass stopple of the bottle, which contained it, was in a short time so eroded, that it could never be taken out. The fume of it was so thin, that if a candle was set at some distance from the bottle, upon a table, the heat would direct its course that way; so that it might be poisonous to any one that sat near to the light, and to no body else. I know (adds the doctor) the composition of this stygian spirit; but it is better, that the world should not be instructed in such arts of death.”
For the same reason the author, as a lover of his king and country, and consequently a friend to Population, chuses not to print the word S--- at full length.
Pointed above, and rough and gross below;
Not two strong men th' enormous weight could raise,
Such men as live in these degenerate days.
Pope's Homer.
In justice to the honest landlord that keeps the house, and the worthy alderman that serves it, we think ourselves obliged to acquaint all true lovers of Entire Butt, that they will be sure to meet with an excellent tankard of it at the Three Jolly Butchers, the corner of Warwick-Court.
The author ingenuously acknowledges, that some of the best lines (if any may be called so) in his poem, are owing to the inspiration of this excellent liquor.
Vulgarly called, Smoaking Room.
We cannot but take notice here of an infamous addition to those admirable lines in favour of this noble exotic plant; to wit,
'Twill make you well, if you are sick.
An enemy to Tobacconists has reversed the sentiment, by saying,
If you are well, will make you sick.
“When the crowd of superannuated patriots had, by their advice and exhortations to the soldiers, done all that was in their power towards the defence of the capital, [Rome] they returned to their houses, there to wait, with steady resolution, the coming of the enemy, and death. Such of them, as had triumphed for victories, or had been Curule magistrates, that they might die with the greater dignity, adorned themselves with the insignia of those honours which they had acquired by their virtue Cloathed in their triumphal robes, or in those of their magistracies, they repaired to the Forum, and seating themselves there, in their Curule chairs, maintained the same respectable air of greatness, as when in the fullness of their former power.
“As the Gauls had met with little resistance from the Romans in the field, and were not put to the trouble of an assault to take the city, they entered it (at the gate Collina) without any thing, in their appearance, of hostile anger, that raging flame kindled by opposition, difficulty and danger. Moving on, they beheld, with amazement, the streets unpeopled as a desert; and when they came to the Forum, and cast their eyes all around, they could observe no shew of war but in the Citadel alone. What chiefly drew and fixed their Attention, was the company of venerable Victims, who had devoted themselves to Death. Their Magnificent Purple Robes, their long White Beards, their Air of Greatness, their Silence, Stillness, and Serenity, all these astonished the Gauls, held them at an awful distance, and inspired them with the same Respect which they would have had for so many Gods. It chanced, however, that one of the soldiers (who was, probably, less apt to be religiously affected than his comrades) took the freedom gently to put his hand towards the beard of Manlius Papirius, as if he meant to stroke it; a familiarity which so offended the Magestic Figure, that, with a smart blow of his Ivory Truncheon, he broke the fellow's head. There needed no more to put an end to all reverence for such a cholerick deity. The Gauls instantly killed Papirius; and, as if he had given the signal for a general massacre, all the rest were now slain, sitting, like him, in state, in their Curule Chairs.”
Hooke's Roman History, Book II. Chap. XXXVIII.Let the Reader figure to himself the DOCTORS,—their Magnificent Full-trim'd Black,—their long White Perukes,—their Air of Greatness,—their Silence, Stillness, and Serenity,—their Gold-headed Canes, (no less respectable than the Ivory Truncheon)—their sitting in State, in their Elbow Chairs;—Let the Reader, I say, figure to himself these Magestick Figures, and we are confident, he must be struck with awe and admiration.
The sound is here designedly made to ecchoe to the sense. So Virgil,
------procumbit humi Bos.Many instances may be brought, not only from the Greek and Latin poets, of a similar attention, but also from our own. Let one suffice.—
Shakespeare, in his King Lear, has the following line,
“Many a fathom down precipitating,”the Precipitation of which Tate has chosen to stop (in his alteration of this play) by substituting
“Many a fathom tumbling down.”O what a tumbling down is here!
[And now a general tumult reigns through all]
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.”
Aight, Aight—an expression in the Huynhym language, made use of by coachmen, etc. in speaking to the horses, signifying, Go on.
Assa fœtida, vulgarly called Devil's Dung; abundance of which is found about the Peak in Derbyshire. [See Cotton's natural history of that place.]
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