And strength to bear it without qualm or pain.
“Now view his father as he dozing lies,
Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes;
Who slips and shuffles when he means to walk,
And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk;
Feeling he’s none - he could as soon destroy
The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy;
A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs,
Present his gruel, and respect his whims:
Now shall this dotard from our hero hold
His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold!
That which he cannot use, and dare not show,
And will not give - why longer should he owe?
Yet, t’would be murder should we snap the locks,
And take the thing he worships from the box;
So let him dote and dream: but, till he die,
Shall not our generous heir receive supply?
For ever sitting on the river’s brink?
And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink?
The means are simple, let him only wish,
Then say he’s willing, and I’ll fill his dish.”
They all applauded, and not least the boy,
Who now replied, “It fill’d his heart with joy
To find he needed not deliv’rance crave
Of death, or wish the Justice in the grave;
Who, while he spent, would every art retain,
Of luring home the scatter’d gold again;
Just as a fountain gaily spirts and plays
With what returns in still and secret ways.”
Short was the dream of bliss; he quickly found
His father’s acres all were Swallow’s ground.
Yet to those arts would other heroes lend
A willing ear, and Swallow was their friend;
Ever successful, some began to think
That Satan help’d him to his pen and ink;
And shrewd suspicions ran about the place,
“There was a compact” - I must leave the case.
But of the parties, had the fiend been one,
The business could not have been speedier done:
Still when a man has angled day and night,
The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite:
So Swallow tried no more: but if they came
To seek his friendship, that remain’d the same:
Thus he retired in peace, and some would say
He’d balk’d his partner, and had learn’d to pray.
To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought
How Swallow felt, then said “a change is wrought.”
’Twas true there wanted all the signs of grace,
But there were strong professions in their place;
Then, too, the less that men from him expect,
The more the praise to the converting sect;
He had not yet subscribed to all their creed,
Nor own’d a Call, but he confess’d the need:
His aquiescent speech, his gracious look,
That pure attention, when the brethren spoke,
Was all contrition, - he had felt the wound,
And with confession would again be sound.
True, Swallow’s board had still the sumptuous treat;
But could they blame? the warmest zealots eat:
He drank - ’twas needful his poor nerves to brace;
He swore - ’twas habit; he was grieved - ’twas grace:
What could they do a new-born zeal to nurse?
“His wealth’s undoubted - let him hold our purse;
He’ll add his bounty, and the house we’ll raise
Hard by the church, and gather all her strays:
We’ll watch her sinners as they home retire,
And pluck the brands from the devouring fire.”
Alas! such speech was but an empty boast;
The good men reckon’d, but without their host;
Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store,
And own’d the sum; they did not ask for more,
Till more was needed; when they call’d for aid -
And had it? - No, their agent was afraid:
“Could he but know to whom he should refund
He would most gladly - nay, he’d go beyond;
But when such numbers claim’d, when some were gone.
And others going - he must hold it on;
The Lord would help them.” - Loud their anger grew,
And while they threat’ning from his door withdrew,
He bow’d politely low, and bade them all adieu,
But lives the man by whom such deeds are done!
Yes, many such - But Swallow’s race is run;
His name is lost, - for though his sons have name,
It is not his, they all escape the shame;
Nor is there vestige now of all he had,
His means are wasted, for his heir was mad:
Still we of Swallow as a monster speak,
A hard bad man, who prey’d upon the weak.
LETTER VII.
Finirent multi letho mala; credula vitam
Spes alit, et melius cras fore semper ait.
TIBULLUS.
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, Hudibras.
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PROFESSIONS - PHYSIC.
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.
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 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 Physician 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 renowned,
Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found:
Some, too, admitted to this honourd 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 in 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 laboured 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 of 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,
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,
Their lungs cough’d up, their bones pierced through their skin
Their liver all one schirrus, 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,
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;
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;
“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?
Would you assist his purpose? swell his crime?
Besides, he might not spare a second time.