assemble about us as quaint and interesting a group of the medical profession as was ever gathered together.

In the "Sketches by Boz" (1836) we are permitted to meet Dr. Wosky, Mrs. Bloss' physician-“a little man with a red face,-dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very large practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into."

Dr. Wosky employed a method of treatment which is by no means unknown at the present time, and which is admirably adapted to the requirements of those who enjoy poor health and who are financially able to afford it. He dieted Mrs. Bloss on Guiness stout and lamb chops, with a liberal general diet thrown in, and admonished her, under all circumstances, to have her breakfast in bed.

"'We must take stimulants,' said the cunning Wosky, 'plenty of nourishment, and above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get,' concluded the doctor as he pocketed his fee, and we must keep quiet.'

"Dear man!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped into his carriage.

Of course she said "dear man." He was faithfully assisting her in the facinating game of chronic invalidism, in which a more honest and conscientious physician would have been an intolerable nuisance. I have met you often, Dr. Wosky, and I greet you as an old friend!

Of Dr. Slammer, surgeon of the Ninety-seventh Regiment, who demanded satisfaction of poor Mr. Winkle, of the Pickwick Club, on account of the actions of the irrepressible Mr. Jingle, who had secretly worn Mr. Winkle's Pickwickian suit at the charity ball, we need say nothing. Slammer is shown to us as an irate and blood-thirsty lover, and not as a doctor at all.

In distinct contrast with either of the two men of medicine just mentioned, we find Mr. Losberne, in "Oliver Twist" (1837-1839). He was "a surgeon in the neighborhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as 'the doctor,' had grown fat, more from good humor than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive." He is not shown to us deeply engaged in his professional pursuits; but we cannot resist the conviction that he is the kind of stuff that good and comfortable doctors are made of.

If we were disappointed in not finding Mr. Losberne at his post of duty, we are not so when we meet Mr. Lumbey, in "Nicholas Nickleby" (1838-1839)—in fact, the good Lumbey is working over-time. For we find the doctor "dandling the babythat is, the old baby-not the new one," and aside from this useful occupation, he devotes himself skilfully to the congratulation of Mr. Kenwigs on the arrival of

a son.

"It's a fine boy, Mr. Kenwigs,' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.

"'You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?' returned Mr. Kenwigs.

"It is the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,' said the doctor. 'I never saw such a baby.'

"Morleena was a fine baby,' remarked Mr. Kenwigs; as if this was rather an attack, by implication, upon the family.

"They were all fine babies,' said Mr. Lumbey. And Mr. Lumbey went on nursing the baby with a thoughtful look. Whether he was considering under what head he could best charge the nursing in the bill, was best known to himself." Dr. Lumbey "was a stout bluff-looking gentleman, with no shirt-collar to speak of, and a beard that had been growing since yesterday morning; for Dr.

Lumbey was popular, and the neighborhood was prolific; and there had been no less than three other knockers muffled, one after the other, within the last fortyeight hours" and yet he sat "in the first floor front, nursing the deposed baby" and talking most amiably to Mr. Kenwigs. Quite naturally, the women of the neighborhood, who had assembled to see the new boy and, incidentally to sip brandy and water, unanimously declared "that there never was such a skilful and scientific doctor as that Doctor Lumbey."

And Dickens, in showing us the doctor in all his phases, has not overlooked the medical officer, or the "chief medical examiner," if you please, of the great insurance company. Such an oversight on Dickens' part would have been an oversight indeed, and Dickens was not in the habit of overlooking good material for his caricaturing pen.

In "Martin Chuzzlewit" (1843-1844), that novel which has sunk so deeply into the sensibilities of loyal Americans, we are introduced to Dr. John Jobling, of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Insurance Company. In his greetings to Mr. Montague, we see what a comfortable sort of fellow-practitioner he is:

"And how are you, Mr. Montague, eh?' said the Medical Officer, throwing himself luxuriously into an easy chair, and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his black satin waistcoat. 'How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices with lunch, Mr. Montague."

Dr. John Jobling was one of those clever fellows-and they are not all dead yet, who waxes fat upon the side-lines of medicine-who engage in ventures, a little questionable perhaps, which present themselves to shrewd practitioners of large practice and wide acquaintance, and which offer rich returns with no other outlay or responsibility for success or failure of the enterprise, than lies in permitting their names to appear on letter heads and printed matter. That in so permitting his name to be employed, he is aiding in duping those who have placed confidence in him in the past and at a time, when, as their physician, they were very susceptible to his advances, would be stoutly denied both by Dr. Jobling and by the host of Joblings we still have among us.

"In certain quarters of the City and its neighborhood, Mr. Jobling was

a very popular character. He had a portentiously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich huskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a ray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy. His neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of the blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and his seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest, creaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands and warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and had a peculiar way of smacking his lips and saying 'Ah!' at intervals while patients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It seemed to express, 'I know what you are going to say better than you do; but go on, go on.' His female patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of his male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, 'that whatever Jobling's professional skill might be (and it could not be denied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most comfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!'"

*

*

Dr. Jobling, as has been intimated, held his lucrative connection with the

Anglo-Bengalee Company on account of his intimate acquaintance with tradespeople and their families-the kind of people the Company had selected as the most promising investors and as the purchasers of its insurance policies; but Jobling was too shrewd to permit any of his constituents to believe that he was in any way responsible for the concern or its operations. In talking to his patients about the insurance organization which employed him, the doctor would answer in this wise:

"'If you put any question to me, my dear friend, touching the responsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault, for I have no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of showing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy-your amiable lady will agree with me, I am sure-should be one of the first characteristics of a medical man.' (Nothing could be finer or more gentlemanly than Jobling's feeling, thinks the patient.)"

Let us pass quickly over Mr. Lewsome (also of "Martin Chuzzlewit"), with the assurance that he is not one of our guild. He was bred a surgeon, to be sure, and was employed as an assistant to a general practitioner of London; but he was not in practice when we knew him and we are glad to disclaim him if we can. It was he, you will recall, who, being indebted to Jonas Chuzzlewit, sold him the drugs with which old Anthony Chuzzlewit was poisoned, although suspecting the purpose for which the drugs were purchased. That he made a voluntary confession of his guilt, after the old man had died, and when he was moved by fear of fatal illness, does not in any way restore him to the companionship of reputable medical men. We may admit to our guild the irresponsible fledglings like Bob Sawyer, clever imposters like Dr. Wosky, pugilistic and blood-thirsty surgeons of the type of Dr. Slammer, genial obstetricians like Dr. Lumbey, beloved country doctors like Mr. Losberne, and even shrewd old tricksters of the type of Dr. Jobling; but we must draw the line somewhere, and we choose to draw it upon Mr. Lewsome.

But in the very first chapter of "Dombey and Son" (1846-1848) we come in contact with a distinguished gentleman concerning whom there cannot be the slightest question. He will be eligible in any assemblage of medical dignitaries in any part of the civilized world-I refer to Dr. Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians. This gentleman was called by Mr. Dombey to preside at the birth of little Paul, for the advent of the junior member of the firm of Dombey and Son was a matter of no little moment and commercial importance. In the picture which Dickens paints of Dr. Peps, however, there is nothing more interesting or realistic than the deference shown him by the family surgeon-a deference which we not infrequently see accorded to the pompous consultant from the city, by the honest, hard-working, conscientious family physicians of the outlying districts. And Dickens paints it in all its ridiculousness. I have, in my day, been a groveling satellite, and the following is exceedingly refreshing to me:

"Dr. Parker Peps, one of the Court Physicians, and a man of immense reputation for assisting at the increase of great families, was walking up and down the drawing-room, with his hands behind him, to the unspeakable admiration of the family Surgeon, who had regularly puffed the case for the last six weeks, among all his patients, friends and acquaintances, as one to which he was in hourly expectation, day and night, of being summoned, in conjunction with Dr. Parker Peps."

And what can be more delightful than the keen shots which Dickens takes at the distinguished consultant-his patronizing manner to the family physician; his tendency to confuse the name of the present patient with those of prominent

women attended by him in the past; his evasion as to the prognosis in the case-to be found in the following lines:

"'Good! We must not disguise from you, Sir,' said Dr. Parker Peps, 'that there is a want of power in Her Grace the Duchess-I beg your pardon; I confound names; I should say, in your amiable lady. It would appear

that the system of Lady Cankaby-excuse me; I should say of Mrs. Dombey; I confuse the names of cases

"So very numerous,' murmured the family practitioner-'can't be expected, I'm sure quite wonderful if otherwise-Dr. Parker Peps' West-End practice

""Thank you,' said the Doctor. 'Quite so. It would appear, I was observing, that the system of our patient has sustained a shock, from which it can only hope to rally by a great and strong'

"'And vigorous,' murmured the family practitioner.

"Quite so,' assented the Doctor-, 'and vigorous effort. Mr. Pilkins here, who from his position of medical adviser in this family-no one better qualified to fill that position, I am sure.'

""Oh!' murmured the family practitioner. 'Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley!' "You are good enough,' returned Dr. Parker Peps, 'to say so. Mr. Pilkins, who, from his position, is best acquainted with the patient's constitution in its normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in forming our opinions on these occasions), is of the opinion, with me, that Nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance; and that if our interesting friend the Countess of Dombey-I beg your pardon; Mrs. Dombey-should not be

"Able,' said the family practitioner.

"To make the effort successfully,' said Dr. Parker Peps, 'then a crisis might arise, which we should both sincerely deplore.'

Could the distinguished Dr. Peps be held responsible if poor Mrs. Dombey died? By no means! Had he not laid the matter plainly before Mr. Dombey, and shown that the outcome of the case rested entirely upon the ability of either the patient or Nature to make the effort? After such foresight, such frankness and such clearly expressed warning, Dr. Peps could certainly wash his hands of the whole affair. He had vindicated his position with the family, and, by his outspoken praise of Mr. Pilkins, had assured the retention of that gentleman's "consultation patronage" for all time to come.

But what is that wonderful power of Dickens, possessed to so great an extent by no other man who ever wrote, through which he is able to wreathe our faces in smiles, and almost at the same moment to wet our lashes with tears? After the clever caricature of Dr. Peps, we feel that we can never take him seriously that no scene could ever be impressive in which he takes a part. And yet, after a few brief paragraphs, we come to these, which have always touched me: ""The two medical attendants exchanged a look across the bed; and the Physician, stooping down, whispered in the child's ear. Not having understood the purport of this whisper, the little creature turned her perfectly colorless face and deep-set eyes towards him; but without loosening her hold in the least. "The whisper was repeated.

"Mania!' said the child.

"The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened some show of consciousness, even at that ebb. For a moment, the closed eyelids trembled, and the nostrils quivered, and the faintest shadow of a smile was seen. * * * The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of the child aside from the face and mouth of the mother. Alas, how calm they lay there; how little breath there was

to stir them! Thus, clinging fast to the slight spar within her arms, the mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the world.”

As Dickens required such a host of characters to give play to his remarkable faculty of character drawing, it is natural that he should be compelled to produce them and, as a result, the accoucher was quite indispensable to him. In fact, the Dickens doctors, in most instances, seem to run to obstetrics, although Mr. Chillip, who presided at the birth of "David Copperfield," could hardly be said to run to anything.

When we know the good Chillip better, we are not surprised that the presence of so vigorous a woman as Miss Betsy Trotwood almost "caused him to lose his presence of mind."

"He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the ghost in 'Hamlet,' and more slowly. He carried his head on one side,-partly in modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. It is - nothing to say that he hadn't a word to throw at a dog. He couldn't have thrown a word at a mad dog."

Bless his heart! I have known him, and there are many worse traits than this timid modesty! You may recall that Dr. Jobling regarded delicacy as an essential to the physician,-yet modesty is quite as rare and quite as desirable a virtue. While there is no pretense about Mr. Chillip, there is nothing to indicate that David Copperfield was not ushered into the world by the most approved methods of midwifery,--and when Mr. Chillip gave us David, he placed all of us deeply in his debt.

Most of the doctors of Dickens are burlesque sketches which might have been inspired by the medical men of the present day as well as by those of Dickens' own time; but one stands unique, the result of the writer's peculiar inventive genius. This is Mr. Bayham Badger, whom we are permitted to meet in "Bleak House" (1852). Dickens was accustomed to mark his actors with some very characteristic trait or mannerism by which they were instantly recognized wherever we chanced to meet them, and Mr. Badger was noted principally for his enthusiastic admiration of his wife's former husbands.

"Mr. Bayham Badger

was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking gentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair and surprised eyes,—some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. He admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands.”

But, like our good friends, Dr. Slammer and Mr. Losberne, we find Mr. Badger occupied with other things than medicine, and so we pass him by.

Young Allan Woodcourt, of whom we are permitted to know very little, gave us promise of a delightful companionship. He was starved out of London when his professional skill was just beginning to be recognized, and he remained a surgeon on a ship trading in India and China during most of those happy days when we were wandering through the pages of "Bleak House" and were fathoming the intracacies of the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

Do you recall ever having drifted into a strange town and, in some unexpected way, having stumbled upon an old schoolmate whom you have not seen for years? Do you recall the flood of memories opened up by such a meeting, and the keen pleasure of talking over old times? And does it ever occur to you how inaccurate the memory of your old friend has grown and how he is inclined to exaggerate certain incidents and minimize others that, to you, are more important? If so,