The unlicensed medical practitioner : a sketch from life.

Date:
[between 1850 and 1859?]
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: The unlicensed medical practitioner : a sketch from life. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by The Royal College of Surgeons of England. The original may be consulted at The Royal College of Surgeons of England.

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    he will exclaim imperiously, “ you’d best walk out, for I won’t serve not one of you that talks ; and them as hasn’t got wials must go and fetch ’em, for mine is all out; and mind you bring corks, for you won’t get ’em here. Will you leave off talking there ?—you in the yellow shawl; No. 7, I’ll serve you last, mind.” Such is the autocratic bearing of the popular j unlicensed medical practitioner in his consultation chamber. Yet, rough and almost unfeeling as he may sometimes appear, Mr. Coalman is at bottom, we have heard, a kind-hearted though somewhat irritable physician. A great deal of his brusquerie —that which does not proceed from sheer igno- '-! ranee—is an eccentricity adopted from politic mo- « tives. To inspire his patients with confidence and to; respect he carefully eschews that familiarity which in his case might often breed contempt. While so illiterate that he cannot properly pronounce any ordinary term in medical science, his still more unlettered admirers believe him to be gifted with all but supernatural endowments. For sixpence or less (according to your circumstances) he will whip out one of your wisdom teeth with marvellous quickness and dexterity. If you buy three cakes of Windsor soap, he will emancipate your corns for nothing; and as for bleeding, he will scarcely detain you a minute; we have seen six mop handles in the corner of his surgery, all of which doubtless are occasionally in requisition at one time. Notwithstanding that Mr. Coalman entirely de- pends upon the patronage of the humbler classes, he is very severe upon their follies and infirmities. “ Many people,” he says, with something between a sneer and a smile, “ fancy they can live upon med’eine. They keep their children in doors all the week, and then they bring ’em to me on a Sunday morning for a powder, as if powders was to do the work of everything—air, wittels, exercise, and what not. Then the parents, they will drink, whatever ails ’em. I tell ’em over and over again, ‘ It’s no use, my good man, your coming to me while you can’t keep away from the public-house. You might just as well pour the med’eine into the kinnel at once.’ ” “ Yours is a very sickly neighbourhood,” we ob- serve. “ So is every neighbourhood sickly,” replies Mr. Coalman, “ if people will confine their children, and won’t let ’em have no air. There’s a father, mother, and six infants in one apartment, not much bigger than my surgery. Why, the very air as they respire is carbonic acid. You might as well put a baby into a gasometer. If they was to go out, and take their children out, they’d have no need of taed’eine; but they won’t.” “ Can’t, perhaps, is a better word,” we suggest deferentially. “ I maintain my position,” returns Mr. Coalman, tying his clouded white apron with a jerk over his portly person. “ What they delight 'in is gossip; I m always trying to prevent the females from talking m my surgery, but it’s of no good—smoke and gossip, gossip and smoke, men and women have at any price; but as for air—pure air— they wouldn’t step across the kinnel to fetch it. incre s babies out of number what is born in that court opposite, and never lose sight of it till they are carried to their graves.” hi Into -tdi !in «; ibd ! Bn! 3 13 1 let ■r.;j ■ 0 “ Unfortunately you have no green fields within easy distance.” “ Green fields !” ejaculated Mr. Coalman, sigh- ing with closed eyes; “ havn’t seen one myself for three years. Why, Sir, would you credit it ? many good-sized children (I hear ’em talking, you know, outside my shop) fancy that if they was to go be- yond the houses, they’d be in danger of being de- voured by wolves, and many grown-up ones can’t be persuaded that people what are born out of London don’t run about wild like savages.” “Is your mortality very great?” we ask the learned doctor. “ No, very small,” replies Mr. Coalman, “ con- sidering all things—population, wentilation, drain- age, and such like. In a family of ten you’ll often find not less than one-third will reach maturity. However poor my patients may be, they never seem to be tired of living. Let ’em be ever so cast down, give ’em a little med’eine, and they’re happy. There’s a young woman as lives over that marine-store shop—a shoe-binder—she’s in a con- sumption fast, and comes to me for advice. ‘ Well,’ I says to her, ‘ it’s no use my giving you med’eine; you want change of air.’ ‘ Can’t I live till Easter, don’t you think, Sir ?’ she says very earnestly. * I don’t think you can,’ says I. ‘ 0 !’ she says, almost weeping, ‘ if I could only live till Easter I should be so happy.’ * Well,’ I says, ‘ I’ll give yon some pills to ease your cough ; but they won’t cure you, ’cause your lungs is eaten away like a piece of cheese, and I should be robbing you to tell you otherwise.’ ” “ Why is she so anxious to live till Easter ?” “ Because her cousin, what’s a sailor, is expected home about that time; they’ve always got some excuse, those women have.” “I fear there is a great deal of drunkenness among your patients.” “ A good deal of drinking. Sir, but very little of what we called drunkenness—I mean police, or disorderly drunkenness.” “ How do you account for that anomaly, Mr. Coalman ?” “ By want of stomach,” replies the doctor, pass- ing his palms over the graceful curve of his apron ; “ what with bad undigestible food, bad smells, bad water, and what not, their constitutions is broken down; and although they drink—men, women, and children, all alike—it never makes ’em noisy : they aint got stamina enough for that.” Mr. Coalman is rarely absent from his “ Dispen- sary and being perfectly satisfied with a quick ready-money business, he willingly resigns all patients requiring advice at home, to the “ quali- fied ” practitioner, who, having paid large fees for a diploma, enjoys the exclusive privilege of giving long credit. When, however, circumstances call Mr. Coalman abroad, his wife, a tall raw-boned woman with a manly voice, officiates for him, and prescribes with confidence and promptitude. But if a ragged urchin comes for a pennyworth of paregoric, senna, magnesia, or Godfrey’s cordial (vulgarly termed “ stuff out of the barrel ”), she sternly refuses to serve it, on account of the indig- nity offered by such a request; and the unhappy applicant has to wait until the doctor comes home, and has neatly adjusted his indispensable apron; when, with greater tenderness than his consort, ho