Passages from the diary of a late physician / by Samuel Warren, author of 'Ten thousand a-year'.

  • Warren, Samuel, 1807-1877.
Date:
[1890]
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: Passages from the diary of a late physician / by Samuel Warren, author of 'Ten thousand a-year'. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by Royal College of Physicians, London. The original may be consulted at Royal College of Physicians, London.

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    days, from several unequivocal .syiii]> toiiis of what is called a palloping con- sumption. I seat him a nurse (tlie mo- ther of one of my servants), who was charged to pay him tlie utmost atten- tion. My wife sent him bed-fiirnitnre, linen, preserves, jellies, and other mat- ters of that sort. I visited him every evening, and found him on each occa- siim verifying niy appreliensions, for he ■was sinking rapidly. His mental ener- gies seemed to increase with the de- cline of his physical powers. His con- versation was animated, various, and enchantingly interesting. I have some- times sat at his bedside for hours toge- ther, wondering how one so young (he was not more than two or three and twenty) could have acquired so much information. He spoke with justness on the leading political topics of the day; and I recollect his making some noble reflections on the character and exploits of Buonaparte, who was tlien blazing in the zenith of his glory. Still the current of liis thouglits and lan- guage was tinged with tlie extravagance of delirium. Of this he seemed con- scious ; for he would sometimes sud- denly stop, and pressing his hand to liis forehead, exclaim, ' Doctor, doctor, I am failing here—hete !' He acknow- ledged that he had, from childhood, given himself up to tlie dominion of ambition ; and that his whole life had been spent in visionary expectations. He would smile bitterly when he re- counted some of wliat he stigmatised as his insane projects. 'The objects of my ambition,' he said, 'have been vague and general; I neverknew wliere, or what, I would be. Had my powers been concentrated on one point—had I formed a more modest estimate of ray iibilities—I might have become some- tliing » • . . liesides, doctor, I had no mojiev—no solid substratum to build upon ; there was the rotten point! O doctor!' he continued, 'if I could but have seen these things three years ago, as I see them 71010, I might at this moment have been a respectable member of so- ciety ; but now I am dying—a hanger- on—a fool—a beggar !' and he burst in- to tears. 'You, doctor,' he continued, 'are accustomed to listen to these deathbed repining.s—these soul-sconrg- ings—these wailingsovera badly-spent life 1 Oil, yes ; as I am neai ing eternity I seem to look at things tlirough the medium of a strange, searcliing, un- earthly light! Oil! how many thiiiss it makes distinct, wliicli I wimhl fain have forgotten for ever ! Do you re- collect the terrible language of Scrip- ture, doctor, which compares the hu- man breast to a cage of wiclean btrdkP —I left him that evening convinced of the compulsory truths he had uttered ; I never thought so seriously before. It is some Scotch divine who has said, tliat one deathbed preaches a more startling sermon than a bench of bishops, « » • • Mr. was an excellent and tho- rough Greek scholar, perfectly well versed in the Greek dramatists, and passionately fond of Sophocles. I once asked him, if he did not regret having devoted his life almost exclu- sively to the study of the classics. He replied, ' No, doctor—no, no! I should bean insrate if I did. How caul re- gret having lived in constant converse, through their works, with the noblest men tliat ever breathed ! I have lived j in Elysium—have breathed the celes- tial air of those hallowed plains, while engaged in the stiuly of the philosophy anil poetry of Greece and Rome. Yes, it is a consolation for my jiremature deathbed, to think that my mind will quit this wretched, diseased body, im- bued with the refinement—redolent of the eternal freshness and beauty of the most exquisite poetry and philosophy the world ever saw ! With my facul- ties strengthened, I shall go confident- ly, and claim kindred with the great ones of Eternity. They know I love their works—have consumed all the oil of my life in their study, and they will welcome their son—their disciple.' ni as he was, Mr. uttered these sentiments in the very words I have given, with an energy and an eloquence, which I never saw surpassed. He fal- tered suddenly from this lofty pitch of excitement, and complained bitterly that his devotion to ancient literature had engendered a morbid sensibility, which had rendered him unfit for the ordinary business of life, or intermix- ture with society. « • « Often I found him sitting up in bed, and reading his favourite )ilay, the Prometheus Vinctus of ^Eschylus, while his wasted features glowed with delighted enthusiasm. He told me that.in his estimation, there was an air of grandeur about that play, such as was not equalled by any of the produc- tions of the other Greek dramatists; and that the opening dialogue was pe- culiarly impressive. He had commit- ted to memory nearly three-fourths of the play ! I on one occasion asked him, how it came to pass that a jicrson of his sujicrior attainments had not obtained some Inciative engagement as an usher or tutor? He answered, with an haugh- ty air, that he would rather have broken stones on the highway. 'To hear,'