Note 111 — CANTO IV. GRAND ATTACK!
Reading edition
All in a chariot take an airing.
I hereby enter a protest against any one of my commentators, whether he be Vanscanderdigindich the elder, or Hansvanshognosuch, his cousin German (two Dutch geniuses, who have promised to furnish the next edition of this my pithy poem with a whole ass-load of annotations) or any other gentlemen critics or reviewers of equal profoundity, presuming to intimate, that I intend, by this passage, the smallest disrespect to your pedestrian physicians. Far from that; I know that many good and great men (like myself for example) cannot even pay a shilling for hackney-coach hire. No, gentlemen; I have two great objects in view, to wit:
1. To encourage my brother B—to persevere in his laudable attempt to kick Perkinism back to the country whence it originated, by reminding him, that if the feat were once performed, he might, perhaps, soon afford the expense of a chariot to transport, in a respectable manner, all that wig, without laying the entire burden on the curious sconce it now envelopes.
2. To remind brother B—, and the profession in general, how much more execution may be done by a charioteer than by a pedestrian physician.
Although great men frequently differ, I am happy to find Mr Addison’s opinion and mine, in this particular, perfectly consentaneous.
“This body of men,” says he, speaking of physicians in our own country, “may be described like the British army in Cæsar’s time. Some slay in chariots, and some on foot. If the infantry do less execution than the charioteers, it is because they cannot be carried, so soon, into all parts of the town, and despatch so much business in so short a time.” Spectator, No. 21.
Not an individual, I will venture to assert, who knows my brother B—, but must feel the really urgent necessity of elevating him, as soon as possible, from le pave and giving those talents their full swing. Then, indeed, soon might our charioteer justly boast—
“London, with all her passing bells, can tell, By this right arm what mighty numbers fell. Whilst others meanly ask’d whole months to slay, I oft despatch’d the patient in a day. With pen in hand, I push’d to that degree, I scarce had left a wretch to give a fee. Some fell by laudanum, and some by steel, And death in ambush lay in every pill; For save, or slay, this privilege we claim, Though credit suffers, the reward’s the same.”