Part 1 — A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE PART ONE.

Hail, great Hygeïa! Healing Goddess, hail![14] And lend one moment to a touching tale; One moment stay thy pestle-driving hand, And let thy half-compounded physic stand: That tale is this: I have a subject here, Not anatomical—but very near; A starving vot'ry of the 'healing art,' Who shows its wond'rous power in every part: But cannot find the language to describe, In proper guise, a member of thy tribe. Oh! then vouchsafe me a 'composing draught,' Potent as ever willing patient quaff'd! ***** I thank thee, for I feel it working now, And composition flows, no matter how.

The doctor sate sole in his easy chair, And his visage was stamped with the marks of care, And his vacant eye said, as plain as eye could, That his mind was digesting but meagre food. At all events, it were safe to say, That his own wise thoughts were its food that day. What ails thee, doctor?[15] Are patients thin? Nay, I know what you mean by that ready grin: Don't suppose I thought physic would make a man thrive, When he's specially blessed, if it leaves him alive: No; I knew that the veriest wretch that lies On street-pick'd straw, and with wistful eyes Covets the steam of the baker's bread, With which he could never afford to be fed, If he puts in his stomach one nauseous pill, Will make himself only more retchéd still: All this I can fathom; but now I mean, Are your 'visits,' like angels', far between?

The Angel of Death, that is, of course, That rides the pale steed, alias 'Pallida Mors?' Pray have you not 'cases' enough, to pay For your coat of black and your breeches of gray? Your perpetual mourning for visiting-friends, Who, (alas for your purse!) met untimely ends?

Or art sad, that the dose, 'hora somni sumendum,' Which was meant to soothe suff'rings, should very soon end 'em? And lamentest, with tears such as doctors weep, That the patient, in consequence, slept his long sleep? Or art thinking, if longer you could not have kept him, If your dose had been 'pilulæ, numero septem?' Now don't be down-hearted; for people enough Still live who will patronize medical stuff; And to whom do you think that a man would come quicker To find out his ailment—in short, be 'made sicker?'[16]

But softly! It's wasting one's breath to ply A doctor with questions, and get no reply; { And indeed, as he's sitting companionless, { For a wiser man 't would be hard to guess { That I had been making a mental address: So I'll call into service that eye of the mind, Which can see though its owner be never so blind, And in my own absence can safely depend On the word of my fancy—a poet's best friend; And will venture to say my report shall compare With the best ever written, it matters not where. For the truest reporter, (his minutes will show,) Though he uses 'short hand,' often draws 'the long bow.'

The doctor, alone, as I said before, Was pond'ring some mystical subject o'er; It puzzled him sorely to know what to think, And, the scales being even, which side to make sink.

Now made he a gesture, with eloquent hand, As one who explains what he can't understand; And anon, with his finger laid fast by his nose, Impatiently heard what he meant to oppose; Then, with sagest look and a lengthened face, He seem'd to maintain t' other side of the case; But however he view'd it, before or behind, He never could see it at all to his mind; And he made a wry face, as a doctor will, When he sets the example of taking a pill. But one thing he determin'd—at once to set out, And fathom the matter beyond a doubt.

'The long and the short of the matter is this: I'll visit this personage—vis-à-vis! Come, saddle me up my snow-white horse, That looks like some phthisical donkey's corse, When, surmounted by me, with my 'phials of wrath,' He carries me round on my death-dealing path, { Hobbling along in the murky night, { And glimmering pale through the dim twilight, { With a little more spirit, an excellent sprite.

'But alas! he will travel no road beside The road to that patient's—the last who died! In that case, to be sure, I used exquisite skill, But—it's rather too early to carry my bill: Let him stand—for I'll own he has duty enough, And 'Recipiat pabuli quantum suff.''

No man who inhabits the smallest room That ever had tenant, (this side of the tomb,) Let its shape or its furniture be what they may, If his seat have been in it for day after day; If its little odd corners, the hardest to find, Were familiar as bosom-friends, time out of mind; If his coat have hung here and his boots lain there, And his breeches been toss'd about any where; No man ever left such a well-known spot, Uncertain if soon to return or not, But he stopped at the door, though he knew not why, And took a last look, and perhaps heav'd a sigh. So the doctor paused at the open door, With his hat in his hand that he always wore; (Its crown was low and its brim was wide, And an old prescription was stuck inside.)

It seemed as the sight of his elbow-chair Embodied each lurking shade of care; 'What a thankless life is this we lead!' He murmur'd, as murmurs the broken reed, That whispers low at the river's side, To the wind that is ravaging far and wide. But bless me! where am I? I ought to compare A Doctor Despondent to something less fair. 'Tis strange what a walk a man's fancy will take To find out a figure, for simile's sake. But he said, in a very sad tone indeed, 'What a thankless life is this we lead;[17] The good Samaritan's part is mine— Like him I administer 'oil and wine;'[18] But those who see me depart to-day, Will think me an incubus, passing away: Oh!—speaking of incubi—would not a wife Make something less bitter this dose of a life? She would clean out my phials, and make out my bills, And would do to experiment on with my pills: { I'll consider——' he said, as he shut the door, { And put on the hat that he always wore, { In his haste precipitate, 'hind side before.

He hurried on foot to the car-dépôt; The engine was puffing, in haste to go. He seated himself on the hindmost seat, And he lean'd back his head, and he put out his feet, And he looked a peculiar look with his eye, And the man who sat opposite, wondered why; And he wondered more, when he heard him say That steam locomotion had had its day; But what he was thinking, or what he could mean, That man did not know: it remains to be seen.