In those palmy days the physicians formed a very aristocratic class as constituting the gentlemanly branch of the profession. Halford, Warren, Chambers, and their compeers, were dictators. When out of town they left a list of names in the order in which another should be sent for in their absence when any patient summoned them, not knowing they were away. They began practice with a house and a carriage, prepared to spend ten thousand pounds, and wait; having nothing to do, except to dance attendance at the hospital from year to year, until their turn came round for election. They never wrote a book, that would have been to give their knowledge away, whereas, what they wanted was, to be paid. The public at that time was fully of opinion that a man who wrote had nothing else to do. Their turn came as soon as could be expected. Among these tide-waiters some were left fortunes and retired, while some were worn out and gave up the contest.

These men were often fellows of their college, always from Oxford or Cambridge; a degree from either qualified them to become fellows of the college of physicians, while all others were only licentiates.

The revolution came, and all this was overthrown. The young and active physicians reported cases, and advertised their abilities by writing books. To crown all, the queen succeeded to the throne, and Dr. James Clark, her physician, only a licentiate of the college, had all the royal appointments of the profession placed in his hands! With this, nepotism was at an end. It may be boasted that free-trade in physic came before free-trade in corn, and from that time medical science began to flourish in this country.

There was no medical school at St. George’s; the anatomical students went to Great Windmill Street, where Mr. CÆsar Hawkins lectured and taught. The chemical students went to the Royal Institution in Albemarle Street, where Faraday and Brand were professors. The lectures there were delivered at eight in the morning; beautiful and perfect they were; the attendance was very thin. I am proud to remember that I imbibed my first ideas of chemistry at such a fountain head. Faraday was most charming, most unpretending; his experiments never failed, nor did those of his colleague, who was a model lecturer; gentlemanly, perfect of expression, exact of execution.

While attending the prescribed courses, I went often to hear the eminent lecturers of the various schools. Sir Astley Cooper was the popular man, but neither he, with his noble figure, nor Green, with his oratory, approached Abernethy, who was by nature a perfect master of the comic.

There was an unassumed drollery and archness in his way of looking up with his head bent down, in the absence of a smile, nay in the solemnity of his face, while he narrated cases in all the humour of circumstance and situation. It was his own unstudied manner, and great would the actor have been who could have imitated it.

Mr. Abernethy found his match in a friend of mine, Sir David Scott, then a young baronet just beginning to enjoy his position in life. Visiting the great surgeon, he was received with the usual contempt that was bestowed on patients by him, who remarked, “I suppose you are an idle man about town, perhaps an officer in the Guards?” He asked a few questions, prescribed and told the patient, as usual, to read his book. Sir David rose and depositing the fee, crumpled up the prescription and flung it in the air.

“Why do you do that?” asked Abernethy.

“Because,” answered Scott, “you have not gone into my case.”

On this Abernethy called him back, investigated his complaint carefully, and gave him a fresh prescription, saying, “Excuse me, but I cannot tell you with what nonsense I have to bear from the fools who come here for my advice!”

I heard this from Sir David, one of my earliest friends, whom I shall have occasion to speak of at large.

It was now that my uncle, Captain Wallinger, died, and the four sisters were all widows. Close upon this the great event in their family happened; the death of the uncle, William Clarke, who left considerable wealth which was divided among his nephews and nieces, of which my mother was one.

William Clarke reached the age of 95; he was well known in the city, but he had no calling except that of belonging to the Mercers’ Company in whose grounds in Cheapside he rests.

My mother, with my brother and sister, came to town and we settled in a house in Chapel Street, Grosvenor Place, at which time Belgrave Square was in the course of being built. Grosvenor Place was at that period a picturesque row of brick-built houses, which have since been replaced by others of a more stately kind. No. 1 was Tattersall’s, approached by an archway at the side of the front door, the house being occupied by Mr. Lane, who had been house-surgeon at St. George’s, next door. The hospital itself was of old brick, but occupied its present large area with one entrance in Grosvenor Place and another at Hyde Park Corner.

The Iron Duke’s house opposite, which was the said corner, was of as dingy a brick as the hospital. His good taste encased it in stone on his own account, and employed the architect, Mr. Burton, to erect the fine entrance to the park adjoining on account of the Government.